Worst Valentine's Day Ever: A Lonely Hearts Romance Anthology

by Kilby Blades

  I hate Valentine's day.

  "Can you move faster?" I yell at the folks at the head of the line, ignoring the people who holler back at me. I just gotta pick up a token for the subway and get to the Definition of Love fair before registration starts. The machines are broken, and only one person is working the booth. Of course.

  I may hate Valentine's Day, but this year I'm gonna make it my bitch.

  The city of New York had a genius thought, for once, and decided to capitalize on the idea of Valentine's Day. Set up a festival in the park, get the people to spend their money, bring some revenue into the city and, by extension, to me. I like drawing couples, and I have a ton of that mushy stuff to sell to folks in love, their brains filled with bubbles and love and a bunch of crap they honestly might as well be high on.

  It's a brilliant idea that I'm sort of surprised our useless local government thought up, especially with the way the city's financials have been going. Crime has never been higher, the city never more unsafe. I'm shocked that Manhattan hasn't started to cannibalize itself, or at least crumble from the edges with all its boroughs out for blood.

  "Will you fucking move it?" I yell, hearing a train approaching and just knowing it's probably mine with the way this day has been going.

  First, my car runs out of gas, and no wonder it does as I've been avoiding filling up with the exorbitant gas price of one dollar and twenty-two cents per gallon. They're robbing us blind. Then Lisa, my other older sister, told me she couldn't drive me because her tires are frozen to the ground. Then my third older sister, Barbara, said she couldn't help me carry my art to the fair because it turns out she's pregnant again. Then I couldn't get a taxi. I walked three blocks with all my crap, and now I'm waiting on this damn line while some out-of-towners try to make sense of the subway system.

  Sometimes I hate this city.

  "Let's go," a young man in front of me yells, as frustrated as I am.

  He turns back to me to share the misery, and I glare at him, beleaguered by four bags of artwork, a few easels and extra supplies for charcoal drawings. He does not get to say he's as miserable as I am.

  "Fuuuuuck," I moan on a shiver.

  Oh, and it's freezing. I'm underground and wearing a wool coat, but I may as well be standing on top of the Empire State Building naked.

  The couple starts to ask the clerk a new line of questioning, and I've just about had it. I've probably missed four trains at this point.

  "That's it." I push past the four people in front of me—bags, easels and all—ignore the annoyed cries of those in front of me, and sidle up to the old couple at the head of the line. They glance at me askance and then start speaking rapid Italian.

  Mama Mia. This I can handle.

  I use what Italian I know from school and my Mama and Aunties and Uncles and everyone who resettled here after World War I. It's enough.

  I ask the couple where they need to go, then give them instructions on how to get there. I even offer to walk them to the platform, though the clock over the token booth says early registration for the festival is about to start.

  But Mama would never let me live it down if she ever found out I didn't help these people.

  I rush them over to the A to Far Rockaway—why anyone would want to go there I'll never know—wave them off as the lady insists on kissing both my cheeks, then just make my first train. I've gotta transfer to the LL at Halsey-ENY Bwy. According to the schedule, there should be a train pulling up just as this one arrives. A jaunt down a short tunnel—my many bags and sweaty face making me look crazed, and warding off any would-be muggers—and then I'm off to Union Square.

  I can do it.

  I can make it. I can get to early registration on time and make sure I have my own stall where I can spread out and showcase my art and finally get my name out there. This is my big shot to actually make some money off of what I love doing. My days of waitressing at Uncle Frank's diner are almost over.

  The train pulls up to the stop where I need to transfer, and it's a minute early. Yes, I can make it. I can make it.

  I dash off, take the exit that will lead me to the LL connection. The frames and supplies in my bags jangle and twist around me, attempt to hold me back like the roots of a great beast, keeping me from achieving my goals.

  Fuck you, beast. This Valentine's Festival is mine.

  I turn a corner, and I can see the train pulling up to the platform. I put on the speed. My short legs pound the stone walkway. I ignore the odd looks and catcalls from fellow commuters grumbling at me for getting in their way. None of it matters now, the doors are so close I can almost taste them.

  Twenty feet. Fifteen.

  Ten—

  Out of the corner of my eye, a guitar comes flying at me, knocking into my bags and shoving me out of the way. I slip on a plastic bag left on the ground and fall hard to the dirty floor. My bags scatter. My easels hit stone with a sickening crack. I look up to see my art spread across the floor, and beyond that, the doors to the subway car closing with a static chime.

  I can't make out his face because of the graffiti covering the glass, but the last thing I see before the doors shut is an acoustic guitar with a blackbird etched into the wood.

  "Asshole!" I yell as the train departs my station, taking with it the last chance I have of getting my own stall at the fair. The instructions were pretty clear that if you didn't arrive for early registration, the chances of getting your own space were slim.

  With a sigh, I gather my art back into the bags and try not to bite my lip off in anger at the site of my broken easel. I can't afford another one. I trudge over to a bench and sit down, knowing it will probably be another twenty minutes until the next train comes.

  Forty minutes later and I'm still waiting.

  If I ever see that guitarist again, I'm going to make him wish he was never born.

  Diego

  "I don't need a lot of space."

  "You sure?" The lady at the registration desk asks. "You want to share a stall with someone? You could have your own space."

  "It might be nice," I explain. "This is a holiday for celebrating love, no? Why be alone?"

  The older woman stares at me for a second before shrugging. "Whatever you say."

  She stamps my entry sheet then hands me a map with directions to the stall. I give her a nod then exit the maze where the registration has been set up for the city workers organizing the fair. I brace myself for the cold. It's times like these I miss Colombia. Sure, the mountainous regions could get chilly, especially with the high elevation, but I would not actively seek out this frigid weather.

  Then why, oh why did I choose to move to New York City?

  The music, I think as I grip my guitar and find stall number sixty-nine. This city has a veritable undertone of music and art and life. Passion runs through the very veins of this city, and the last time I visited my cousins and snuck into a Jimi Hendrix concert, I promised myself I'd come to stay forever.

  Of course, it was summer then, and I hadn't known what terrors the winter could bring.

  Or how hard it would be to achieve my goals here.

  The movies made it look so simple.

  Arrive. Be talented. A manager conveniently walking by on the street would then sign me.

  I suppose there is a reason they call it movie magic.

  I amble past the artisans setting up their stalls, admiring their wares. Spotting blown glass expanded into the shape of hearts, I stop and chat for a second, complimenting the man on his skill. At the next covered tent, a baker sells cupcakes and donuts shaped into hearts. They look delicious. I ask if she'll give me a muffin if I play her a song. Another woman comes around from the back of the tent, carting a crate of croissants. She looks me up and down then offers me a muffin if I'll go away, putting her arm around the other woman.

  I can see where I'm not wanted, but I graciously accept the muffin and bid them a happy Valentine's Day.

  Not that it's the holiday yet. That's o
n Thursday, at the end of the festival. Four days of selling goods and services in honor of dear St. Valentine and the spirit of love.

  Americans turn everything into profit. What's next? Selling Christmas trees as early as their Thanksgiving holiday? No, they'd never go that far.

  Passing the many heart-shaped and themed items on sale, I'm grateful to be offering something different. Anyone can make something heart-shaped, but it's experience that stays in the memory forever. That's what I'm selling. Memories. Experiences. Life.

  Music is life.

  My tent is toward the back, an undesirable spot, but I refuse to look down on the opportunity to get my sound out in the world. I sit down in the provided chair and start to play some love songs, warming up.

  After a while, a striking woman clatters over to the opposite side of the booth. She sets four heavy looking bags on the table as the easel and backpack she was also holding smashes to the floor. Her hair is covering most of her face, but I can make out sensuous, thoughtful lips painted in red on surprisingly golden skin despite it being the dead of winter. Brown hair is wavy and wild around her face. She's wearing a wool coat and gloves to battle the cold, and tight—very tight—jeans on an ass any man would have a hard time not watching. She's petite, she's lovely, and I think she might hate music because she's staring at my guitar as if it were the source of all evil.

  She looks up at me and practically growls, "You."

  "Hello. I'm Diego Rodriguez. I suppose we're stall mates."

  "No. No no. We are not anything-mates. I am going to spread my stuff across this stall, and you are going to find somewhere else."

  "I'm sorry, I do not understand." I look down at the paper listing my stall number. "This is stall sixty-nine, no?" I show her the paper. "I am supposed to be here."

  "Fuck—stall sixty-nine, damn it." Her glare might melt the icecaps. "Get out of my tent."

  "This is not your tent. It is our tent. If you wanted your own tent, you should have arrived earlier, that is when there was a greater abundance of—why are you pointing a paintbrush at me?"

  She advances on me, the hard end of a paintbrush aimed my way as if it were a switchblade.

  "I'm thinking of how best to jab this through your eye."

  "I know New Yorkers can be hostile and slightly territorial, but this is beyond anything I am used to. What borough are you from?"

  "Brooklyn."

  "That explains it."

  "Want to know the reason for my hostility?"

  Her menacing narrowed eyes make me think twice about my curiosity.

  "Actually, I am good not knowing—"

  "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have been late and could have had my own stall which I sorely needed."

  "You cannot blame me because I am simply here."

  "No, but I can blame you for knocking into me as you ran for the LL train."

  "I didn't—"

  "You did, you were swinging your guitar as if it were a battle ax and you whacked it into my bags, sending my stuff all over the gross station floor, and I missed the train because I had to clean it up. That was you. Your fault."

  She turns away from me, thankfully having decided not to stab me with a blunt piece of wood. At least for the moment.

  "I apologize, I did not realize that happened. I was focused on making the train so I could arrive on time—"

  Another glare, and this time she's actually baring her teeth. If it weren't for the fury in her gaze, she might be cute. Scratch that—even angry she's cute, especially with the small gap between her front teeth, but I'm not idiot enough to point it out to a woman on the rampage.

  "Let me make it up to you. I can help unpack your things."

  "The only way you can help is by being completely silent and pretending you're invisible for the next four days."

  I clutch the fretboard on my guitar and try not to be too contrary when I say, "It will be complicated to play music and be silent at the same time."

  She doesn't answer me, but there is an extraordinary amount of mumbling and cursing from her side of the tent. I follow my father's wise advice when my brother and I would ask about why he never argued with Mamá when she was angry.

  Be silent. She can't get angrier at you for something you haven't said.

  She sets the broken easel to the side, along with the backpack and starts to unpack sketches, canvas paintings, and drawings from the many bags, laying them on the provided table. I try not to be nosy, but I can't help but watch her. She's…something else.

  The wind has picked up slightly, and though we're shielded from the worst of it by the closed sides of the tent, her dark hair still flutters around her face like coy wisps in the wind. Her boots crunch against the cracked pavement, catching my attention. Knee-high brown leather boots with thick heels accentuate her delicate calves and legs. She's projecting a “don't mess with me” vibe, but it comes together to create an amalgamation of ferocity.

  I'm attracted to a woman who believes me to be the cause of all her ills and probably hates me.

  This might not be good for business.

  Rosie

  Mother cock-sucking piss pot. Of course. Of course, I'd be in the same tiny space as this dipshit. Not only did the world seem to crumble around me in twenty-four hours, but God has singled me out today and decided: hey, I need a little bit of comic relief. Let's see what Rosie Caputo is up to. Life not miserable enough? Well, Rosie, have I got a shit day planned for you.

  Not shit day. Shit week. Because since we're not allowed to switch tents once they're assigned, I have to remain in this tiny space with the guitar-wielding bozo for four days.

  I stop arranging the paintings on the narrow table space for a moment and look up, beseeching God and asking him, ever so politely, why he's such a dick.

  "You okay?" The bozo asks after a minute.

  "No."

  "Is there something wrong with the tent roof?"

  "No."

  "Then…" I hear him take a step toward me. "Why are you looking at the roof?"

  "I'm not. I'm looking at God."

  "Oh. Right." A pause. "So, God is on the roof?"

  I sigh, use what will power I have not to stab him in the eye with my art tools and go back to unpacking.

  After a while, he sits on his chair and starts to play.

  I'm about to yell at him again, tell him he doesn't need to play yet since we've got no customers. And then I start to listen.

  The music is lilting. Light and sinuous, as if each note were married to the next. He transitions from major to minor chords with ease, and when I glance over, trying to be as stealthy about it as possible, I find him strumming a steady beat with his eyes closed.

  His leather jacket hugs his upper body, and his light jeans are snug enough to highlight the taut muscles in his legs as he props one foot up on the bar beneath the chair seat. A knitted hat covers his hair, and his leather gloves have the fingers cut out, making it easier to play. I noticed earlier he's not much taller than me, nor is he beefy like the guys my sisters tend to go for. He's lean, and though it's cold as hell out, his copper skin sort of glows with warmth and peace as he strums the tune, hitting the guitar's hollow base for a solid beat every now and again.

  His square jaw tenses on specific notes, his emotions mixing up with whatever he's putting out into the world. He's got stubble and a mustache that gives him a better-looking version of Burt Reynolds’s vibe. His accent makes it clear he's not from New York, maybe not even this country, but there's one thing that's transparent above any other superficial observation I can make while pretending I'm not stalkily staring at him: he loves music. It's evident in every breath and gesture.

  I want to hate what he plays on principle. I want to continue resenting him for the rest of the week—something I am truly capable of with the way my family's been taught to hold grudges—but I don't think I can ever hate this music. The sweet cadence and almost hypnotic rhythm. The depth and length he's able to stretch the notes i
nto. It's magical.

  Not that I care. I hate him, and we're sworn enemies for the rest of the week.

  "You're definitely in the right place because couples will eat this shit up," says a man with a pot belly and a clipboard, passing by and checking something off his list. "I'm Richard, I'm with the city. I'm supposed to tell you the rules and give you complimentary marketing advice for participating in the festival."

  Oh boy, this should be good.

  "No heavy drinking. No drugs. No dealing drugs. No buying drugs. No littering. No setting litter on fire. The city is not responsible for your stuff going missing or you gettin' mugged. No switching tents for any reason. We're putting a map of what goods are where at the front, and that map is not changing. Capisce?"

  "Yes, sir," Diego says, so chipper you wouldn't think it's as cold as my mother's icebox out here.

  "Yeah," I mutter, crossing my arms. Hating life.

  "Don't look so glum, sweetheart," Richard, who I now hate, instructs. "You can make some serious money here this week." He glances over my art. "Though you might want to add some hearts to these. Hey, that's a great idea actually. If you've got some extra paper or canvas, paint some hearts. It's the hearts that sell the best. Couples love that stuff."

  I smile and try not to bite his ear off. "Thanks. I'll get on that right now."

  "And keep smiling like that, except less scary. You don't want the customers to think it's Halloween."

  "Thanks." Don't punch him.

  "You're welcome. We're opening up in ten."

  Before Richard leaves, Diego stands, his guitar in one hand.

  "And what about my marketing advice?"

  Richard pauses, taking in Diego with an appreciative eye. "You're perfect just the way you are, friend," he says with a wink. "But you need a sign. People are gonna think you're sitting here for no reason playing free music. Sell yourself. Hype yourself."