St. Valentine

Yesterday was Valentines Day. My sister, in an attempt to make it better, sent me a history lesson of how the day began—the story of St. Valentine. This is what she wrote:

so...i did some research to find out if valentines days is actually a hallmark holiday like all the gripers like to proclaim-- here's what i found-- the origin of the day began when claudius II (leader of Rome) could not get enough men to join his army and thought it was because they did not want to leave their loved ones so he cancelled all marriages and engagements. St Valentine (a bishop) continued to perform secret weddings for lovers and was caught and sentenced to be clubbed to death. Story goes, he fell in love with Claudius' daughter while in jail and just before he was killed, left her a note "love your valentine"-- he died on Feb 14th! and there you have it...just thought you'd like to know we are celebrating the violent death by clubbing of a roman bishop! bring on the chocolates!

I guess we celebrate the note, not the clubbing. Well, some might go for the clubbing (with a pre-established safety word, of course). Brutal love. This year it feels that way.

I met him last year at a Valentines Day party. I always thought that part was kind of cheesy. But it was love, right from then—swan dive, roll around, gorging without forethought. I remember his red shirt with the metal snaps on the front pockets and his wild curls. He had the feel of worn-in passion like dusty jeans and the slightly crooked teeth of a man who would always do things his way. We talked closely, afraid to touch, which we did just once. The back of his hand brushed my forearm and a thrill like opening a love letter or walking through foreign city streets leap through me. It was undertow. My kind of love definitely has no safety word.

This year we are not. There are words to describe it, I guess—broke, breaking, broken. None of them describe the twisted tendons I can still feel between us and the tremendous, powerful love that still lives there. He had paths to travel and those damn crooked teeth didn’t lie. In my tenderness, I couldn’t feel anything except "in the way." I couldn’t stop saying things to him that I desperately wanted to hear back. Why couldn’t I just wait? I’ve given up warm arms and a mind that could calm and nourish mine to my impatience.

Last week I came to work in rubber work boots and no bra after a frantic night of “breaking” with him. Despite how good it felt to make love, it was the night it our break felt real—like it just might stick this time. The comfortable people I know--the ones who manage relationships and fashionable shoes while I spin around myself like revolving door--tilt their heads in empathy. They can reserve and temper themselves; they follow rules and suggest books so I might do the same; they see my unwashed hair, sagging breasts, and red face and graciously pretend not to notice it much. Afterall, I may one day evolve and get the secure love I "deserve." But time after time, I’ve taken the club for love. My kind of love. I can’t help but wonder how many times I could hurl myself at a brick wall, especially when it’s painted with an alluring, red heart with a scrolling, “love your valentine.”