V Day 2

Of course the card had a red envelope.

The note inside said "Can't wait to spend the next 25 years with you!" and a tiny heart with an initial.

In some cultures, red is seen as good luck. In Chinese culture, people wear red at Lunar New Year to scare off the snake dragon that threatens their happiness. A red envelope, however, does not always signify good luck.

Sometimes, it signifies heart break.

We parted mere days later, once I knew the whole story of who he was and what he did.

A year later, the memory of that red envelope is what gets me. I don't miss him; I rarely even think of him anymore. But that red envelope...I think of it this morning upon waking. I know there will be no red envelope for me this year, no candy, no flowers, no declarations of love. No sex, even. And that burns my romantic little heart.

I go about my day as though it is any other day. I stay off social media so that I don't have to witness the loves and disappointments of others. "Love yourself," the wellness influencers say; "Until you love yourself no one else can love you!" they pronounce confidently while shilling their 10 day course on self-acceptance or their favourite skin care product. Self-care is an act of love, sure. But is skin care self-love? Or are we exfoliating for the male gaze?

Even the grocery stores are rife with red hearts and the boxes of candy men rush to buy on their way home from work. The express line is entirely composed of men with plastic-wrapped multi coloured daisies. I want to tap them on the shoulders and tell them to do better, that no one wants their grocery-store flowers even on this day.

I know I sound bitter. Am I bitter? Fucking right, I'm bitter.

My cart only holds a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. I add some laundry detergent and a box of compost bags, so it doesn't resemble the rom-com single gal's grocery run. Of course I forgot cloth bags again. That was always his job and I still don't have the hang of remembering to bring them.

I push my cart through the parking lot towards my car. It has begun to snow, those big soft flakes that turn slushy when they hit the ground. I half-close my eyes against the blowing wind and snow, so I don't see your cart until it has collided with mine.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," you say.

"It's fine," I say, barely looking at you. Startled, because I wasn't paying attention, and annoyed with myself for saying it's okay.

You look at me more closely.

"Neighbour?" you ask. I open my eyes. Fuck.

You are my neighbour, albeit bundled up and barely recognizable. I have seen you coming and going from the house across the street since I moved in last summer. I think you have a dog, a big golden retriever that barks at me sometimes from the window.

"Happy Valentine's Day," you say, and I grimace.

"Is it?" I ask. You laugh.

"Not for me, either," you say. And then I recall that I used to see another car in your driveway most nights, and I haven't seen it for a while.

"It's cold," I say, and start to move to my car. You nod and then touch my arm.

"Do you want to come over? For dinner?" you ask.

I hesitate. Is this a date? Ugh, I think. Get over yourself. This isn't a romcom; crashing carts at the grocery store isn't the meet-cute of your greatest love story.

"I just figured it would be nice not to be alone tonight," you say. "And I have a good tequila."

The tequila convinces me. I agree to come over.

At 7:30, I ring your doorbell. I have the bottle of wine in my hand, and a bag of chips I found in the cupboard. I didn't want to show up empty-handed.

You take my coat and scarf.

"This is not a date," I say, and hand you the bag of chips.

"It's not a date," you say. Your dog comes to say hi while I stand in the tiny entrance of your home. I notice some empty spots on the wall where photos used to hang; the living room has a chair and a folding table where a couch should be.

"Come straight back to the kitchen," you say, taking the bottle of wine and putting it in the fridge. You wave at the stools at the island.

"Sit down, let me get you a drink," you say.

You set a short glass of reposado in front of me and we clink glasses.

"Fuck Valentine's Day?" you say as a toast.

"Fuck Valentine's Day," I agree.

The tequila is very good and you are very relaxed. I love your dog; she rolls onto her back lazily whenever I reach down to pat her, so I'm enticed to scratch her tummy. Once and a while you toss her something from the cutting board. You're making enchiladas, and the kitchen smells of cilantro and chilis. You look comfortable in the kitchen, handy with a knife, and I have to admit, a bit cute in your apron. We chat, but there are moments of silence too. Most of them aren't awkward.

A second glass of reposado gives me the courage to ask what I've been wondering since we met at the grocery store.

"So, why is today a miserable day for you?" I ask. You frown and blow out a breath.

"You don't have to tell me," I say, "if you don't want to. If it's too soon."

"No, it's okay," you say. You point the knife you've been using on the chicken at an empty place on the wall. "She left about a month ago. Said she had feelings for someone else," you say, turning your attention back to the cutting board.

"I'm sorry," I say. You shrug one shoulder. "It happens," you say.

It happens, alright. You look at me. "What about you?" you say.

"He left me for someone else," I say. "It happens." You nod.

The music playing in the living room stops, and you head in to start it up again. It's warm and cozy in this kitchen, and I feel the spectre of the red envelope waver and disappear from the back of my mind, where it has been living all day. I'm happy, mostly.

The enchiladas are delicious and spicy, and you squeeze fresh lime juice for the margaritas we have with dinner. At some point you light a fire in the living room, and after I've bullied you into letting me help with the dishes, we sit on the floor in front of it with cups of peppermint tea. Your dog has laid her head in my lap and I am petting her ears. The snow has not let up outside. I will have a hard time getting out of my driveway to go to work in the morning.

"I've never liked this day," I say, sipping my tea.

"Not even when you were younger?" you ask. I shake my head. "Huh. I tried to like it when I was a teenager. Remember when they did flower deliveries on Valentine's Day in high school? For $1 you could buy a carnation and send it to someone you had a crush on," you say.

"We had that at my school," I say. "I sometimes got a carnation. But the waiting while they handed them out was excruciating. There was a girl named Sue at my school that had 4 or 5 every time. We were all so jealous of Sue."

"And the cards were usually anonymous," you say. "You didn't even get to know who liked you."

"That part was sort of fun," I say. "You got to wonder every time you talked to someone if they had a crush on you."

"Being an adult is so much easier, I think. You just tell people you have a crush on them by liking their instagram stories." you say, and we both laugh.

I can't help it; I like you. But there is no way this can be a date. It's a friendly dinner with a fellow Valentine's day refugee, that's all.

After some time in front of the fire, I start to yawn. I get up and announce that I need to go home. I pat your lovely dog one last time and make my way to get my coat.

"Let me do that," you say, and hold my coat by the shoulders so I can put my arms into it. This feels like a date move, and I get a bit nervous.

"Thanks for the neighbourly dinner that was not a date," I say. You smile.

"You're welcome," you say, and check your watch. "12:04," you say.

"Did I stay too long?" I ask.

"No, I just wanted to make sure it was past midnight," you say. You take the collar of my heavy coat in your hands and pull me towards you.

"I didn't want this to happen on Valentine's Day," you say, and kiss me. It's deep and soft and exactly right.

"Fuck Valentine's Day," you whisper.

"Fuck Valentine's Day," I whisper back, and let you help me take off my coat.