It was Valentine's Day. Actually, it was Valentine's evening, as most of the day had already slipped by. It was our 5th wedding anniversary, which seemed a hopelessly romantic idea at the time, having a wedding on Valentine's Day, surrounded by all the red hearts and little cupids and rose bouquets, and especially in light of our long history with the holiday I couldn't imagine it being on any other day, although in retrospect it really meant that reservations for our anniversary dinner would have to be made at least a year in advance in hope of having any chance of getting a table. Damn Hallmark holiday.
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Jen and I had been together, as a couple, since high school. We started out as next door neighbors. Best friends since grade school. First loves. First lovers. The first time we made love we lost our virginity to one another. She was only 6 months older than me, and loved to tease me that she was the "older woman". Her parents had gone out of town, it was Valentine's Day weekend and they'd headed out for a romantic getaway, leaving us alone to our own devices. We spent most the day "playing house", pretending what life would be like when we were older and married and had a house of our own, and in the early evening, while listening to music and laying together on her bed, without even talking about what we were doing and what was happening, we kissed and we held and slowly the passion built.
Our clothes began to be removed, piece by piece, all without speaking but nervously knowing what path we were headed down. I lay down on the bed, on my back, and she lay atop me, still kissing me, always kissing me, and I was lost in the warmness of her mouth and the feeling of her tongue dancing with mine, and her legs straddled mine as my cock pressed snuggly against her. I didn't move, not knowing what to do, well, knowing what to do but I'd heard the first time could be painful for girls and in that regard I didn't know what to do but I knew I didn't want to hurt her. So I let her control the pace, let her press herself against me, slowly pushing me inside her, and I held back with all I could for being a inexperienced boy full of raging hormones. If she felt pain, she didn't let on. We moved slowly, and I could swear I held my breath for minutes, forgetting to breathe as she began to pick up the pace. After I finally exhaled and breathed back in my hips had taken on a mind of their own and began meeting her hips thrust for thrust. We never stopped kissing each other, not once, not until her body started trembling and she started panting, and she raised her head up from mine and began to moan soft little moans that turned into soft little cries that turned in a much longer, extended groan. I felt my world turn upside down and my cock exploded inside her as she milked me in her waves. Then, still buried inside her, we kissed again, and laughed and smiled and held each other so tight. It was almost perfect. Almost, but not completely, because of the fact that I still had to leave her, alone in her bed, alone in her house, since I still had a curfew to abide by with no negotiation. But I think we both realized after that day, after a day of pretending to be husband and wife in almost every sense of the word, that it might not get any better than that but then again it just might.
Early on in our relationship, before we had even started going out, I was 12 at the time I think, I had started keeping a journal on Jen's suggestion, as she had always kept one and swore by it. Initially, I used it to write down my dreams. You know, the ones that wake you in the middle of the night, the ones you always forget by morning leaving yourself cursing the fact you didn't write them down in the first place. But before long I was writing in it daily. Mostly, I wrote about Jen. Looking back, even though at the time we were just "best friends", I could read the signs that our relationship was leading up to much more. I wrote copious pages detailing our first date. Which was on Valentine's Day, of course. I was 14, and she had asked me to go with her to the "Turnabout Dance" at the high school as her date. Turnabout is the event where boys are relieved of the duty of garnering up enough courage to ask out a girl while full of nervous ticks, sweaty palms and raging hormones, and instead the tables are turned on the girls.
They had to be the ones to do the asking. And Jen asked me. I wasn't too surprised, I was technically the "easy" choice, but I was still elated. We were freshman. I remember picking her up for the dance, wearing an ill-fitting suit with mismatched tie, and when her mother opened the door and invited me in I saw her standing there in a pale blue dress that matched her eyes, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her lips glossed in light pink, and at that moment I don't think I'd ever felt more nervous. I danced on air with her the entire evening. And then later that night we shared our first real kiss. We'd kissed before, just testing the waters in our youth, trying to figure out what the big deal was all about, but those prior kisses paled in comparison to the one we shared on her front porch that night after I'd walked her home and was about to say goodbye. That kiss was slow, tinged with nervousness, and it meant something much more. To both of us. It was a turning point. A turning point at Turnabout. I hadn't thought of it that way before.
In the journal I wrote about our first fight. Not quarrel. Every couple quarrels, mostly about silly things that if they really thought long and hard about they'd realize how silly those things were to quarrel about in the first place. I was talking about a real fight. The angry, mean, hateful type of argument that can threaten the very foundation of a relationship. Our first fight was a bad one. Our first fight also involved heavy usage of alcohol, which is an incendiary component to start off an argument with in the first place. We were at a high school party our junior year, one of those stereotypical parties at a huge home where the parents are gone but left a fully stocked liquor bar for the benefit of half the school's population. Jen and I really didn't drink often, probably more out of lack of opportunity than anything else, but that night we got wasted. No better word to describe it. And we made mistakes. In the alcohol induced haze I was stumbling around in, I found Jen in the arms of another guy. Dancing. And kissing.
Nothing really too scandalous, and I'd had my own share of dancing and kissing with others that evening, but as I stood there watching them something changed in me. Something really bad, something that I didn't much like at all came pouring forth from me and I pulled her away from the guy, pulled her outside, and not making much sense in the least I proceeded to tear her down. As it turned out, she had seen me kissing other girls that night, and she was also hurt, and she was using the other guy to take it out on me. Turnabout is fair play. And there's that word again. Funny I hadn't noticed it before. Anyway, after many angry words were exchanged, words not truly meant and subsequently apologized for over and over again, we spent the night walking through the neighborhood together. As the alcohol burned off, and we realized what we'd done, not only with others but to each other, we held each other tight with a melancholy sadness and promised we'd never fight like that again. We'd never say those kinds of things to one another. Ever again.
I kept the journal up through college, where we attended the same University (how could we stay apart?) Jen studied law, I studied economics. After graduation, hers with honors, we moved into our first apartment together. A tiny studio, in a suspect but growing area of the city, with little or no furniture to speak of like most young couples out of school. She started at a small law firm in the city, and I began work as an analyst at a financial brokerage house. Everyone was working out so well for us. And then finally, after a year of living together, on one cold February 14th - Valentine's Day, the very same day we'd celebrated for so many other significant events in our lives, I asked her to marry me. It was probably the very best day of my life up to that point. I think that one of the ways you can tell how much in love you are with someone is when you realize that every day that you spend with them has the potential to be the very best day of your life. Each day of my life with Jen always had that potential, and rarely ever disappointed. All the best days I could remember in my life included Jen. Bar none.
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So it was on our third anniversary that we'd decided ourselves to be sick of the crowds and the hassle of the Valentine's Day holiday, and we made the monumental move to not go out. We'd stay in and celebrate at home. I'd cook, due to the fact I loved to cook and was quite good at it, and then that allowed Jen the rare luxury of a long, hot bubble bath while I prepared the multiple course meal. It all went spectacularly well. We had soft music, good food, candlelit table... and no crowds. It was just the two of us. Now, just a couple of years later, we wouldn't ever think of doing it any other way. And this year was our fifth anniversary. I had an incredible meal planned, the ingredients bought, and was just starting the preparations when Jen came home.
"Hi, honey!" I wiped my hands clean on a washcloth and went into the living room to greet her.
"Hi. What's that smell?" She was crinkling her nose and sniffing the air. Not a positive sign.
"Um, I'm making dinner. Sautéing the garlic and mushrooms. It's our anniversary dinner, remember?"
