The Tower, and other pieces - 3. A Tardy Little Valentine

A Tardy Little Valentine

I told myself I didn't care, but then I almost started bawling like a baby.

"How was your Valentine's Day?" My coworker innocently asked.

"Fine," I started, then for some reason dropped the bullshit. "Well, actually, it sucked – and not in the good way."

"Why? What happened!?"

Still in my 'laugh it off' mode, I tried: "He forgot, that's all. See, every year we've been together, I get him chocolate, and he gets me roses for Valentine's Day." This is where I had to stop unpacking my bag and gulp in some air. Fuck it, I was about to lose it. I looked her in the eyes: "But this year, he forgot."

My inhaled breath came out a stream through pursed lips; it was that, or cry. She looked like she was about to tear up too, bless her heart.

"He's been busy," I said. "I know. I know it doesn't matter – why would it? So he got me chocolate too, so, big deal."

"Honey," she laid her warm palm on top of my hand. "After all these years, it matters. I'm sorry."

Yes, the tears I was repressing in their ducts told me as plain as her words, it mattered. And how many years, I can hear you asking…well, for now I'll deflect it and feel like Ishmael at the beginning of Moby-Dick – "Never mind how many years ago" I met my man, but we've had many Valentines since.

Needless to say, the day of, I acted like shit to him, dropped a hint that a good run is a good run, and I can't expect things not to change. He didn't get it. All he did get is that I was in a bad mood. We ate, watched TV and then drifted off to our romance-less bed tucked under the eaves.

But by the weekend though, I had vowed to do better, and to be better than that. And as it turned out, our weekend after Valentine's Day came out just fine, and I mean that in a good way. OH Man, a weekend of lounging on the grass, of fine vintage smut, and getting laid by the man I love – what more could I want?

Well, on Sunday, after being up at four to write, I needed a break by 10:30. I showered and made up my mind to totally shake up our routine.

I said "Let's go to Bi-Rite." My plan was to get some picnic stuff and drag his ass to the grass in Dolores Park. It worked! We got the mover's blanket from the car, the ciabatta and a little this and that from the chic, up-scale grocery store, then we walked the half block to the park. All around us on the sunny and sloped grass people sat in groups, and the wine corks popped. Above us all, a glorious sun warmed, but did not burn. We laid out the blanket, kicked off our shoes, and sat ourselves down.

I ripped some bread and handed it to him. He opened the little tub of curry chicken salad with raisins, and the dried cod spread, and the brined green olives, and the dolma. I maneuvered the cheese to the fresh air: the Port Salut, creamy and ripe; a Cowgirl Creamery chère, and then I went at the little package of pâté, and the symphony of heady flavors and scents were all around us. I leaned in. I kissed him, then I couldn't help noticing that all the couples around us were 'opposed-sexed,' and something deep and ancient resurfaced in me. That fear, I'll admit it, of being screamed at in public again – that 'F' word – but then again, this is now a deep and repressed anxiety, for after all, I sat in San Francisco with my husband, so who will be screaming at whom?

We ate, we people-watched, and the sun and mild temperatures beckoned a total surrender to the moment. He reclined to sun his gills with a devilish smile, while I continued to sit next to him; continued to bask in him, his smirking face, and being so in love, after all these Valentines. He squinted towards me, stretched out his arm, and put the back of his hand against the side of my ankle. I slipped my hand in his, and we chilled, just watching the crowds.

A teenage kid came up the slope in front of us. I looked to his face to see him glaring at our linked hands, then up to my eyes with a scowl. There are many times, even in San Francisco, when I am glad I cannot read minds. He passed. My man squeezed my hand to pull me back to the moment, and again, I leaned down to kiss him.

As I righted myself, we heard a woman's voice coming towards us from behind. It was in mid-explanation, gentle, and without looking, anyone could tell the tone employed was meant for a child. "You see, a boy can love a boy - that's all."

As they passed, we saw it was a Lesbian couple with their son, who was maybe four. He turned back at us, and smiled. I waved.

We sunned ourselves, and shook out our blanket. We stowed it and went on to Valencia Street. I drug my hubby into the Community Thrift Store and he wandered away to look at shirts, while I be-lined it to the books. This store is a great resource and reflection of our community, as most of the 'stuff' belongs to 'us,' and was given to support charities helping those manage HIV.

There on the shelf, a complete set: "Meat," "Sex," and "Flesh." The published sex stories from the journal "Straight to Hell, or The Manhattan Review of Unnatural Acts" from 1971 to 1982. As I said, Fine, Vintage porn of the highest haut-gout variety; a flavor redolent of spicy decay and of the time when being bad was really being very bad indeed!

As we took a position in line, an odd thing happened. A woman was walking past the counter, and a somewhat fey twink behind it said: "Sir, you'll have to check your bag."

The woman half sighed and grunted and met my eye with a head-shake. "I'm getting in line." The guy at the register knew by the tone of voice he had screwed up, but for some rude reason, didn't bother with an apology.

I went up to the other register with my wrist bent by a small pile of books – all a big dollar each – and the women with the bag had to go to the bastard.

Still no apology; the woman said quite mildly: "I was buying this bag, not running away with it." The jerk still said nothing, and I wondered how prejudice percolates, but knew maybe part of it is sheer laziness and unease, and that, unfortunately, can't be blamed on orientation.

˚˚˚˚˚

Back home, I whispered that I wanted a 'date' from my man later. He blushed, as he does, and said: "Sure."

Cut to the chase, we had our date, under the eaves, and it was all that I could have wanted. Afterwards, as I lay his head down on the pillow to kiss him, I wished him the sincerest - if a little tardy - Happy Valentine's Day of my life.

~