She wrapped her huge, bright-green puffer coat even more tightly round her slight frame, pulled the red, woolly bobble hat further down over her ears knowing, but not caring, how ridiculous it made her look, with her long, dark hair sticking out underneath like a scarecrow. Then she stamped her moon boots on the ice-covered path to try to restore some circulation in her feet.
Boston Common, normally so animated and full of life in the summer, was more like a lunar landscape today and, from her vantage point on the bench, the young woman looked out on rimy-white barrenness. The air was still, as if frozen itself. There was not the slightest breath of wind and the uniform, dismal pallor of the sky was like a cold, gray blanket suffocating the planet.
The weekend's icing sugar covering of snow had gelled into mud-flecked ice in the sub-arctic temperatures. It was more like the polar tundra than the oldest city park in the country, she thought. The surface of the frog pond was solid inky-black ice. In the Arctic air, it was so bitterly cold, even the ice skaters hadn't ventured out yet today.
It was just the weather Miranda would have chosen for Valentine's Day, if she could. February fourteenth was her nadir; the blackest, most depressing day of the year. Cupid and Eros danced round like demented children, laughing sneeringly at her.
The hearts and candy, the red and pink decorated shop windows, the giggles and sugary smiles on silly girls' faces all seemed to point accusing fingers at her. They seemed to be telling her that everyone in the world was allowed to be happy; everyone except her.
Just eight years ago it had all been so different, so blissful. There had been tears then, but emotional tears of great happiness and joy.
Miranda, the Valentine's Day bride, had married her college sweetheart in front of all her delighted family and friends. He had just graduated from Harvard Business School and she was settled in Boston College teaching English Literature.
She had carried red and white roses; red for passion, white for purity and eternity. Although certainly no virgin, her husband had been the only man she had ever given herself to: the only man who had ever made love to her. The only man who ever would, she had promised herself so naïvely that wonderful day.
Like fossils, the dried roses from the wedding were imprisoned for life between vellum sheets in a leather-bound book. The wedding photographs seemed more and more dated each time she looked at the album and the song, the song he had sung to her then, unaccompanied, in front of all the wedding guests, just seemed schmaltzy and shallow nowadays.
Some lines of the old Jim Croce song drifted through her mind like a dark cloud:
"But there never seems enough time To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I want to go
Through time with."
Every year, that was what he had written in the anniversary card. Well, it was really a Valentine's Card; always the picture of the patched, tatty, gray teddy bear with a diffident, downcast look and sad loving eyes.
Somewhere, deep in her souvenir box, were the little gray, cuddly toys he had given her each year with patched-up boy bear hugging or kissing patched-up girl bear.
"No, no," he had said, "She's not just a girl bear: she's got a name. Look here on the box, it says Miranda -- that's you."
Sitting in the park, Miranda couldn't help it. She could feel her eyes watering. Her mascara and make-up ran and she could feel her face freeze as the black-stained tears started falling uncontrollably down her cheeks. In the deserted frozen wilderness of the park, where no-one could hear, she screamed like a wounded animal. It was all so unfair; life shouldn't have come to this.
It was all her fault, no, it was his fault. What the hell! Did it matter now whose fault it had been? They had well and truly screwed things up between themselves hadn't they?
The outside world had just shrugged its shoulders, moved on and barely noticed. It was just another fairy-tale romance that had failed. Even her friends, though very sympathetic, hadn't really understood. Why should they?
There hadn't been a dramatic Romeo and Juliet moment, a poignant deathbed parting or a tragic fatal accident. Nothing that would make the lovers of romance novels wipe their eyes as they avidly turned the page
Miranda's divorce would just be another negligible, forgotten statistic recorded in dusty, official state archives.
But not for her! The tragedy had been real enough and had torn her happy life asunder like a tornado.
Perhaps it had been fated by the gods of Mount Olympus that she should be cast into darkness: the wound from Cupid's arrow bleeding her heart dry. There had certainly been blood.
Perhaps in the intensity of their feelings, the incredible closeness and explosive passion, they had just flown too close to the sun and their wings of love had melted. In the three years he had been gone she had tried to fully understand why they had separated. Why the love had been too intense to let them cope.
She knew now she had to move on, make a new life for herself. With the passage of time, she understood his problems had been completely different from hers. Of course, it was certainly no use crying over spilt milk. But just where was she going to find the knight in shining armor that could lead this wounded princess to salvation?
It had all been so unfair. It had all been such a complete accident. Less than four years married, they hadn't been planning a family at the time, they had no savings to speak of and the mortgage was real high. They needed to wait awhile until she got tenure and he had made it onto the company's executive program. But, just like the guy said, "Stuff happens."
She had known in early November really. She was sure women had a sixth sense about these things but, she had gone through the ritual of the kit from the drugstore, and wasn't expecting surprises as she sat in the doctor's office.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Arnold. I can confirm you are definitely pregnant."
Miranda hadn't known whether to laugh or cry.
"But, it's not possible. You know I'm on the pill."
The doctor laughed.
"I must admit it's pretty rare but, unfortunately, your case isn't going to get national recognition in the medical journals for either of us. The pill isn't completely foolproof you know; especially if the male has a very high sperm count."
Hours later, waiting nervously for her husband to come home to hear the news, Miranda shook her head and smiled. It was just so typical of her macho man, she thought. A silly picture went through her mind of a cartoon sperm on horseback, wielding a sword as he fought his way into the heavily pill-guarded castle to mate with the beautiful egg princess.
