I was never one for the Valentines day mush. Not after...well...I always think it is a sneaky tactic for big named corporations to thrive off insecurities or the theme 'love'.
Love is not a theme.
Do you know how much money is made off that tacky crap each year?
No?
Neither do I, but I bet it's a lot. Do not get me wrong, I believe in love. Oh it's true, true, true! But I do not need some novelty heart or overpriced teddy bear to convince me of my belief, you know?
I'm thinking this while looking at the seven plastic red roses wedged underneath my bed from long ago. Yes plastic. What can I say? I was a cheap date or maybe falsely admired, real roses would not have kept I suppose.
You're probably thinking why did she even keep them, right? I used to remember the name of every person I kissed. Every single one...
***
I'm sitting at my office desk and have been watching the commotions leading up to this meaningful, tremendous, heart filled fourteenth day. Ladies acting coy and suddenly wearing lower cut tops, higher skirts and a lot more make-up. It's different from their usual don't bug me I have a massive headache 'look'. And the males in our department have suddenly become teenagers again, very boisterous and annoying.
Something is off around here, 'love' is in the air and I don't like it one little bit.
There is this general fickle, fakeness about my work environment. And the upholding of pretenses for just one singular day is now thrown into the mixture. The hearts of some expectant romantics will be broken tonight, who will cheer those poor sods up?
All because of some unnecessary hype.
You're probably thinking, why would she even attempt to write some Valentines day based 'short' with that stinking attitude, well hang on now! I am getting to it. It will be clichéd as anything. I assure you that.
If you stop reading at this point. Good for you.
So I am still sitting in my usual mundane, lifeless office, but with the fake stench of lov-...lust, all around me. It could just be the overbearing smell of the ladies perfume, they have literally gone to town on the product. They are probably very flammable right now and I don't mean that they are 'on fire giiirl.'
I'm not spiteful, they make advances my way frequently. I just don't want that kind of attention. It needs to be true for me.
Intense.
I like intense and weird, I think.
He saunters in, casual as ever. My favourite time of day. He places my sandwich on my welcoming desk, I watch him. I always do. He doesn't dress to impress and his hair is all scruffy. All the surrounding energies of the overpowering masculinity and female desperate vanities have suddenly hazed out and my sole focus is on those eyes and I mean...killer eyes...like a snipers.
Windows of the soul?
Well if you had those baby blues, you'd have no need for a soul. And I know. I kinda like that fact about him.
He taps something. So laid back, well he just is, isn't he. It's next to my perfect sandwich that his hands have caressed. I want to eat it, push it all in to feel something his hands have touched.
Him inside me.
His hands oh, I don't even want to talk about, but somehow I can't resist. They are perfectly sculptured with the most beautiful imperfections. I remember his hands, like the back of my hands. I love to remember his hands.
I glare up with my snide grin, he likes my grin and the way I 'play it cool.' Even on a day like today I'm like stone (difficult in his presence). Ice queen style. I can tell by the way his face reacts it gets him. Gripped. We have never spoken.
You're thinking wait..what?
We have never needed to, it's all in the body language here and me oh my, it gets heated. Sometimes I'm so close to melting. Not today, I'm laying the frost bite on thick, maybe in protest of the fourteenth.
His stare. Targets me (I'd willingly die for that, shoot, bang! Goner) and he flashes his own smug grin that someday I will wipe off his divine face, but not yet. We are still at the game play stage and it's tantalizing.
I tap his something in response and 'shoo' him away with a slight delicate flick of my hand. He shakes his head and smirks obviously amused by my gesture. I wait, heart beating, but still showing my collected farce. He's gone. Fumble! Open!
Too cool for school?
The school bell rang out as soon as he left.
A tape of some sort, home made by the looks of things. A mix tape? Oh dear god, not him too. They've got to my sniper eyes? It has a note scrumpled inside. I am dreading it...
'Hey, Black Heart. On a day like this, a little fact to cheer you up and make those eyes of yours roll less. You know...I watch you for at least ten minutes a day before entering your office. Weird, I know. That is not the fact. This is -
Nothing is reliably known of St. Valentine except his name and the fact that he died on February 14.'
I feel sick with happiness. But don't show it. He could still be watching. I hope he is. Well now all this crap makes a girl want to start participating in Valentines day again.
