I was the best. I had a perfect record. In my many centuries of service, not once had I failed to make a match. My peers used to envy my numbers. They would look at me with admiration and respect. No one was as good as I was.

Until I was assigned them.

Now, I'm a pariah. A laughingstock. A failure. For nearly ten years I've tried—and failed—to make this match. I've been close. So close. But no matter what, they will not fall in love.

When I was first assigned their match, I was positive it'd be an open and shut case. A high school jock and a cheerleader? All I had to do was to put them in the same room—ideally drunk at a party—and it would be case closed.

I was a fool. That night she rescued a trapped kitten, and he went home with another cheerleader. A kitten? I always knew they were tiny, fluffy receptacles of evil, but that was beyond absurd!

His name is Steve, by the way. The cat. She still has him, even if he's old and graying now. I swear he can sense my presence when I check in on her. He always stares at the exact spot I'm standing with his creepy amber eyes.

Every attempt at matching this couple has met with failure. And then more failure. My closest friend—the only one who's not abandoned my incompetent ass—only laughs at my attempts these days. I don't find it as funny. One might go as far as to say I find it decidedly un-funny.

Several more attempts through the years only resulted in him picking up more girls (never the right one), while she kept getting distracted by just about everything that wasn't him. More animals. Her studies. Other boys. Briefly, one girl in college. (I won't lie, I didn't mind that one.)

She's a veterinarian now. Unsurprisingly, after all those animal rescues. He's a... lawyer? Accountant? Something where you wear suits in an office. Taxidermist?

I orchestrate the most elaborate scenarios to get them in the same place at the same time. I used to be known for my impeccable timing and attention to detail. Getting your targets together is usually all it takes. Fate does the rest. But somehow, these two resist. Every. Damn. Time.

Someone unfamiliar with our current practices might suggest shooting them with the arrows of love. We don't do that anymore. Something about free will and too many misfires.

So I'm stuck with this case. Trying to match these two people that refuse to fall in love despite every best effort. And my efforts are out of this world. Literally.

Steve is staring at me again. I hate this damn cat. He's what started it all. If he'd not climbed in and got stuck in that broken cupboard, I'm convinced the match would have happened. He jinxed it, and it's been a shit-show ever since.

I'm running out of time. If a Cupid doesn't make a match in a certain number of years, he'll get demoted to Harbinger of Death. They're the soul collectors. No one wants to be a Harbinger. It's a dead-end job with no chance of promotion. And I would look terrible with horns.

The fear of horns marring my otherwise flawless face has me making a final desperate attempt at this match. I've taken mortal form, and I will physically shove them at each other if I have to.

This is my last chance. If they're not matched in the next six months, ugly Harbinger horns will ruin my beautiful countenance. I cannot let it happen. My face deserves better.

A door opens and one half of my failed match enters the living room, putting her phone in the back pocket of her skinny jeans.

"I'm so sorry," she says with an apologetic smile. "Work. So, what type of animal did you say you have and need help with?"

Oh yeah, I'm pretending to be her new neighbor. I guess this time I can't blame Steve the cat for staring at me, since I'm actually here. Visible.

"A bunny," I say, smiling.

"Great! Shall we go over to your apartment and check him—or her—out?" She nods towards the door, then laughs. "I'm sorry! Where are my manners? What did you say your name was again?"

I smile, reaching out my hand to shake hers. It feels strange when she puts her much smaller one in mine. I've been watching her for nearly ten years, and this is the first time we touch.

My nemesis.

Penelope.

She's staring at me expectantly until I remember that she asked me a question.

"Eros," I say. "Name's Eros."