Happy Valentine's Day Oliver

by Livia Ellis

  (I get an elbow in the ribs) Didn’t I know that short people are just concentrated wisdom?

  That is not the case. She needs to meet Parvati. She’s short and mean.

  Do not marry that woman. If it comes down to it she’ll marry me instead.

  Really?

  No. Not really. But still–don’t marry that woman.

  If I do end up marrying her, will she stand by my side and tell me often after the fact that she told me so?

  With pleasure. One final thing before she goes back to work. Buy Olga some flowers. Fifty-pounds and five minutes will spare me days of grief.

  I get a kiss on the cheek before she goes off in the direction of the patients that need her kindness more than I do.

  Before I leave the building she works in, I stop at the crowded florist in the lobby and drop the kind of money I never imagined I would spend on flowers for a woman I know I will never have intimate physical knowledge of. I write on the card that I think I love her like a sister and maybe in time our parents will oblige my need to have an older and wiser sibling.

  It is as I’m in the car driving to my standing appointment with the Aesthetician that I get a text from Gita. She loves me too–no matter what, she will always be my friend. The flowers were expensive, but the sentiment was priceless.

  I’m starting to get the point of Valentine’s Day.

  4 That son-of-a-bitch named Martin

  Every other week I have a standing appointment with the Aesthetician. I will never be comfortable having my body hair ripped out by the roots, but I’m getting used to it.

  The Aestheticianis ready for me when I arrive. She already knows I’m rushing. That I have a four o’clock that I can’t be late for. I’ll be honest. I want to look good to meet with my Former fiancée. Call me childish, call me what you will, but I want to look good. I want her to regret drop kicking me out of her life before giving me one more chance to make it all right.

  The Aesthetician is in a red mini dress that matches her shoes and nails. There are small sparkling hearts in her giant poof of hair and a sprinkling of red glitter on her shoulders. She looks like a slutty cupid.

  Her bracelets jangle and her hips sway as she walks to the rhythm only she can hear.

  What does she think about Valentine’s Day?

  Am I taking a survey?

  Just curious.

  It’s all bullshit. She fucking hates Valentine’s Day. (Which is why she’s dressed like a slutty cupid–because that’s what people do when they hate something.) Do I know what that son-of-a-bitch named Martin that never fucking appreciates her did that morning?

  No. But I’d really like to know. (I actually do want to know–I’m always curious to hear the latest version of what that son-of-a-bitch named Martin that never fucking appreciates her has done. It all makes my life seem so calm and uninteresting.)

  Nothing. He did nothing. Okay fine. She gets that he’s going to do nothing. All he ever does is nothing. But just for once, she thought he would do something.

  She said she thinks it’s bullshit.

  It is bullshit. Doesn’t mean she wouldn’t appreciate a little bullshit. Why can’t men get that even if it’s all bullshit it still matters? That son-of-a-bitch named Martin that never fucking appreciates her. All she does for him. She cooks, she cleans, she takes care of his mother, she listens to him, she cares for him, she loves him with all of her heart. Why the fuck can’t he buy her a goddamned card just once without her having to ask him to do it? All of that bullshit about how it should be spontaneous and done because he wants to do it and not because he’s told to do it is bullshit. Find her the man that does these things spontaneously and he’s either gay or…gay. Does that answer my question?

  Yes.

  5 The Pity of it All

  The apartment is in Knightsbridge. My Former Fiancée and I shopped for it together. We decorated it together. As I enter the building, it is all eerily the same.

  The doormen and security are the same. They must know I’m coming, because no one tries to stop me. Not that they tried to stop me the couple of times I returned the prior May to sort out my possessions. I don’t know if there came a point when my Former Fiancée told them I was not to enter simply because after my father died I never returned.

  It’s wholly possible I could have come back for the tiara without waiting for my Former Fiancée to return from Beijing. I know the combination for the safe.

  But I wouldn’t have done that. The apartment is hers. She paid for it.

  I notice things as I walk through the public areas. Nothing has changed. The sounds and the smells are the same. I’m greeted at the elevator by the attendant as if I were returning after being gone just for the morning.

  Good evening, sir. He says this as he has so many times before. There is chat about cricket as I ascend.

  I’m let off at the floor. For some reason that seems absurd to me after the fact, I pull my keys out of my pocket and use them before I realize I probably should have rung the bell. This is not my home anymore.

  I open the door, but I’m not certain I should walk in.

  My former fiancée is visible from the door. She’s walking around wearing the sort of expensive, well-tailored, dress and jacket she always wore for work. She still has her shoes on. The phone is to her ear.

  She waves me inside and holds up two fingers. She’ll be two minutes. That actually means twenty. If this were still my home I’d go to the kitchen, see what we have in the fridge and open a bottle of wine. Not my home anymore.

  She looks different. Her hair is a lot longer. At least it looks longer in the pony-tail she’s wearing. She’s slimmer than I ever recall her being.

  She walks into the kitchen then returns with a bottle of daffodil coloured wine, a couple of glasses and a corkscrew. This is all done with the phone to her ear. She points at the bottle gives me a thumbs-up then a thumbs-down.

  I give her a thumbs-up. This is a good idea. Maybe we can be civil. I might even be able to get her to call off her father.

  I open the wine and pour. She takes her glass and gives me a wink. It’s all so normal. I want her to get off the phone and ask me what I want to do for dinner then tell me to call the Thai place we order from too often because she is wrecked and would much rather watch Dr. Who then go out.

  I wander around with my glass. There is a half-read paperback with a cover that promises only the most gruesome of murders inside placed on the coffee table along with one of my poetry books from school. I pick it up and it falls open to where a business card of hers marks a place. Byron.

  When we two parted

  In silence and tears,

  Half broken-hearted

  To sever for years,

  Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

  Colder thy kiss;

  Truly that hour foretold

  Sorrow to this.

  The dew of the morning

  Sunk chill on my brow--

  It felt like the warning

  Of what I feel now.

  Thy vows are all broken,

  And light is thy fame;

  I hear thy name spoken,

  And share in its shame.

  They name thee before me,

  A knell to mine ear;

  A shudder comes o'er me--

  Why wert thou so dear?

  They know not I knew thee,

  Who knew thee too well-

  Long, long shall I rue thee,

  Too deeply to tell.

  In secret we met--

  In silence I grieve,

  That thy heart could forget,

  Thy spirit deceive.

  If I should meet thee

  After long years,

  How should I greet thee?--

  With silence and tears.

  I read through it a good four times. I skim through the rest of the book, then go back to the Byron and read it again. He’d sympathize with me. He was a vain, oversexed, sexually ambiguous, fuck up too. He also went t
o Harrow. But he was a poet and I’ve never written a poem in my life. Except for school. Those were disastrous.

  She gets off the phone after another five minutes.

  Sorry.

  Not a problem. (I hold up the poetry anthology)

  Take it. She has a few more of my books. It was hard to tell which were hers and which were mine. If I have time I should go through the shelf.

  I’ve got nowhere to be that evening. (Nottrue–but I’d cancel on Olga if I needed to.)

  She does. She wasn’t thinking when we made plans. It’s Valentine’s Day.

  So I keep hearing.

  But she’s happy to see me then and there rather than at Margaret’s wedding. Let’s be honest. It might have been a bit awkward.

  I agree.

  She’s sorry she didn’t give me the tiara back sooner. Things ended so badly then my father died. It’s a lame excuse, but honestly she didn’t know what to do. She thought about calling, coming to the funeral, she just didn’t know what to do, so she did nothing which was probably the worst choice of all.

  It’s okay. I understand. I really do.

  Truthfully, if she would have known my father was going to die two weeks later, she probably wouldn’t have broken up with me like she did.

  Does she want to get back together? (Why do I ask this?)

  No! She laughs loudly. No! She’s sorry she shouldn’t laugh, but no–never again.

  I was joking. (Was I? I don’t know that I was. When I was with my former fiancée I was ready to get rid of her at every turn. Now that the alternative is Parvati, she’s looking pretty good.)

  Our breaking up was the best thing that ever happened to her.

  Words every man wants to hear.

  She’s not trying to be mean, but surely I wasn’t growing in that relationship either.

  I suppose not. I’ve certainly done a lot of growing up since then. Dad’s death really shook me. Then her father coming after me and attempting to crush me under his boot heel hasn’t helped.

  What am I talking about?

  The fact her father is trying to ruin my life and force me to sell Wold Hall.

  Again, I’m going to have to be a bit clearer. She hasn’t discussed me with her father since right after we broke up. She doesn’t want to disappoint me, but when it was over for her, it was over. It was like she’d lost a huge burden she didn’t even realize she’d been carrying around.

  Nice.

  She’s not trying to be mean. Just honest. If nothing else, we were always truthful. Except when it came to my innumerable infidelities.

  In the name of being honest, she needs to have a conversation about me with her father. He’s coming after me for the cost of the wedding and the renovations on Wold Hall.

  Is he?

  Yes.

  Sounds like the sort of thing he’d do.

  Does, doesn’t it?

  She’ll talk with him.

  She really doesn’t know anything about what’s happening?

  No. Her father has been smart enough not to mention me to her. If he’s going after what he paid towards the wedding, then that’s his prerogative. If I want her to intervene and get him to stop, then she’ll consider it. But that’s really between me and her father. What is between us are the renovations on Wold Hall. What she will do is pay to get the plumbing and the electric working. She was the one that had it pulled out. The least she can do is have it put back to the broke-down jerry- rigged state it was in before she ordered it fixed.

  I would actually really appreciate that.

  Fine. She’ll call Mr. Gresham and get it sorted out.

  We finish the first bottle of wine during this conversation and move to the living room with the view that sold us on the place with a second bottle.

  I tell her that I think the archaeologists were spying on me.

  She thinks I’m deluded. Her father doesn’t need a bunch of archaeologists spying on me to figure out what’s going on at Wold Hall. It’s not like the place has any security. We don’t even lock the doors. It’s a wonder the place hasn’t been robbed.

  I tell her I’m working.

  This is nothing short of amazing. How many times did she ask me if I wanted to come to work with her at the chicken burger empire? Too many to count. Maybe her father pushing me to financial ruin is good for me. At least it’s gotten me up off of my spoiled entitled ass.

  I tell her that I’m taking mum to Margaret’s wedding. I don’t mention that I have a date. Seems like the wrong moment for that. I tell her mum is dying.

  That’s too bad. Mum wasn’t so bad after all. Neither was dad for that matter. They were just very unaware of how narcissistic and self-absorbed they were. Not people that should have had a child. It’s no wonder I turned out the way I did with the two of them as parents, but still…It’s all too bad. Maybe I’d be more of an adult if my parents hadn’t been such a pair of juveniles. Maybe it’s not too late for me to change. Really a pity about mum. She did like her.

  Did she ever like me even a little? Because it’s sort of sounding like she really kind of hates me.

  She doesn’t hate me. She’s over that. Our breaking up was the best thing that could have happened to her. She dates men now. Not boys in man bodies. Honestly though what was she thinking? I’m eight years younger than her. Probably a good thing she got that out of her system before it was too late.

  I probably should get going. Can I get the tiara?

  Did she hurt my feelings?

  Yes. She’s hurt my feelings. As she was want to do, she’s bulldozed me. I fucking have feelings. Here’s the truth. I’m sorry. If I could go back in time, I would do things a lot differently. I am sorry. I wish I would have figured some things out sooner. But I didn’t. I’ve lost just about everyone I love and now mum is dying. I don’t believe she’s as unaware of what her father is doing as she claims to be. I know how close they are. I’m not certain what she’s getting out of burying me, but I certainly hope it’s worth it.

  Okay. She’ll talk to her father. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she also has very purposefully not asked any questions. Am I really sorry?

  Yes. I’m really sorry.

  She forgives me. She does. She forgives me and it feels great. In fact, it feels fantastic. She’s never felt so free before. I’m not her emotional sinkhole anymore. She really has moved on!

  I’m so very delighted for her. Can I get my tiara? I don’t want to have to interrupt her when she’s doing the dance of joy in her panties at her absolute delight at being rid of me once and for all.

  She’s sorry. She’s just so happy.

  Marvellous. I’m thrilled. I’ve lost my grandparents, my father, my mother is dying, and her father is trying to force me to sell my home to pay for the million pound wedding I always said was ridiculously overpriced. I’m just so happy she’s so happy. Tiara?

  She puts her hand on mine. She’s sorry. She’s being inappropriate. She leans over and kisses my cheek.

  Anyone that’s ever had a long term ex they’ve broken up with and never slept with again after the fact probably will never be able to understand why what happened next did. But it did.

  First there was kissing. Familiar kisses. But then again, not so familiar. There’s an edge of passion to the way her mouth moves against my neck that is unlike anything she had done before.

  We move from the couch to the bedroom within minutes. Not because I’m pushing and nudging, but because she is. This is not the woman I know. This amorous, grabbing, tugging, squeezing, little vixen that gets me on my back and whips my trousers off of me like they were on fire.

  Not only does she not close the curtains, she doesn’t insist we get under the blankets. And it’s still light outside. I truly cannot recall us having sex in any kind of light before and being uncovered. More than this. She’s all over me. I like this! This is different. This is what I always wanted. A little zing in the bedroom. Something to dust off the cobwebs on occasion.

>   When we were together, we did things her way in bed. Granted, I was okay with this. A bit bored maybe, but I was okay with the fact things were pretty vanilla. Truth be told, I always assumed she would be the mother of my children. Call me old fashioned, but there are just some things I never imagined doing with the mother of my children.

  Clearly things are different. There is rolling around, changing positions, moaning, sighing, fumbling, and nibbling.

  I cannot believe what is happening even as it’s happening. I’m aroused by my former fiancée in a way I have never been before. She’s a little tiger and I like it.

  When she’s done with me and finished, we lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. There is still a smear of bug guts where I killed a fly. She hasn’t gotten the ceiling painted.

  She’s not going to get the ceiling painted because I squashed a bug. How many times has she told me that I need to kill them mid-air and not just flatten them?

  A few.

  Besides, she might sell the place and buy a house.

  Any reason?

  She’s actively looking for a husband. If that doesn’t work out she might just have a child on her own. Adopt a baby in China. Find a sperm donor. She hasn’t really decided. Anyhow…Have I been working out?

  Yes. In fact I have been working out. I have this evil Russian trainer. No mercy.

  I look good. The body waxing might be a bit too much, but still, kind of foxy.

  She looks good too.

  Getting rid of me was the best thing that ever happened to her.

  I aim to please.

  She gets out of bed as I’m left to lay there staring at the bug smear on the ceiling.

  My bed feels so good I never want to get up again. I have missed my bed more than I realized. The pillows are still the same and the sheets are familiar. This is my bed. I may never leave it again.

  My trousers being tossed on me is a message.

  I need to get up. She has a date.

  What?

  She has a date. It’s Valentine’s Day. Just because I was a selfish prick that refused to treat her like a woman and her fiancée on Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean all men are assholes. I need to go. Now.