Valentine’s Day, Redux February 15, 2007

I was pouty all day. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself on Valentine’s Day, even if you have a man, even if the two of you have decided to keep it low key. There’s still that pang of feeling not as special or loved as yet another girl shrieks and races down to reception to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Still the hint of “hmmph” when he doesn’t even acknowledge the holiday until casually, in an email sent at 2:32pm.

The truth about M – and the thing that I seem to forget all too often – is that he always comes through. Always. It may not be in the way I envision it, but it’s in his way and that, ultimately, makes it even better.

I saw dozens upon dozens of men carrying bodega-bought roses during my walk home. But none of them, I imagine, were carrying the galley of a novel by my all-time favorite writer ever, a novel that will not be released until late spring.

It wasn’t as easy as a phone call to his illustrious editor. I know he jumped through many, many hoops, even if he was all modest and “for you? Anything” about it.

He pulled it out of a pink gift bag last night, after sushi, after cupcakes. It was wrapped – haphazardly – in ribbon. I don’t think I spoke for a full five minutes. I just looked from the bound galley to M back to the galley back to M. The gift may have been free but no one – absolutely no one – has ever done anything as thoughtful and amazing as that for me.

Ladies and gentleman, we have a keeper.

However, it wasn’t all sunshine and sausages (I can’t imagine anyone could possibly get that reference but if you do, omigod, can we be BFF?) yesterday. I got a bit sad during the ride from the restaurant back to my building, pre-galley. I said things like “I know we promised to keep it low key but…” and then I would trail off because but what? But I’m a fickle brat and I like to be romanced? I may very well be, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to say it outloud.

After he parked, he turned the car off and looked at me and he could tell that I was disappointed.

“This is going to sound so stupid but…I kept thinking, why make such a big deal out of this man-made holiday when we’re going to be celebrating something else, something really important very soon? A day that we don’t have to share with the rest of the world.”

We were facing south, towards Times Square. I remember the lights becoming blurry, as the weight of what he was conveying hit me; a physical reaction to his words.

Let’s just put it this way: sometimes, when I’m riding the subway or drifting off at my desk, I feel a weight on my left hand ring finger. A phantom engagement ring. And I feel so stupid because why am I so fucking crazy? But something (something being…well…M, really) tells me that the ring…well, it won’t be phantom for very long.