by Kris Hawes
The array of bright red and pink balloons assaults me as I walk through my
neighborhood grocery story. They profess love, joy, happiness, all with a
sickly sweet spray of Mylar or glitter. I paw through the pink, red, and
white ribbons, making my way to the stacks of oranges and lemons that I need
for dessert. I overhear a 30-something mother tell her blond-haired daughter
to "just pick a box, it doesn't matter which one." I look at them over my
shoulder, oblivious to the lemon now being squeezed tightly in my fist. The
mother is convincing her daughter that the cards don't matter, they would be
late for karate class, and if she didn't hurry, the little girl would have
to go to school without valentines. The daughter starts crying. These are
her best friends, she says, she wants the valentines to be perfect. The mother grabs a
box off the shelf, her little girl's wrist, and walks away. The child's
whimpers echo down the aisle.
I turn back to my lemons and wonder, briefly, if not having valentines
would be such a bad thing. I shake off the feeling of cynicism, and collect
the citrus into a tote bag. I finish shopping as the after-work crowd begins
to check out. The night is cold and damp, the rain turning on and off again
in a typical California February. I hug the building as I walk to my car.
Down the strip mall, there's a small store that sells "novelty items." As I
walk past the bright cherry-colored crepe and white ostrich feathers hanging
in the window, I wonder if people actually buy this stuff for their
significant others. I stop and look at three displays of shiny teddies,
sparkling garters, and black-lace stockings, arrayed ever-so-tastefully for
the families as they walk through mall to the Chinese restaurant nearby. I
almost laugh at the couple that walks just a little slower, whispering and
pointing. They notice me watching them and they quickly move on. Behind the
glass I catch glimpses of silicon dildos, glittery paste-ons, and G-strings.
A young man in his 20's briskly walks past me and into the store. I watch
him for a while, frantically sifting through the racks of scant netting and
satin.
The wind is getting colder. My footfalls echo against the cement walls. I
wonder, briefly, if he'll find what he's looking for, and receive what he
needs. The car is chilly but dry, and I sit for a moment listening to the
radio, rubbing my fingers to heat them. The station is in its commercial
cycle and I am bombarded by last minute urges to buy that perfect something
to show my love. A perfect way to inspire romance? A trip to Hawaii for two,
of course. How lovely she'll look in that special gold heart necklace. I
pull out of the parking lot as, gratefully, Carlos Santana glides over his
guitar. In ten minutes, I'm home, hopping out and away from the "shoulds"
and "musts" beginning yet again. The garage door closes just as it's
starting to mist outside. In the early evening darkness, the sulphur street
lights highlight the water in the air. I hurry up the steps and through my
door for the rain starts again.
I wonder, briefly, at a world shaped into a chocolate heart by capitalists
and money-makers. Two arms are suddenly wrapped around me. I drop the totes
and fall into the soft embrace of my love. Kisses drop on my cheeks, hands
help me with the oranges that have spilled onto the floor. My fingers are
clasped and warmed and rubbed and kissed. I laugh at all the attention,
nervous and joyous at its offering. Coats fall, touches whisper against my
neck. Tongues meet, taste, collide, break, and crash again. I smile. My
heart is rich and soothed. In this place, there is sanctuary, heat, passion,
love. I pull away, reluctantly, to put the groceries in their proper places.
Today is nothing special, I think. Today is just good. I'll start dinner
soon, light some candles, and spend the evening on the couch, snuggling.
I wonder, briefly, why the world waits for just one day to live in love.
