Isn’t It Romantic

By Parker Davis

On the corner of 4th and Belmont, a grungy stairwell wedged between a Chinese noodle shop and a Vietnamese laundromat. Salty broth with off-brand floral detergent.

The fixer is shirtless beneath his trench coat. A sweatband hugging his balding head like a crusty halo.

“What’s the hit?” He snaps his grubby fingers, and I pass my phone. He swipes a series of Tinder photos.

“Natalie,” I say. “She’s the one.”

“We got ourselves a Casanova.” A grin with gold-capped teeth. “Smell that?” He unpacks a crossbow, a wicked, heart-shaped arrowhead. Unfurls his pair of greasy wings. “Love is in the air.”