The Wingman from Hell

The morning sun hit the pavement with a cheerful cruelty that Felix found offensive. He walked down the block toward *The Roasted Bean*, his shoulders hunched.

He was not alone.

Erato floated beside him, invisible to the pedestrians of Brooklyn but painfully visible to Felix. She was currently criticizing the architecture of the brownstones.

"No pillars," she scoffed. "No marble. How do you people know you are important without pillars?"

"Please keep your voice down," Felix hissed, adjusting his beanie. "People are looking at me."

"They look because you walk like a frightened crab," Erato countered. She drifted through a mailbox. "Now, remember the plan. stride in. Announce your lineage. Declare that her beauty commands the tides. Offer her a sacrificial scone."

"I am not doing any of that," Felix whispered frantically. "I'm going to order coffee. That’s it."

They reached the shop. The bell chimed as Felix pushed the door open. The smell of roasted espresso and cinnamon hit him, usually a comfort, now a source of nausea.

There she was. Maya.

She was behind the counter, wrestling with the steam wand of the espresso machine. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun held together by a pencil, and she had a smudge of flour on her cheek. To Felix, she looked radiant.

"Good morning!" Maya called out, wiping her hands on her apron. Her smile was genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "The usual, Felix?"

Felix froze. She knew his name. She knew his usual. His brain short-circuited.

"She acknowledges you!" Erato screamed in his ear. "Now! Strike! Tell her her eyes are like the Aegean Sea after a storm!"

"Uh," Felix said. "Hi. Yes. Coffee."

"Pathetic," Erato hissed. She floated behind the counter, hovering directly over Maya’s shoulder. Maya shivered slightly, rubbing her neck, unaware an ancient Greek deity was judging her latte art.

"Look at her," Erato commanded Felix. "She waits for your tribute. Do not fail me, painter. Be bold!"

"Just a medium drip," Felix mumbled, fumbling with his wallet.

"BOLD!" Erato shouted.

The Muse grew impatient. She reached out with an ethereal finger and poked Felix hard in the ribs.

It wasn't a gentle nudge. It was the force of a divine intervention.

Felix yelped. He lurched forward, his arms flailing for balance. His hand connected with a display tower of Valentine’s Day mugs—ceramic hearts, bears holding balloons, pink glaze everywhere.

* CRASH.*

The tower toppled. Ceramics shattered against the tile floor with the sound of a thousand breaking hearts. Felix lost his footing and went down with the ship, landing hard on his knees amidst the shards.

The coffee shop went silent. The indie folk music seemed to stop. Every eye in the room was glued to the man on the floor.

"Oh my god," Felix whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Kill me. Just kill me now."

"An opening!" Erato declared triumphantly, floating above the wreckage. "She pities you! Grasp her ankles and beg for mercy! It is a classic move!"

"Felix!" Maya rushed around the counter, dodging the glass. She knelt beside him, her face full of concern. "Are you okay? Did you cut yourself?"

She reached out to touch his arm.

Felix couldn't do it. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing the air out of his lungs. He was the loser. The clumsy, invisible loser who couldn't even buy coffee without destroying the store.

"I'm sorry," Felix gasped. He scrambled backward, crab-walking away from her kindness. "I'm so sorry. I have to go."

"Wait, Felix—"

He didn't wait. He scrambled to his feet, slipping once on a ceramic shard, and bolted for the door.

"Coward!" Erato yelled after him. "You flee from battle? Aphrodite is laughing at us!"

In his panic, Felix didn't notice that his sketchbook—the one he carried everywhere, the one that held his soul—had fallen out of his bag and landed open in the middle of the broken mugs.