Leading up to New Year's Day, it seemed as if the entire world wanted to discard 2020 into a trash receptacle like it was a leftover chicken salad that had been left gestating in the refrigerator for twelve months. There had been the notion that with ticking over into a new year, January 1st would magically reshape our Covid-stricken world into something resembling normality.
It hadn't.
January passed the baton to February, bringing with it an outbreak of cases in Melbourne from yet another hotel quarantine screw up — something that Australians had become accustomed to — forcing the Victorian Premier, Dan Andrews, to impose yet another set of harsh lockdown restrictions on the entire state as the situation began to spiral out of control.
For the coastal town of Port Camden, situated roughly three hours southeast of Melbourne, the continuation of the lockdown seemed superfluous beyond doubt. There had been no cases of community transmission of the virus in the Gippsland area for five days, yet the powers that be refused to lift the restrictions until their fancy magic eight ball finally told them 'all signs point to yes' in regard to whether the lockdown should be eased in that region, if not for the entire state.
It hadn't affected Michael Collingwood's plans for Valentine's Day though, as he hadn't been romantically involved with anyone since Rebecca Greysmith had left a void in his heart when she had ended their three year relationship a little over nine months ago.
The split hadn't been a particularly acrimonious one, they still remained on good terms, it had just been one of those situations where their wants and needs had been travelling along the same highway but in opposing directions.
Michael supposed he still carried a torch for Bec, a small ember barely lit, but still burning just the same.
Unable to leave the house due to the lockdown, with exception to going shopping for groceries or to have up to one hour of exercise, Michael spent the day of February 14th hunched over his laptop.
He had been using the lockdown to focus on writing the lyrics for his first solo album and, while on other days he had produced decent progress, the going had been not just slow today but bordering on non-existent as thoughts of his love life, or lack thereof, had continued to plague him.
Bec had always been a huge fan of Valentine's Day and Michael, being a bit of a hopeless romantic, had always been a willing participant in making the day special for her. Last year, just before Covid had taken a wrecking ball to reality, he had rented a houseboat for the occasion and they had slowly motored along the Murray River, Australia's longest river which stretches a staggering 2,500 kilometres, for three days. Needless to say they only tackled a small portion of it.
In preparation for this year's Valentine's Day, prior to their split and in the last few months they had remained together, he had been secretly teaching himself how to play 'My Funny Valentine' on the guitar as well as perfecting how to sing the lyrics. It was a short song and he had mastered it well before moving out of the two bedroom rental they had shared.
He sighed, folded the laptop screen down over the keyboard and wandered over to the refrigerator to grab a beer. The clock on his microwave's digital display told him that it was 5:35pm, which meant it was time to finish up for the day anyway.
The one bedroom flat he had rented after breaking up with Bec suited him nicely. It was nestled in a group of ten flats, each its own standalone building, five on either side of a narrow lane of bitumen. All were identical in terms of layout and design, his flat being the last one on the left at the very far end. It was low maintenance, relatively affordable on his meagre musician's salary and the neighbours were respectful of their noise levels.
He slipped the ice cold bottle of Heineken into a stubby holder and used a bottle opener to crack open the cap. He carried the beer through the laundry, located just two steps to his right from the refrigerator, grabbed his guitar from the cupboard and exited through the back door connecting the laundry to his own private courtyard at the rear of the flat.
The area was tiny, measuring five metres long and less than half as wide, with small stones carpeting the ground that crunched underfoot with each step.
An old three seat black leather couch, a bargain he had snapped up from a mate of his in exchange for a carton of beer, backed onto the windowless brick veneer wall to his right, which happened to be his bedroom. The couch faced a yellow Colorbond fence which divided his property from his neighbour's, and beside the couch sat a small wooden table playing host to a few empty bottles of beer.
In an effort to make the space cosier, he had strung up a couple of sets of solar powered fairy lights between the eaves of his roof and a post attached to the fence. They would switch on automatically in a couple of hours when their sensors detected that daylight had yielded to darkness.
There he sat, plucking away at his six string, first chugging back one beer and then another. His thoughts drifted like a man lost at sea and then as dusk descended they focused back onto Rebecca Greysmith with laser-like precision.
He mused over how she had frequently made him laugh by having blonde moments despite being a brunette; a case of her mouth opening and operating before her brain had become engaged, despite being wickedly smart. The way her pretty face would pout whenever she wanted to get her way, which had been often. Her terrible cooking. The way she made love to him, good if never spectacular. Her obsession with jazz. And hundreds upon hundreds of other thoughts and feelings stirred, flashing behind his eyes like a slideshow he couldn't pause.
Brooding, he closed his eyes and imagined Bec sitting next to him with her head resting on his shoulder.
The fingers of his left hand slid along the fret board of his guitar with newfound purpose, while those on his right strummed.
"My funny valentine," he sang. "Sweet comic valentine."
The lyrics dripped with raw emotion, not just due to the words themselves but in the way in which he summoned them. There were many different artists who had tackled the song, from Frank Sinatra to Michael Bublé, but Chet Baker's crooning rendition, in Michael's opinion, stood out to be the best and this version had been his inspiration.
It was a short song, roughly two minutes long, yet three years of memories managed to condense within its time frame quite easily.
"Each day is Valentine's Day..." he finished.
He placed the guitar on the seat next to him with his eyes still firmly closed, leaning it against the back of the couch. His heart thudded inside his rib cage, threatening to burst out of his chest like the alien from the movie with the same name.
"That was so beautiful," came a soft voice out of nowhere.
"Jesus Christ!" he yelled, launching out of his seat in shock and jerking his eyes open.
In the vague twilight, still ambient enough that the solar powered fairy lights' sensors had not been tripped, he could see his next door neighbour's head hovering just above the top of the yellow Colorbond fence.
It was Asami Carter, staring at him with her large brown eyes and offering him an apologetic smile. There was very little that he knew about her, other than the fact that she was of Japanese descent. She had moved in recently and their brief introduction had been the only occasion they had ever spoken.
"That was so beautiful," she repeated.
"Thanks, I didn't know I was playing to an audience."
"Sorry, I was emptying my rubbish bin and I heard you playing. I couldn't help but listen, it just sounded so good."
"It's okay, I don't mind that you were listening. You just scared the absolute hell out of me, that's all."
"Sorry."
"It's okay," he laughed.
It had slipped his memory that she lived next door to him.
The previous tenant had rarely been home, his job keeping him away for long stretches at a time. Even when he had been there, Michael had never so much as heard a sound of a door slamming shut to suggest it.
Asami, it seemed, had been cut from the same cloth; he had never heard a peep out of her, either.
