Fairy tale

Christmas lights twinkled on the streets; a thick silence blanketed the entire suburb of Chatenay Malabry.. Mr. S. walked in measured steps that signaled, almost an eerie comfort of sorts in harshly desolate street. His steps sounded loud in the thick silence. As leaves were flying in icy wind, Mr S was thinking of the last few days. Christmas lights seem to blink just like his fluttered thoughts. 
Then, in this lonely and peaceful silence, a sudden sound broke his reverie.

The sound seems a damp fall. Mr. S turned his head where the muffling grumble echoed. The streets were empty as they would be, on such a desolate evening.
Mr. S found a pile of moist feathers, and a low voice growling under them.
"Clouds are always so heavy with rain! Why can't I have duck feathers?"

In all these years of flight, Little One had never held plumage in high regard, but on this windy damp night the sheer incapacity wrought by these feathers on her "raison d'etre” wrecked her. The last drops of fortitude dissolved and dripped off her feather with the half freezing drops of water.

Mr. S was frowning in front of a tiny figure, draped in brown and damp feathers.
"What do you look at? You’ve never seen a fairy? Anyway, you're here, and that's all I need."
"Need? Here? Me?"
"Are you a little deaf? Or numb? It would be like my mother to send me to a dumb one."
Mr. S frowned harder.
"I am not dumb nor deaf. Where are you from?"
The little feathered figure pointed a tiny finger toward the windy sky. "Up there. And landing is a hell when it's blowing."

Mr. S was confounded. Given his earthly coastal origins only things he ever saw dropping up from up above was brown coconuts and torrential rain. His empathy for this poor creature, could not rein in his words, which sounded contemptuous.

«Up means from the sky, the sky right above our heads"

"Ok. I give up. You do not believe I am coming from heaven and you are right. We're allowed to travel through the clouds to be faster, but heaven has already its feathered creatures."
Mr. S. frowned harder.
"Angels. You do not know angels? Well, there is an altitude to travel and I am supposed not to disturb the holy creatures. Therefore, I must go through the clouds. Ok, ok, I'm tired, and I'm cold because of the water, or rain or whatever..." The tiny feature shrugged. She _ fairies are mostly female, aren't they? _ sounded nervous and exhausted. He began to take off his scarf.
"No, no, it's not me you're about to help!"
He took off his scarf and draped the little fairy in it.
"Ok, ok, it is better. But you should save your kindness for the job."
"The job?"

Having offered the scarf, almost impulsively, Mr. S now felt exposed unopposed to this surreal chain of events, just like his bosom lay exposed to gusts of cold wind once his scarf was gone. Amidst this anxious and charged atmosphere the slightest suggestion of fairies feminity, unleashed a sense of erotic electricity within Mr. S.

Mr. S faculties were being spread thin, only to be jolted back to heightened awareness by the sound of “the job”.

It was disturbing to feel both the cold wind blowing its icy breathing on his neck and the warmness of desire. The little creature jumped.
"Oh I'm so sorry! I have forgotten to turn it off!"
And with a switch, desire went in the cold wind. Mr. S. loomed on the fairy. He still wanted to touch the feathers, almost dry, on the back of his interlocutor. She was cute and cuddled in his scarf, in the warmth of its slightly perfumed wool.

Mr. S pivoted back to words “the job” as soon as the iota of desire evaporated out of him. Eerie settings, a most strange encounter with a fairy and most importantly the words “the job” turned out to be potent cocktail, which had within one split second had intoxicated him. It was the most dangerous kind of intoxication - that of an idea - the absoluteness and intensity of which beyond any substance. 
He muttered to himself "Am I a chosen one for higher things in life? »

After years of weariness wrought by a life which could at best be labeled completely insipid, morose and ordinary, even, a remote possibility of finding a sense of purpose was a flight of fantasy that swept Mr. S into realms of bliss.

"Higher, higher, it depends what you have in mind."

The tiny creature took something out of her clothes. She held it to Mr. S. He handed what revealed to be a little bow and a quiver. Each dart ended with minute feathers, and didn't seem very sharp. Dazed, he shook his head.

"Don't be afraid, they are totally harmless". And, before he could prevent anything, she dug one of the darts in her neck.

"See? No harm done".

And by the way, her neck was untouched and the dart begun to fade in her hands.

“Here is your job. Take the bow and make pairs.”

Mr S. frowned. “Pairs.”

“It’s better to make pairs, like shoes. You can make more, but it’s always a mess.”

“Like shoes.”

“Ok, we’re both tired but I’m sure you can do better. Just listen to me and do as I tell you. I’ll be back in few days to check the job.”

“Pairs. Like shoes.”

“Yes. Nobody would see the bow nor the darts. You can use the bow or just aim the darts by hand on your pair-to-be. When the quiver is empty, just walk outside in the night. I’ll be back.” She brushed his hand and vanished.

Mr. S. nodded, confused. He held the bow and the quiver, looking at many tiny darts. Pairs.

On the next morrow, he went out with his bow. In a crowded subway, he looked confusedly to the people around. Pairs. No one seemed to fit with other human beings. Mr. S. started to worry about his job. He put the thought away and went into his day. In the evening, he took back his coat and felt the bow and the quiver in his large pocket. Wandering in cold streets, he passed less, less people as the cold wind blew more and more biting, and the night grew thicker. At the memory of her words, he felt he had to do the job, as to meet her again. Pairs.

He crossed paths with an old lady and shrugged. Why not? As she passed him, he drew a dart, aimed it to her side and waited for a struck. There was nothing. Touching the old lady’s fur coat, the dart vanished in a grey mist. Then he drew another dart, quickly, bend the bow and send his missile in a man’s chest across the road. The man staggered and stared to the lady. He crossed the road, bowed curtly in front of her and took her arm. Mr S. frowned and went on his way a dart ready in his hand. If he could empty the quiver in two or three days, he would meet again the fairy. He thought about crowded places, where it would be easier to find targets. He was not used to go out after work, but it was not for fun, but for the job.

He made his way to Bastille and spent the evening emptying his quiver, darting at two people at the same time. He looked at two women, dropping theirs boyfriends’ hands, turning to each other and leaving without a sight. On his way back home, he passed a woman and two men talking. He wondered what would happened if he darted more than two people. Nodding, he went to sleep. The quiver was half-empty.

The next evening, he chose another crowded place. He darted many people, but it seemed it was never enough; the quiver would never clear out. He gathered himself. He took a hard grip on darts in his hand and went to a club. There might be a large audience.

And actually, there was. He stung men and women. He watched them fall in each other’s arms, he saw them turn away from their former partner and reach the other shoe that makes the pair. No matter a woman was with a man. At the very moment the dart touched a limb, she sought for the other woman in the crowd, her matching one.

Mr. S. wondered at the effects of his pricking tour. There were cries, shouts, and some fights. Outside the club, he passed a woman and two men, smoking in an alley. Why pairs? He darted the three of them, and hide to watch them struggle. The woman ended pinned in between the two men, who were kissing fiercely.  She looked sad and lonely. Pairs, indeed, would be better.

It left the quiver almost empty, save one dart. What would happen, next? The fairy told him she would come back. He walked a long time, worrying on her return. There was nothing to do with a single dart. Then, a sound of feathers came to his ears. He was alone, lost in a dark district. He gazed to the sky and found it empty. He felt a pull on his pants. “Here”. He looked down and found the tiny pleasant figure. He felt a burst of desire, narrowing his sight to the fairy. Smiling, he took her in his arms, steadied her tightly cheek by cheek, and took the last dart. He aimed it carefully and stroke. One dart, one pair. Like shoes.