Psyche replaced her silk gowns with the rags of beggars. She tore off her jewelry, thinking of the hurt on Eros’s face when he had fled from their bedroom. She screamed for Zephyr to carry her back to the hilltop, but no one would respond to her calls for mercy – they were too afraid of igniting the wrath of Aphrodite.

Psyche wandered aimlessly for days. Weeks. Months. Dreaming of her loved one the whole time. One day, she came to a stream, and, feeling the entirety of her sadness, was about to drown herself when the river spoke to her. In its burbling voice, it said, “Do not drown yourself, pretty one, in these waters. I don’t want to be stained with your murder.”

“What else is there to do?” Psyche asked miserably.

“Fight for what you want, little one.”

And the river was silent.

Psyche thought about that for a minute. “I want to see Aphrodite,” she told herself. “I want to see Aphrodite.” A little louder. “I want to see Aphrodite.”

“I WANT TO SEE APHRODITE !”