I pulled the Valentine’s Day card I bought for Felix last year out of my desk drawer this morning. I never gave it to him. The loving sentiment didn’t quite capture my feelings a year ago. Had I had one that read, “Go Eat Worms” (or a more colorful verb-noun combination), I would have left it on his pillow.
Happily Ever After?
I can’t remember what sparked the conflagration that soured our sweet hearts. It wasn’t our first big fight, and it wasn’t—won’t be—our last. We spent the evening in our neutral corners like boxers—eyes swollen, spitting blood, metaphorical fists coiled and cocked.
Maybe it was the pressure of the holiday. Maybe he was being an ass, or maybe it was me. I expect him to be perfect. I expect us to be perfect.
These high standards for an easy, comfortable relationship—an over-the-top romance —no doubt stem (at least, in part) from Hallmark marketing, old Disney movies, and the 1990s rom-coms I watched on so many single-girl Saturday nights.
I wanted it to be you
I tell people Felix and I met at the beach, which is true. But before we sized up one another in person, we circled each other online and exchanged text messages like “Hat hair is sexy!” that revealed our mutual awkwardness and our love for the mountains.
“I'm down at the beach with my guitar, on the wall at 14th Street," said the deep and sincere voice on the phone. "Come down here."
"Okay," I replied without hesitation.
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