A Valentine Interlude

It was the day before Valentine’s Day 2015 and I was on the sofa watching old episodes of America’s Next Top Model. I inspected my freshly varnished nails as I took another sip of wine, both blood red. I had a rotating schedule: bangs, nails, bangs, nails – every Friday – $25 a pop. I saved money in other ways though, the wine was fresh right from the box. Eating reheated leftovers next to the glow of my $40 candle – another legitimate expense –  I was ready to start the weekend. 

I wasn’t upset to be alone on Valentine’s Day. Sure, I could rant and rave about the injustice of yet another Hallmark holiday. But honestly, I was glad. Glad that I wasn’t stuck in a rut of a relationship like so many others. I didn’t want to be the recipient of withering roses, picked up by a jaded partner at the gas station on their way home from work. Or someone on a package weekend while the kids stayed overnight at grandma’s – looking forward to the joy of sleeping late rather than scheduled sex with their partner. I didn’t want a stale relationship held together by cheap cards and cheaper sentiment.

Where was that box of wine? 

Eight months post-marriage, I bought a valentine. It was Christmas, and after a very boozy holiday lunch, Katy and I went shopping. In between stops at Anthropologie and Madewell we popped into a photo shop. It was the kind of place where you could still get prints developed, though no longer in under an hour, or pick up old-fashioned photo albums with those cellophane pages holding the pictures in place.

Perhaps to earn a bit of extra cash, the store had expanded to selling greeting cards and small trinkets – keychains, stickers and other little knick knacks that everyone loves to buy but no one has a clue what to do with. That’s where I saw it. 

The valentine was illustrated with two crude human shapes – stick figures with genitalia donning wolf masks. Blood splattered against the white background of the card – their bodies intertwined – brutal and virile – like something from an ancient cave painting. In the top right corner, in loopy teenage-girl cursive it said, I fucking love you. 

It said everything I ever wanted to say. Love was cruel, savage, and beautiful. The perfect card. So perfect that I’ve been unable to find a single human man to deliver it to ever since. It remains in its protective plastic sleeve, tucked away amongst personal documents and furniture receipts. 

I dreamt of meeting its future owner, yet each time I dared to believe it, I couldn’t risk it. I envisioned my valentine torn – trashed into the bin – covered in coffee grounds and pad thai leftovers. 

Still, I hoped that one day its recipient would secretly head to the framers to find the perfect little casing for it and then hang it in a prominent, yet mildly odd place, in the home we shared. In a place of displaced placement, like our love.