He was squatting on the ground when I first met him. Like every other teenage boy on the planet, I naturally expected cockiness with a hint of obnoxiousness mixed with a slight so-called swag or another one of those “distort artists” that refused to speak on a regular basis. The world had been rejuvenated since Wednesday. The day he arrived, according to him. The beach and sky were a conjoint blue thing and the snow on the beach, which on April days glimmered like melted frosting, had turned into a pot of scented candles, and fallen petals. The sun was so bright in the evening that when he returned to the spot on the carpet, who, despite his minute attempt, couldn’t get up, stumbled upon his godlike presence.

Scathed by that carpet, he decided to move his feet and walked around until he tamed himself and stepped on the snow. That was the time we shared a pleasant exchange regarding the mystical nature of his origins. He was much too human: the sun kissed the odor of the sand, accompanied by a set of grey wings that were being mistreated by the ocean breeze. He stood up after a while of squatting, stretching his 6’2’ body, debating the contention that his wings weren’t the essential part of his character, but more of his bow and arrow.

“I’m Cupid.” he proclaimed proudly.

Yet his proclamation was swiftly disrupted by an eye squeeze, a boisterous laugh, and a dislikable command to coerce him to put on some clothes, leaving him confused in the snow. Sooner or later, his supernatural being began to be impatient. Especially in the beginning, where he would stroll around the vicinity of the beach house in such a poise manner without the pressure of blending in. The only time those bystanders triumphantly bothered him was when they tossed stones towards him and scraped the skin of his waist for entertainment purposes, for he had been poignant for so many days that I assumed he had destroyed his own confidence, muttering with a coarse voice with so much tender, which brought on a hurricane of snowflakes and thunderstorms in the middle of April. Although many thought that his reaction had not been one of sorrow but of embarrassment, from then they were meticulous not to provoke him in repose.

The landlords of my beach house had no reason to rant. With double the money they collected from me that enabled them to set up a nice little backyard with wires falling apart. He caught the flu a couple months ago and his interactions with the landlords was no less stiff with them than with the other neighbors, but the landlords embraced him with open arms and the amicableness of a poodle that had no other means but to be happy. I was the one who mainly took care of the angel that fell into my lap since all the doctors in town became inevitably obsessed. They couldn’t resist the urge to be in contact with him, and he would seem natural at first with his nonchalant tone and his distant positioning of his body but eventually he was irritated enough that he would nonetheless bite those that laid a finger on him or display his arbitrary attempt of cursing their families for generations.

“You can’t just cut everyone off, you know?”

“I’m not.”

He stayed silent for several hours in the most arid area in front of the beach house, where only I could observe his nudity entirely, despite my tiresome attempt to force him to put on some pants. It was awful to live in the hell of an angel. Pleasant in the beginning and tempting. But never dared to touch him. Could angels like him fly down hell with me? I often wondered. That was one of the few times the neighbors became wary of my presence, for they deemed he had hit rock bottom and not even the landlords had been capable to deal with a heartbroken Cupid.