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

by Kilby Blades

  "A sign. Yes. Thank you." Diego sits back down, one leg bouncing nervously.

  "Uh," Diego begins, then mutters to himself in Spanish.

  How convenient for Diego that he's got an artist next to him with tons of extra paper. And how unfortunate for him that because of his carelessness this morning, those papers are now gross and creased from being tossed onto the nasty subway floor.

  "Ma'am."

  "Don't call me that."

  "Miss."

  "I'm not a Miss either."

  "What should I call you? We're going to be together for a few days."

  "Yes, it's the tragedy of my life."

  "Señorita, I am very sorry I bumped into you this morning—"

  "Knocked me over with your guitar so you could selfishly shove me out of the way and beat me to the festival."

  "How could I know you were going to the festival?"

  "So, you're not discerning when it comes to the women you knock over? Good to know. Tomorrow I'm bringing a baseball bat for protection."

  "This is ridiculous. We can't live in this tent together and fight for a week."

  "Oh buddy, clearly you've never heard of the Caputos from Bensonhurst. We're known for how long we can hold a grudge. When my sister was in second grade a boy sneezed on her homework, ten years later they were crossing the stage at graduation together, and she turns back and sneezes on his newly minted diploma. On purpose. It was a snotsplosion.”

  "That is…disgusting."

  "My cousin Frank once had some guy cut him off on his way to work. Do you think he went to work that day?"

  "I'm guessing no?"

  "He didn't go to work for a whole week. Instead, he stalked the guy, learned his driving route and then decided to purposefully go out of his way every day for a year so he could cut the guy off."

  "And where is your cousin Frank now?"

  "Prison."

  Diego nods then crosses himself before sending a prayer to God.

  His eyes find mine, and they're a dark mahogany. Rich and shining with what I think might be mirth. Or fear. I can never tell after talking about my family.

  Maybe I should tell him more stories, and he won't come back tomorrow.

  He shuffles where he stands and pulls the knit hat off, rubbing his hands through wavy black hair that frames his face. It's not too long, but longish in that glam rock early days Freddie Mercury way.

  Diego is handsome, shockingly so.

  But he's gonna have to do more than be pretty to get back into my good graces.

  Diego

  "Can I have a piece of paper and a pencil to write my name on?"

  That's right, blurt it out like a crazy person.

  "Huh?" She asks, flipping her hair away from her face as a gust of wind tumbles into the tent. "You said that in Spanish. I think I understood one word."

  "Do you speak Spanish?" I ask in Spanish.

  "No, ma io parlo italiano."

  "Italiano?" I ask. The word is the same in Italian and Spanish.

  "Sì."

  "We might be able to figure out a common language."

  She smiles briefly, almost grudgingly, then crosses her arms, her gloved hands tucked into the creases of her inner elbows.

  "What do you want?"

  "I would appreciate if I can have a piece of paper and a pencil to write my name."

  "All you're gonna write is your name?"

  "You think I should write more?"

  "I don't know, prices for whatever it is you're selling? What are you selling?"

  "Music of love."

  "You're gonna stand and play music?"

  "Yes."

  "There are bums on the street who do that for free. What's your gimmick?"

  "I will…I hadn't thought that far."

  She frowns then pulls a piece of paper out. "I'll make your sign. How much per song?"

  "Two dollars."

  "That's a hefty amount of change for a song. You better be good."

  "You were listening before, what did you think?"

  "It was…passable."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means you didn't suck."

  She sits behind her chair and starts to draw, and it's like watching the sun rise over a cold wintery morning in Central Park. She switches between reds and purples. At one point her tongue peeks out from between her lips and her brow furrows in concentration. The creases are endearing and her focus admirable.

  She's doing this for me, someone whose eyes she wanted to gouge out with a paintbrush earlier. Perhaps she does not carry the Caputo grudge gene.

  Would it be a crime if I allowed myself to become captivated by Señorita Caputo?

  Shit, I don't even know her first name.

  As she draws I walk over to her side of the tent to look at her art. She glances up at me, warningly. I raise my hands in innocence and continue my perusal.

  Her work is…as captivating as she is. Except it shows a side more playful than what she's allowed me to see. There are couples holding hands, blurred around the edges and painted in deep blues and reds so striking they could be heart's blood. Others show children running with dogs, the parents trailing behind with their hands interlinked. There are no faces, only the outlines, and colors. All the pieces are signed by Rosie Caputo.

  Her art shows the meaning of love, how the very definition embodies that love has no boundaries. It can be the love for a pet, for a parent, for a husband or wife or child. For a sibling, as she illustrates in one sketch. A little boy cradles a small child as his parents look on from a hospital bed. These images are life.

  "Here you go," she says with a cheerful smile, handing me the paper face-down.

  I take it, eager to see what an artist of such talent has made for me.

  "Thank you, it means a lot to me."

  "You're welcome!" She glances past me, and sighs. "Oh, look. Customers."

  I flip the sign.

  Diego Rodriguez

  Asshole Guitarist Extraordinaire

  "Really?" I ask her, not even knowing if I should be pissed or if I should laugh.

  I choose pissed.

  She shrugs, as innocent as the day she was born. "I warned you about Caputo grudges, and you accepted my help anyway."

  "Would you give me paper and pen to write it myself?"

  "No."

  "You're setting me up to fail."

  "You should think about the consequences of your actions before knocking into people."

  "I didn't—" I cut myself off and turn away before I start yelling, my anger boiling. I will not let this ruin today for me. I will go to the bakers and ask for some cardboard to write on and I'll hang that.

  I glance at Rosie. She's got her arms crossed and is staring straight ahead, no doubt still angry at me.

  "I was careless this morning, and that I regret. Especially if I hurt you. But I would not have done that on purpose. Never. You could have let it go, but instead, you chose to be cruel."

  Her frown dips further, and she swallows deeply.

  But she doesn't look at me or apologize or offer to draw something new. She sits in silence, living with her choice.

  If that's what the next few days have in store, then so be it.

  Five hours later

  I can't live like this for another day. How am I supposed to make any money with a grumbly pissed off woman stewing in the back of our tent? Whenever someone comes over to ask me to play, she scoffs loudly, as if the idea of a love song is so abhorrent. When a man asks for pricing on one of her paintings, she points to the sign without a word.

  She doesn't make a cent all day. It's almost impressive.

  She sits and grinds her teeth and shivers as the day moves from cold to frigid. If someone so much as mentions love near our tent or pays me to play something sappy and sweet she groans in her chair and shifts restlessly.

  I swear, she's trying to purposefully make sure that we're both miserable and that neither of us makes any money.

>   This can't go on.

  When the day is over, and I step away from the tent to use the restroom before heading home for the night, I notice she's got her pencils out again and is scribbling away at something furiously. I'll talk to her when I get back, maybe offer to take her out for a drink. Make peace between us. That's the only way this week will get better, and I really need it to get better. I can't have my days being harder than they already are.

  No, I'll make amends. Somehow.

  When I get back to the tent, she's gone. Of course, she's packed up as quickly as possible to escape me.

  Something catches my eye, flapping in the wind on my chair, held down by a rock. I pick it up cautiously, not knowing what to expect.

  It's a new sign, elegantly drawn with stylized hearts. On it is my name and the price for my songs, with one heartwarming difference.

  Diego Rodriguez

  Player of Love Songs

  I guess those Caputo grudges don't last as long as advertised.

  Tomorrow is going to be a good day.

  Rosie

  He's there when I arrive, and so are two Styrofoam cups of something steaming hot paired with muffins in the shape of hearts and as big as my head. He's sitting on his chair, now pulled up to my table, waiting for me. He's wearing pretty much the same thing he was yesterday, except now he's wisely put on a red scarf. The color makes his skin glow, even more, today, and his warm smile does something fluttery and weird to my stomach.

  "¡Buenos días!" he says, not as chipper as yesterday, but kindly.

  "Buongiorno."

  We stare at each other for a second, not knowing who should talk first or what to say.

  "Thank—" he starts, but I can't accept it.

  "Don't. Don't thank me. You were right, I was a bitch."

  "I never said that."

  "I was having a shit day, and you bumped me, and I took it out on you and then I didn't make any money all day because I was so mad at myself for writing that sign but wouldn't admit that's why I was mad. It was awful. I was awful. I'm sorry."

  He slides the cup over to me, his smile kind. "We are allowed to have bad days."

  "What is this?"

  "Coffee. I hope it's okay, I made it how I take it."

  "And how's that?"

  "Light and sweet."

  I take a long drink, and the sugar and earthy taste of the coffee warms my soul.

  "It's perfect."

  "Salud." He taps my cup with his and after we sip for a moment, he offers to help me unpack.

  I accept.

  "Do you have a big family?" he asks, pointing to an image with a lot of figures.

  "Three sisters, a million cousins. How about you?"

  "One brother."

  "Is your family here?"

  "No, they're back in Colombia."

  "What brought you to the city?"

  "Music. I love all music, and this city is brimming with clubs and potential places to create music. I want to be a part of that."

  "You want to be a professional musician?"

  "No, I want to be a part of the process. I love to play, but I've got no fantasies of being a rock star. My mamá thinks I have a better chance at being President than I do of being a rock star."

  "Why didn't they move with you?"

  "I asked them to come with me, but my parents are stubborn, and my brother didn't wish to leave them without care in Cartagena."

  Hearing horror stories in the news of what's happening in Colombia, I try to think of a polite way to ask if his family is in danger. I don't want to assume everywhere in Colombia is rife with crime, but that's all anyone in the states hears.

  His laugh brings me out of my thoughts.

  "What?"

  "When you're concentrating your tongue sticks out on the side of your mouth. It is charming."

  Was that flirting? That wasn't flirting.

  "You're a smooth talker, huh?"

  "It's hard not to be, with a lovely talented woman."

  Okay, that could definitely be flirting.

  "Don't let Richard hear you flirting with me, he might get jealous."

  "Poor Richard will have to find someone else. My flirtation is for the artist Caputo."

  Okay, he's flirting. Fuck. What do I do? Do I flirt back? No, that will only encourage him. Maybe I should just ignore it and walk away awkwardly until he gets the hint that I don't want to be flirted with.

  "I'm sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?"

  Or he could be considerate and ask my thoughts and opinions.

  "No. I just—I'm not looking for anything right now."

  "Looking for anything? Did you lose something?"

  I shove him playfully. "You know what I mean. Your English is perfect; don't pretend to misunderstand."

  "Tell me what you mean then."

  "I'm not interested in being in a relationship right now."

  "Oh good, I hoped after I smiled at you that you wouldn't think I was about to get down on one knee and propose."

  "Is sarcasm a common occurrence in Colombia?”

  "No, mi amor, that is all New York."

  We finish setting up, he hangs his new sign with a bright smile, nodding and showing me the care he's taken in making sure none of my art is pierced by the hook he sets it on. I can't help but smile as he struts back to his chair, looking proud and professional. He's sweet and kind and when he looks at me my skin goes hot, and I start to bite my lip so hard it hurts.

  I'm smitten with a charismatic, handsome, guitar player, who seems to maybe be attracted to me. Oh right, and my resolution for the year was to swear off relationships and focus on my art and my career.

  This might be the worst Valentine's ever.

  "I have an idea," Diego says as the fair opens for the second day. "Let's combine forces. Anyone who wants a song will get a discount on your art. And anyone who buys your art will get a discount on a song. Sound good?" He snaps his finger and stands abruptly, his face open with excitement.

  "What?" I laugh, wrapped up in his enthusiasm.

  "You could take requests. Have you ever drawn on demand?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "If someone asks to have their portrait done in the style of your drawings, can you do it on demand? I can play them a song while they sit, and we can sell it as a package. What do you think?"

  I have to admit, it's an excellent idea.

  "I love it."

  "Yes, wonderful. I'll go get more chairs. Can you draw up some signs?"

  "Sure."

  He spontaneously kisses me on my cheek, and the warmth of his soft lips lingers as he sprints away, flying on the wind of his idea. I take my gloves off and touch the spot. There's a bit of wetness, and the thought of his tongue or any part of his body on my skin makes my heart beat faster, and the space between my legs turn warm and frustrated.

  And I thought it was a good idea to be celibate this year?

  Yup, the worst Valentine's ever.

  Diego

  The day is a complete opposite of yesterday. Rosie and I are actually speaking. In fact, we're working together in perfect harmony to make beautiful music and art. The customers are practically lining up to get their pictures drawn while I play music. At one point Rosie adds a note to one of the signs, stating I'll take requests. When I ask what happens when I don't know a song, she merely smiles coyly at me and says, "Surely someone as passionate about music as you won't be stopped."

  It's a challenge I can do nothing but rise to. And I do. By the end of the day, I have played every love song written since Beethoven. Twice. Dios ayúdame, if someone asks me to play How Deep is Your Love one more time I may throw my guitar into the East River.

  "I thought you were gonna choke on your smile when she asked you to play that song again," Rosie says on a laugh, enjoying the hot chocolate she bought for both of us as an end-of-day reward.

  "I might choke on that song. Is it okay to ban requests?"

  "Not if you want to make any mo
ney, honey."

  "Damn your capitalist society. I love it and hate it all at once."

  "This was a good day," she says, sighing happily.

  I want to imagine she's thinking about the fantastic time we've spent together, but she's probably thinking about all the money we made. I, unfortunately, couldn't care less about the money at this point. Instead, I can't stop thinking of the way she moves when she walks around the table to chat with a customer, how her wool coat doesn't hide the sway of her hips or how those tight jeans frame her delightful ass. I had to step away a minute this afternoon after staring at it a bit too long and feeling my cock go hard.

  She's not looking for a relationship. She doesn't need one, as funny and bright as she is. Why would she want to complicate a good thing, especially with a man like me? She was probably being polite earlier, and didn't want to point out that she's interested in someone so different from her.

  I chastise myself for the thought. That's not who she is. Is it so hard to think that a woman as beautiful as Rosie simply doesn't need a man? No. Is it hard to convince myself that she doesn't want me as much as I want her? Yes. Because I'm an ass, and clearly, all women must love me and fall at my feet because that is what they were put on this earth for.

  "Whoa, now you look like you want to punch somebody."

  "Sí. Myself."

  "Why? You did great today. Your songs were so tirelessly romantic I thought some of the men and women would leave their other halves for you."

  "I may have been given a few phone numbers."

  She laughs, but the sound is loud and awkward. "Really? No kidding! Wow. That just shows you what a bunch of baloney this holiday is. Am I right?"

  "Do you really hate Valentine's Day?"

  "It's a corporate ploy to get people to buy shit. It's not about the so-called definition of love." She gestures to the large banner at the front entrance of the festival. "Heart-shaped baked goods and red scarves don't mean love. They don't show your boyfriend or girlfriend that you care about them."

  "No, but the time spent with that person shows it. The small things, the willingness to take your time and pause your busy schedule to be with that person…that shows them. Time. Effort. Care. That is the definition. It is not one thing."