I Hate Valentine's Day

That's what a heart really looks like. Ok, so it's a pig's heart. But still closer to the real thing than all those fluffy IKEA cushions with the reach for your throat hands...

In celebration of today, I've decided to upload a story I wrote quite a few years ago following another one of my hugely unsuccessful Valentine's days...

- The Valentine’s Day Mugs -

She had never liked Valentine’s Day. She hated the fluffy teddies holding hearts emblazoned with I LOVE YOU. She hated the cards, flowers and chocolates. She hated the Valentine’s messages in her daily paper – nonsense like ‘Wiggy-poo-hoo woves his wittle riddy-doo-doo XXX’. In work she watched glowing women carrying around monstrous bouquets to prove that they were loved. She hated the tacky underwear, the overblown shop decorations and the two-tone simplicity of it all – white for virgin purity, red for hearts, lust, danger. But most of all, she despised the men who picked not one, but two Valentine's cards.

She hadn't cared about Valentine's day for years - she didn’t need a stupid card to make her feel loved, not since her first boyfriend. As an intellectual, he had disdained the romantic charade of Valentine’s day. Instead, they had appointed their own day of love and went out to a flea market, splitting up to find each other a perfect love token for under ten pounds. Later that night, they ate dinner in a vegetarian café, then made love by candlelight in her single bed.

A few years later, the intellectual had gone, but she laughed at an increasingly commercialised Valentine’s Day. Confident in her financial independence and slim hips, she showed her friends the tacky cards she'd received, before binning them.

The following year, she was entangled with a romantic librarian who looked upon Valentine’s Day as the climax to a nine-month courtship of Shakespearian sonnets, hand-made chocolates and sensual massage. She had mellowed with the years, so she indulged his desire for a romantic Valentine’s Day with some clearly defined rules:

1 No public displays of love
2 No red roses

That Valentine’s morning, she opened a hand-made, hand-delivered card. Her favourite blue vase was simply made for the yellow tulips he’d sent. At work she barely noticed the floral arrangements stacking up at reception. Later that night, she sat in a blaze of candles, her librarian gazing at her with moist eyes. During dinner he drank too much wine, then went down on bended knee and quoted a very long and romantic poem, the gist of which was 'come live with me and be my love.’ She admired his wet eyes, his balding head, and let him slip the ring on her finger.

That Christmas, she dropped the ring and a pound coin into a blind benefit charity collection box and hurried off to spend Christmas with her parents.

Two years later, she was still slim-hipped and lovely, or so her jealous friends told her as they battled with baby fat. She knew she was slim and lovely. She just wasn’t quite as slim, her face as lovely. But she had a steady partner now - she knew that the time was right to settle down. He'd promised that they'd move in together after a few months living their own lives, doing their own thing – after all, they would have a whole lifetime together.

She hadn't mentioned her aversion to Valentine’s Day. ‘Why not?’ a little voice inside her head said. ‘Why not make a bit of a fuss, just this year.’ So she went shopping for a present. Something not overtly romantic - something sensible but sensuous. She avoided the shops stuffed with hearts and teddies, instead visiting shops with discreet displays of things like pewter hip flasks, gold cuff-links or pens with life-long guarantees. But she could find nothing. Hours later, she still hadn’t found anything. She was in a designer homewares shop, pricing the oversized wine glasses that she wanted in their house. And then she saw the mugs. Their sheer perfection astonished her – their round, fat comfort, their curves and colour: they were white and deep blue. Blue like his long-lashed eyes. White like snow. She cupped one in her hand. It was a touch too big, but she knew it would fit his hand perfectly. She chose two, then left the shop dizzy with happiness.

That evening, there was no card among the scattered bills in her flat. He was working late. She made a quick dinner, then poured a glass of wine. He texted her an ‘I love you’ as the nine o’clock news came on. After her second glass of wine, she changed into red satin knickers. He texted her again when she was just finishing her third glass, saying that he mightn’t be back until after eleven and that she should go on to bed – he’d let himself in with his newly-cut key. She texted back, saying she’d wait for him, then poured the last of the wine.

Midnight came and went. She laid her head down on the sofa and closed her eyes. She felt disappointed – as if the small magic of Valentine’s Day had dimmed and died. Then the door opened. Her heart jumped and she uncurled herself, ensuring he could get a glimpse of her knickers. He came in and kissed her, then gave her a single red rose, wrapped in cellophane. She hated red roses. But he had given it to her, so she smiled and thanked him, smoothing the cellophane. She sniffed the rose, then coughed. It smelt musty and awful. He wanted to know what was wrong. It was nothing, she assured him, nothing much. It was just that someone had sprayed perfume onto the flower and ruined the lovely smell of it. It smelled fake. He took the flower from her and smelled it, then made a face. He couldn’t believe some eejit had sprayed perfume on it. He laughed, returned the rose and got up for a shower. She grabbed his hand and pulled him back, revealing a little more of her red satin knickers. She didn’t think he needed a shower. She thought they could just go to bed. She kissed his neck. He kissed her briefly, but then stood up and left the room for his shower.

She sighed and tightly gripped the rose, only to prick her finger on a thorn. Cursing, she unwrapped the cellophane. That's when she discovered that the rose was fake. It was a plastic perfumed flower stuck into two inches of real rose stem. She had pricked her finger on the only real bit of the rose. She felt a huge sadness as she stared at the rose. But then she smiled to herself. Sure how was he to know the rose had been fake? It had been dark and he’d been taken for a fool. When he came to bed, she’d give him the mugs and tell him about the rose. They'd have a giggle about it.

When he came to bed, his wet curls dripping, she kissed him and gave him his present. He looked surprised and said ‘oh.’ She smiled and told him that it was nothing much. Just something cheap, but nice. Something silly she thought he’d like. Something daft but nice. He ripped open the pink wrapping paper and the mugs fell onto the bed.
‘Mugs?’
‘Mugs.’ There was a silence. He cupped one in the palm of his hand. She saw it fitted perfectly. He smiled and kissed her. Told her they were great. That he’d get a load of tea into them. He kissed her again and slid the mugs onto the floor. He turned off the light and quickly fell asleep. And she lay awake for hours, listening to the late-night traffic and smelling the scent of the fake red rose on her dressing table.

The End