Valentine’s Noir

[this is a work of fiction] 

With a bag hanging heavily on my right shoulder, I strode. I wanted to leave, lickety-split, unburdened by signs that this was yet another Valentine’s Day spent solitarily. "Only a few minutes and I’ll be home," I said to myself, "locked in my room - my sanctuary - reading, daydreaming, and videogaming. For solace." Valentine’s Day is just a day, but it drags on and is more all-over-the-place than Thanksgivings. Just look: Violins playing, bards serenading, couples cuddling: they’re all falls of civilization. I wasn’t even going to be bothered by the thesis paper I wrote on my head – the theory that every Feb 14 is the record day of the year for the start of pregnancy, which will only assert that people don’t even try to be creative these days; like, make babies only on Feb 29. That’s four years per sex! Nobody does that! Don’t they understand the joy of delayed gratification any more? I swear, back in the days they blah blah blah. Today, such thoughts, they did not bother me, and I was doing well in minding my own business and heading home. But, there’s just one bugger that I cannot flee from. It’s that place, that quadrangle at the center of all buildings - without passing there I can’t go anywhere.

Sure enough, it was packed. My route was interrupted by bazaars selling amative goods, and by a crowd of last minute shoppers. People never learn to shop early: what’s the excuse today, that flowers are ephemeral? As if there’s nothing else to buy for your love. Geez. What did I say about the state of the civilization again. Right… people, bazaar, flowers, people bazaar, flowers, all signs of one truth: my exit will be delayed.

My musings got crudely interrupted by the call of my name. It’s from a girl I know. A girl I like. A girl who likes someone else, oh good grief. “Are you going to spend your Valentine’s Day with anyone?” she asked, I don’t know if officiously or if mockingly. If I told her I’m free, would the import of that word be “all right, we can be together”? What other words should I use then, I pondered.

“Coz I’m selling paper flowers here. Maybe you’d like to buy them for your sweetie?” she followed, also interrupting my thoughts.

Now that ought to be awkward. You’re facing the girl you like but cannot be with because she has someone else, so you can’t give her roses, but she’s selling you the ersatz ones so you can give them to someone. It’s like being face-palmed two times, like I’m being told “Oh so you can’t get the girl that you want? Too bad, then, just find a second best girl and buy her second best roses.” What do I make of this, a poignant psychological experiment?

A voice finally left the barrier of my teeth, carrying with it all my pent up bitterness. “Hahaha,” I pretended to laugh. “but what would I need paper roses for? Who do I give them to?” I knew it was understood that paper roses weren’t very nice. How will she sell hers then? How will she tell me they’re better than the real thing?

“Paper roses are fine things”, she answered. “They do not die like real flowers. Plus, it takes some effort to create them, and you can see that this one, the ones I’m selling, they’re labors of love.”

Love. How canorous. I was moved. I can’t ever resist hearing any girl saying that word; now what more from the girl that I like? I couldn’t think rationally, except that I would buy these flowers for no one in particular, but I’ll do it for her sake anyway. It did look like her labor of love, after all. So if I can’t be her love, why not just try to make her happy? “Okay, I’ll buy one,” I gave her the cash, "and I’m giving it to you."

“Why, thank you. I’m flattered” she answered. But it wasn’t her words that told the whole story.

It was the way she said it.

These happened two years ago. I heard she’s married now.