I sat at the desk in front of my bedroom window. The faded sunlight lit the page as I wrote. It was supposed to be a card, only a card, but it was more than that and the sweat from my nervous palm made the pen slip. The message was a reminiscence, a confession and a prayer. I put the pen down as my mind drifted to earlier events.
We'd gone to the park in the center of town. I leaned against the wrought iron fence, warmed by the sun, his hand played with the ends of my hair. We said nothing. The leaves of the trees pressed against the sky like the pages of a book-emerald and sapphire, and the spray from the fountain refracted the light and obscured his face with a glare. He leaned into me, and it was like I bit a flashing lure. The feel of his lips was the hope of childhood-the carefree nature of a heart yet to break. He cupped his hand against the side of my face and I forgot the world and all the suffering in it. My Valentine-my tourniquet against the severed artery of life.
I picked up the pen and signed my name, and took a lighter and envelope from the desk drawer. I lit the candle I'd placed on the window sill that morning, and put the card into the envelope. I waited for the wax to melt and flame to still, then dripped the red liquid onto the flap. I set it in the center of the desk, stood and put my hands against the back of the chair and peered outside.
Dusk had now fallen on Valentine's day and the crowds began to swarm. I was glad to be inside, out of the mud and noise and the dizzying, faceless horde. I saw him across the yard, rounding the corner of the street before reaching my front door. He was hard to miss, a head taller than the crowd. The first time I saw him I asked if he hit his head a lot. I fiddled with my earring, and resolved not give him that card. It felt like a burning coal when I picked it up, like I was being dishonest. I shoved it into the drawer of the desk, heard the door behind me creak open and steeled myself.
"You're angry," he said. I pursed my lips and my nails dug into the back of the chair. An hour ago, we'd gone to the diner down the street. I had a gift card for it, part of my Christmas present from Mrs. Ewee.
"How many?" The hostess had asked with a cheerful lilt in her voice, like a chirping dove.
"Two," he'd answered, and followed her while I trailed behind. I hadn't been there for several years, and the place had gotten shabby. The vestibule was unswept, the edges of the carpet were frayed in places and were held together with red tape. The patterns looked like chalk outlines of the victims of a crime scene.
We were led to a four-top, with half the seats against the wall and part of a booth bench, the other two single, hard chairs. He quickened his pace, and I slowed mine. He took the bench and our hostess gave us the menus and left.
"I tend to beat people to the best seats." He smiled, and I recoiled inside.
"I purposely slowed down to give you the better one."
"Oh." He broke eye contact and I riffled through my purse.
"You can have this one," he stammered.
Too late for that, and I put the card down on the table.
"Enjoy your meal," I said and walked away.
"Elyse?" The din of the crowd drowned his voice, and I didn't look back and went home to my desk. Anxiety and guilt gnawed at me. The feelings didn't abate until I picked up that pen. I'd started to write a rambling apology as the sun set. Now that it was finished, my anger had faded along with setting sun and took my courage with it. What to do?
I took my hands from the back of the chair, shoved them into my pockets to keep from fidgeting and turned on my heel. He held a bouquet of deep purple roses. My favorite-at least he listened.
"I'm not angry." I shifted my weight. Confrontation usually made a liar out of me.
