Page 56 of Touch

During the lecture, Love glances sideways at Anger, who swerves his attention from her, his profile shifting from puzzled to irritated. He’d been staring.

After their lessons, Love attempts to make friends with the crew. At the top of the hill, she asks, “Want to race down?”

Wonder brightens at the invitation, but Sorrow grunts and leaves without answering, pulling Wonder along with her. Anger’s mouth twists, emitting mean-spirited pleasure that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, then struts off on long limbs.

Envy turns to Love with a flourish. “What do I get if I race you?”

“My respect,” she declares. “If you’re fortunate.”

“Is that all? I want a kiss.”

Without asking, he lunges. The bud of his puckered mouth descends and pelts her lips. It seems being friendly will get her nowhere.

Love’s wing strikes, thwacking him across the face. Then she sweeps her leg and trips him. It turns out, the god can tumble quite swiftly down the slope.

***

She has come of age and mastered the ability to fly. It had merely taken a few decades and a dozen broken bones. Now her wings span wide and flap with grace through the sky, though she scarcely exercises the plumage. It’s not enjoyable to coast alone, and it’s less diverting when everyone on the ground watches Love with marveling expressions. They’ve accepted the wings as attributes of strength, speed, and beauty. Yet the trait casts her apart, which discomforts Love.

The crew still ridicules her, and every other Dark God is torn between appreciation and resentment at her novelty, but their Guides are a routine comfort. From them, she learns about the definition of love, its unending string of rules and complexities overwhelming her.

According to the Guides, the nature of love involves an abundance of touching. Sometimes the touch is fierce and lustful, as with deities. Other times the touch is delicate, which is a mortal inclination.

The Guides train her to understand flirtation and attraction. The art of human self-consciousness and the antidote of flattery. Gestures and innuendos. Deities arrive to demonstrate how desire affects the body—unbridled, extravagant—and a great part of her wants to feel such abandon. Hands groping breasts, cocks rising and folds glistening, hips pistoning between splayed thighs, wild groans and cries, locked hips and rapid tempos.

Yet the sex ultimately seems hollow and meaningless. She craves a different sort of mating, to fuck in a different way, although she’s unsure how.

Love receives her answer when the Guides escort her to the mortal realm. There, she observes countless embraces the likes of which she never has. Knuckles brushing hair from a lover’s forehead, palms cupping jaws with tenderness, and thumbs wiping away tears. Touches that give, not just take.

The power to make humans touch that way shall be hers. These people belong to Love. By stoking their passions, she can take part in the bliss.

From then on, she’s spellbound.

***

It’s a lovely morning, the air fragrant with dew. Love stares into the distance and imitates a certain type of touch, curling her finger into the cove of her overturned palm, leisurely and reverent.

A whistle makes her jump. Envy shakes his head at Love, as though she’s being absurd. Anger taps his bow against his thigh and glares at her as if every second she exists stokes his temper. Sorrow and Wonder huddle off to the side, but they also see what she’s doing.

Wonder’s expression is emphatic. Who knows why?

Love’s wings tense. Humiliated but unwilling to show it, she juts out her chin.

Time for archery training on the hill. Wonder spends most of it talking rather than shooting. Envy is too busy comparing himself to the others to focus. Sorrow’s motivation sinks with each target she misses. Anger thinks cursing and growling at the arrows shall make them do what he wants.

Usually, Love has the truest aim. However, she’s not concentrating today.

In an exquisitely condescending tone, Envy deems her too soft to be a goddess. He volunteers to touch her “lovingly” and pokes her ass with his arrow plume.

Love drops her weapon and launches toward Envy. Anger catches her arms and restrains Love while the wings flap and her fingers claw at the air, struggling to reach the ego spreading across Envy’s face.

“Let me at him!” she seethes.

The libertine god balances his bow across his shoulders and loops his arms over the ends, using the position to puff out his chest. “Love, I’d be honored tolet you at me.”

“Compose yourself,” Anger commands, his breath pushing into her ear.

This is hardly a shocking reprimand. Deities often tease and flirt with each other in this ribald manner, with neither party taking offense.

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