An email from someone I went kaboom over twenty years ago. Yes, he says, he thinks we can be friends.
A young man in a top coat hurries away from the deli with a bunch of white roses in tight bud under his arm.
A heart shaped balloon bobs with each lurch of the train toward Borough Hall.
A bouquet wrapped in a plastic bag full of water held like the torch of the Statue of Liberty as we pull into Wall Street.
A Venezuelan student asks if I like chocolate. His parents are visiting and brought a lot of chocolate with them. If I could cry, I would. I say no.
An Italian greyhound keeps jumping on me as I pee and I finally shout, "Off!" She whimpers and runs away.
This feels oddly satisfying.
An email from someone I am still going kaboom over telling me that "Need You Now," a song we loathed loudly on a car trip, won a Grammy. Per. Fect. "Our" song is about booty call.
Daisy and I meet Boomer and his owner as we walk home from the dog run. She reminds me it's Boomer's birthday. Happy birthday, Boomer.
Proflowers reports it has delivered the dozen red roses I ordered for my father's amour. Tomorrow they will deliver another bouquet to his neighbor.
I'm feeling more than a little sullen & short-tempered. Do not tell me Valentine's Day is no big deal. The world is skim milk-blue and blackened snow. Big velvet boxes and big flowers are a powerful antidote to the feebleness of February.
I'm pouting and jealous and craving chocolate.
St. Agatha's Day can be co-opted by new mothers, depressives and workaholics as well. Her final prayer before dying of torture was, "...you have taken me from love of the world and given me patience to suffer". Because her torturers twisted her breasts off, she is also the patron saint of breast cancer. Your gifts to us could be tax exemptions! In a neat irony in which her breasts are suggestive of other stuff, rather than other stuff being suggestive of titties, she patronizes bell makers (which could add a merry noontime carillon to delight everyone and pump up Ivy League ambitions) and bread makers. I could live with a bouquet of croissants, a warm focaccia with some dry-cured olives and a half-bottle of chardonay, or a box of diplomats, along with a nice card ("with a bit of my heart forever," "You're in my speed dial, your wedding gift's on the mantle, you'll be mine until we redecorate").
Perhaps this will convince you: St Agatha protects against the outbreak of both fire and volcanoes.
N-i-c-e. Ignore me on February Fifth and I'll set your roses on fire.
The multi-culti police are right there on the job to cry racism when what they're really complaining about is an attempt at historical realism...