#67 BE MY VALENTINE?

Valentine's Day, an annual commemoration on February 14 celebrating love and affection between intimate companions; traditionally a day on which lovers express their love for each other by presenting flowers, offering confectionery, and sending greeting cards (known as "valentines"). Wikipedia

The precise definition of Valentine’s Day, in case there is any confusion, spells out the expectations of February 14 and how one winter day can make or break friendships, rekindle romance or if ignored, leave a bruise on the psyche. Various courtly scenarios play out the world over exposing a plethora of trouble-spots, a day that, as our heroine in this story says, could be ominous with pitfalls.

Kevin Swanson awoke on February 13 with aching muscles, a throbbing head, dry mouth and a tired mind and body. The previous night he played basketball as he always did on Tuesday night but what was unusual was that he agreed to go to a bar with his teammates to celebrate nothing in particular as they had not won the game. Kevin was not a drinker and usually passed on the bar crawl in favor of an early night, a walk with his dog and best friend, Earl, and Chinese take-out.

As a newspaper reporter on the morning beat, Kevin’s workday began at an earlier hour than that of his friends; he couldn’t afford to oversleep, be hungover, or too blighted to think straight. Not thinking straight before deadline put not only his job on the line, but his credibility. If you bungled in any way, you clogged the works and the snarling would be heard from the publisher’s office on down the line to the pressroom. No slackers need apply at a daily paper. Kevin was proud of this. He felt most professions and businesses were riddled with incompetence and unaccountability making the world not only a more dangerous place, but a more confusing one.

In the newsroom of a daily, you had about a week’s grace period before your professional flaws were unmasked. Kevin got tired of explaining why he couldn’t stay out late and drink with the guys and was glad when he found a girlfriend and could use her as an excuse. They snickered and warned him about having his balls busted but for Kevin, that was the least of his worries. His boss could bust his balls at any given moment and had done so a few times when he had been new on the job, but not lately. Kevin fell in with the modus operandi of the newsroom fast, thrived on the pace and once his co-workers were certain he could pull his weight, he had been left alone to do his job.

The two other reporters who had been hired with him were already history: one, who shall remain nameless, for screwing up a city councilman’s official statement, causing all manner of mayhem when the reporter not only quoted him incorrectly but had the name of the business in question misspelled. How this got by the eagle eye of the city editor, “Bulldog” Clay Morrison, who must have been asleep at the wheel just that once--no one could quite figure. Kevin never got the slightest detail past him without rigorous interrogation.

Managing editor, Tom O’Reilly, was foaming at the mouth that day and his bellowing could be heard over the emergency press-run to get a later corrected edition out while there was still time. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t help much; half the papers had left the building before it was caught by a sports editor who happened to be in the pressroom at the end of the first run. This little double-duo of error cost not only time, but quite a chunk of change and the fledgling reporter his job. “Bulldog” was silent for the rest of the afternoon and left early. The following day, with renewed vigor, eyes blazing, he busted apart every sentence he edited; headlines were scrapped, cut lines massacred, leads rewritten and then rewritten again. No one got out of jail free that day.

The third reporter, a single mother of about thirty with a pronounced feminism, lasted about a month. She had too many “issue,” she said and anyway, found the boss and the paper too patriarchal for her taste. Mostly she had trouble with the early morning start but wouldn’t admit it. O‘Reilly, having hired and fired many a reporter in his day knew this would be the case when he took her on, per request from her uncle who owned the biggest furniture store in the area and was a major advertiser. She was hired in conjunction with Kevin and the nameless reporter, O’Reilly knowing from past experience that only one out of three, if that, would be able to do the job, show up on time and would never lower him/herself with excuses. O’Reilly did not do excuses.

That is why Kevin took no chances. There weren’t a surplus of professional jobs in a small town where you could work your way into prominence. He was only twenty-three and on his own for just six months with an apartment, student loans and a car payment. He regretted staying out late last night but would inject himself with a double espresso and carry on.

Kevin’s new girlfriend, Monica Dunleavy, was twenty-four, a legal secretary training to be a paralegal. He met her at a bar that hosted a Trivial Pursuit night. She and Kevin were on the same team and she surprised him by not knowing the answer to a single question and then being the only one able to answer a rather arcane question involving an Oscar Wilde quotation sending the team’s score into the winning slot earning them three pitchers of beer and nachos for the table.

Monica was a lively girl with an entourage of girlfriends, liked to shop, seemed to have a different outfit on every time Kevin saw her and was on a woman’s bowling team. She was competitive, Kevin noted, and was often overzealous in her opinions with a need to be both right and first. She was much more aggressive than Kevin but not necessarily smarter. She liked having a boyfriend whose name was in the paper every day and she could point out his byline to her co-workers giving her some importance, something she needed in an office of professional achievers and a well-to-do clientele. Monica wanted to impress and Kevin’s name gave her a platform. No one had to know he lived in a gnarly studio apartment with hardly a kitchen, earned a paltry salary, in her opinion and drove a six-year-old car he was making payments on. She had a new car her father bought her, a spacious townhouse apartment, albeit shared with two others, and made a higher hourly wage than Kevin.

Her biggest complaint about Kevin was that he never wanted to join her and her friends after work for drinks or try some of the new restaurants and wine bars that were popping up all over town. He dressed indifferently too. Sometimes she wondered if he wasn’t a bit anti-social but what worried her more was that he might possibly be cheap. That attribute she could not accept. What good was a boyfriend if he didn’t take you out? But he was sort of handsome and had a job. She would get him on a social track eventually, shop with him for a better wardrobe. He was a fixer-upper but only just so. “He has potential,” she would say to her roommates. They would roll their eyes having learned attempts to fix up boyfriends an effort in futility.

These things were going around in Monica’s mind on February 13 while at lunch in the cafeteria with four other administrative assistants, two paralegals, one receptionist and two women from the insurance office down the hall. There had been only one topic of conversation all week: What their boyfriend/fiancé/husband would be giving them for Valentine’s Day tomorrow and what they would give in return. Their expectations corresponded to the number of years together, relationship status and income. There was a tipping point: Wives expected less than girlfriends but fiancées expected more than both girlfriends and wives. Live-in girlfriends expected more than non live-in girlfriends and those at the beginning of a relationship or those just dating were apprehensive not knowing quite what to expect but feeling certain requirements should be met in order to define the future of said relationship. Higher incomes begot higher expectations generally.

Gayle, from the insurance office, married to a doctor, said she would no doubt receive roses, be taken to dinner at a French restaurant with champagne. “This is what we do every year. Bernie has a limited imagination but it’s not a bad way to celebrate. I love the flourless chocolate cake with raspberry sauce.”

The receptionist for the law firm, an intern named Kellie, said she got a puppy wearing a red jacket with a and heart-shaped dog tag with all three of their names. Her boyfriend gave it to her yesterday because he had to go out of town for work. A wife of a roofer said she’d probably get candy to share with the kids. A paralegal said she would get a gift certificate to a masseuse, something she and her dentist husband had been giving each other for several years now after growing bored with the flowers/candy/candlelight dinner routine. “They all seem like a cliché after a while, don’t they? Next year we’re going to a spa in Napa if we can get away.”

Monica could see the other women chewing on this for a moment but if you were pining for just those things as an indication of some feeling or regard the women couldn’t quite agree with her statement. “So what if it's a cliché?” muttered the roofer’s wife finally. “I hope I see the day when those things became a “cliché” in my life. She pronounced “cliché” with pursed lips, thinking French terms in everyday usage pretentious.

Another secretary said, “In the past, I hoped my husband would acknowledge the day but never has. One year I bought him a heart-shaped box of chocolates from the grocery store just for a laugh and to open up the subject but he just looked at me without comprehension and muttered, ‘you’re silly.’ I ate all the chocolates myself that night, watching “Gone with the Wind” on TV while he slept in the recliner. I never brought it up again and that was more than ten years ago. Such is life with the romantically challenged,” she sighed.

The youngest woman said she would not be getting anything as her finance was in Afghanistan. “I will be happy with a phone call from Kyle saying he is alright. I can’t hope for anything more at this time,” she said with the solemnity she was becoming known for.

One woman said she was expecting an engagement ring. “He’d better get me that damn ring. I’ve been waiting for a year now. He asked me to marry him last year before he went back to school, he’s getting his master’s, and I’m still waiting for the ring. We’ve already picked it out; it’s on layaway. He’d better be holding a nice little box from the jeweler when I see him tonight. He‘s driving down especially for the day so I have high hopes.”

A few women said they would like to get jewelry; that was the best present from a man. Most said they would drink some wine with dinner and be groggy or headachy the next day at work. Some admitted they didn’t really like wine and wished the money could be spent on other things. All seemed satisfied with what they were expecting, many agreed that they would have sex that night--”de rigueur,” said the one fond of French phrases. A couple of women planned erotic escapades complete with red lingerie that could involve; essential oils, whipped cream, chocolate or strawberries but left the details to the collective imagination.

After listening to this all week, Lenora, the eldest of the women from a Slavic country snorted and could barely hide her contempt. “In forty-plus years of marriage my husband and I have never exchanged gifts or bodily fluids on February 14. Nor have we had dessert in the bed. It‘s stuff and nonsense. To see hard-earned money spent so foolishly. It’s not what marriage is about. I’d be embarrassed if my Harold did any of those things.” All the women secretly looked on her with pity so they laughed to conceal it. They did not realize that she pitied them for their unrealistic expectations and childish fantasies. They will all end up with only their disillusions, she thought but did not say.

With this information floating around all week, Monica could not quite fathom what she should expect from Kevin. One the one hand, they had been dating exclusively for four months and referred to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. She had heard him tell his friend that he had to take his “girlfriend” to dinner and couldn’t go to a game. As a girlfriend, she certainly could expect some acknowledgment of the day. She reckoned dinner with wine and maybe a small present of jewelry or perfume should be forthcoming. Nothing over-the-top or too expensive but heartfelt. She didn’t think a box of candy sufficient, and was watching her weight, didn’t think flowers were anything to get excited about except for a death in the family and hoped he was more romantically inclined than to give her a card with a Starbucks gift certificate or something equally impersonal like her roommate Dora got last year. A card on its own would be unforgivable, an e-mail card, unacceptable. All of the women were in agreement on this except Lenora who just shook her head.

As Monica mulled the meaning and manifestations of February 14 she gave some thought as to what she should give. Monica loved gift exchanges but liked to know the rules, the parameters. She didn’t want to give an extravagant gift like new ski poles only to receive a box of Russell Stover chocolates and a card. She did not want to appear loopy by giving a card with a sexy greeting as her other roommate, Jen, did last year and then never heard from the guy again. The pitfalls for this one day are ominous, Monica thought and went back to the law firm’s business.

What was really bothering her was that Kevin had thus far not mentioned a word regarding the day and Monica waited too long to bring it up and now she didn’t know what to do. Kevin was a serious type, quiet and sort of aloof, at times almost other-worldly. Monica found she could not maneuver him into a position as well as she had previous boyfriends. The guys she knew would capitulate at the slightest hint. Her parents were that way: Her mother spoke, he father obeyed. That was how it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Somehow Kevin defied her on small matters and she was worried he might on larger matters as well. She had not quite brought him around yet, she admitted to Dora. Kevin intimidated her though she couldn’t precisely say how. He was affectionate, sensual even but still kept a polite distance between them.

On February 14 Kevin arrived at work at 5:45 a.m. because an interview he’d conducted a few days earlier was set to run on that day’s front page. He had laboriously gone over it before submitting it to Morrison but there is a newspaper adage that says, There’s always a mistake: You just can’t see it. Morrison had it taped to the side of his computer. Kevin thought it amusing but like all humor, there was a truth in it and he was wary.

He was assigned the interview with the spokesperson for the environmental organization because the more seasoned reporter was on vacation and the others were tied up with their own developing stories. Kevin was nervous about the interview. He’d gone in with a set of hard questions the boss wanted put forth. The mayor was backtracking on a proposed condominium site, the developer was playing media games, an environmental agency was spinning like mad to get the most mileage out of the situation and the public was up in arms over an alleged shady deal between the developer and the city. Kevin had to keep the all the stories straight and not let the spin obscure the information is boss requested. It was an important assignment and if he did well, could expect to be assigned to investigate further. If he blew it, he’d be back on the cop beat or the schools. For real punishment, he could be assigned to the Catholic Diocese, interviewing a doddering old bishop who could barely stay awake.

Kevin trembled at the thought of a major error discovered after press time. When he admitted to his boss that he was nervous about this assignment, his boss said, Got to play in the muck sometime, kid. Might as well be now. We don’t have the time or the manpower to let you ‘grow.’ He used the word “grow” like it was new-age jargon, a movement he regularly disparaged. One of his favorite lines was, Don’t go Oprah on me--my stomach can’t take it. O’Reilly played the role of newsman to perfection--hard-boiled, insensitive, unrelenting. It may have been a pose, Kevin couldn’t say but he admired him and if he screwed up the story wouldn’t be looking forward to what would follow.

By 6:30 a.m. the newsroom was humming. Kevin read and re-read his story and was then assigned to the weather desk--mundane mechanical information gathering. “Bulldog,” he could see, was busy reading his story, asking only a few nominal questions for clarity. At 8 a.m. the boss arrived and sat down to read it before it went on the page and to write the headline. The piece was gone over with a comb so fine of tooth that if there was so much as an unnecessary comma, a quiver could be noticed in O’ Reilly’s entire demeanor.

At 10 a.m. as the paper was finally being put to bed, someone from classifieds breezed through with a plate of heart-shaped cookies and left them on an empty desk. They were quickly scarfed up--everyone hungry by ten a.m. with so much adrenalin spent. Kevin was still apprehensive. “Relax, kid,” said Morrison. “It’s fine. Have a cookie, call your girlfriend and wish her a happy Valentine’s Day. Then get back to work. This is just the beginning on this one. There’s more shit and a bigger fan out there. The public is ready for carnage.” He chortled, shoved another cookie in his mouth and gulped the cold coffee that had been sitting since the early a.m.

Formerly distracted, now munching a pink frosted cookie, Kevin began to subliminally notice things; a dish of those heart-shaped pastel candies with the incongruous sayings on them, red roses on the secretary’s desk but none of it really registered. He was busy imagining all the different ways his questioning might have taken him into treacherous territory. But the boss read it. He must have approved of his approach. He hadn’t said anything in particular but got a call and dashed out of the newsroom before the printing was complete. That was odd, thought Kevin. Did it have any significance?

By 11:30 a.m. with the paper already hitting the street, Kevin relaxed and thought about lunch. Then he remembered what Morrison said: Call your girlfriend and wish her a happy Valentine’s Day. It was only a chance remark--Morrison had no idea if Kevin had a girlfriend or not. Not much personal information was bandied about in the newsroom or the lunch room. He had not been asked a single personal question in the year he’d been there. Monica knew the details of everyone’s life she worked for and with, she even knew about the people in other offices in the building. Not for the first time did Kevin wonder if he had enough innate curiosity to be a reporter. Compared to Monica, whose inquisitiveness was unlimited, he felt like a dead circuit. His interest was more in the guise of outcomes. He had no idle curiosity about his fellow-citizens unless there was a reason to connect the dots, imagine an outcome or seek a result. Otherwise he could be oblivious to others and had been told so.

Kevin had also been oblivious to St. Valentine’s Day. So absorbed in his first big story, the decorations, the advertising, hints other men distinguish--a survival mechanism--did not click in Kevin’s brain. He went to Target on the weekend, the store was rife with red hearts on every type of merchandise. Nothing. They danced about in every department. No notice. He bought his dog a few grooming products and some chew toys, toilet paper and a quart of oil for his car and never made any connection to the screaming red hearts laced about to remind errant men everywhere just exactly what day was approaching. Ignore us at your peril, they seemed to say.

Kevin was new to the romance game. He’d had a girl in high school who was more of a pal and that is who he took to the prom. In college he tried with several girls but nothing ever worked out. He had little in the way of a charm offensive; he couldn’t flirt if his life depended on it and in truth, girls made him nervous. If he thought of them, it was as a future wife who would resemble his mother if not in looks, at least in deed. Kevin thought his mother perfect and when a boy or a man has a perfect mother, they expect her to be replicated in other girls. When she is not, when those other girls are a little confounding maybe, not as soothing, the man/boy gets nervous. He doesn’t know where he stands. If he has had no sisters, his dismay is doubled, as is the case with Kevin, an only child with a perfect mother and a contented father.

While eating his lunch of chips and an apple brought from home, afraid to leave his desk in case his boss wanted to see him, Kevin decided to call Monica at work and if it seemed fitting, wish her a happy Valentine’s Day. He wasn’t sure if Monica was his “valentine.” Maybe she would mock him and say he was being presumptuous to suppose they were valentine material whatever that was. He read a few of the aphorisms on the candy hearts and was still confused. How long were you a couple before these goofy sentiments kicked into place? Did they pertain to all couples or just those who’ve made a commitment? No, he thought, kids in grade school sent them to classmates. Kevin thought then that he’d better make the call just to be safe. He should take her to lunch but he couldn’t leave today. Maybe she would like to go tomorrow. He dialed her number and then her extension.
“This is Monica Dunleavy. How can I help you?”
“Monica, it’s Kevin. How’s things?”
“If you mean me, I'm fine, Kevin, how are you?” She was grateful for his call. A tension in her solar plexus released itself but she maintained a cool professional tone that made Kevin feel useless and tongue-tied.
“I’m good. I finished that article I was writing and it’s on today’s front page. It was a biggie---I am glad it’s done. Now I’m just waiting for the fallout-- you know, some mistake, some dim-witted error that will piss everyone off…something implied or unintended. Anyway, I was just calling to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day. Not sure what it entails but since I didn’t send you a card I thought I’d call to see if you want to get together after work or if you’re busy, maybe have lunch tomorrow. My treat.”

Monica thought she entered a parallel universe, in a state of disbelief. “What it entails, Kevin? Not sure what it entails? What planet are you from?” She tried for a jocular effect but her voice was reaching an upper octave she didn't care to have her co-workers hear. They were all so smug, so assured of their flowers, their champagne suppers…they didn’t have to spend last night wondering if they were doing anything on Valentine’s Day. They HAD plans in place, weeks in advance. Even Jo whose husband was in a war zone e-mailed with the time set for his call to her. They didn’t have to sit around wondering if they actually had some type of relationship or listen to their innuendos: What are you and Kevin doing tonight? Did Kevin send you flowers? Did you get your lace bra out from the back of the drawer? Ha, ha, ha.

Monica said little and hoped they’d let it go. “I bet there will be flowers when you get home, said the roofer's wife. He seems so sensitive by his writing. So intelligent. I bet he has a big night planned for you.”

Now here he was on the phone--hemming and hawing. “No Kevin, as it happens, I’m not doing anything later. Do you want to meet somewhere or should I come over to your place?”
“Yeah, why don’t you come over? I’ve got to walk Earl before I do anything but he‘s dying to see you. He has a crush on you, you know. We can order pizza or something.”
“I’ll see you later then. I’ve got to go,” said Monica, mortified and afraid someone would have overheard the conversation, so lame, so dopey.

“Boyfriend ready for the big night?” said the receptionist.
“Boyfriend an idiot.”
“Ah, don’t worry. He’s just planning to surprise you. You’ll see. Last year Eddie did that to me. Pretended he didn’t know what day it was all the while picking out a gold bracelet for me right next door at Jewels Galore. I pouted all day but he sure redeemed himself. They always do that unaware shit and then pony up in the end. He’ll come through. Don’t look so glum, Mon.”

Monica spent the afternoon studying the garish bouquet of roses commingled with glittering plastic hearts on the desk opposite. When Gina, a paralegal, noticed her staring she smirked and said they were just from her husband. Her real gift would be something extra special from her lover--jewelry probably. Monica thought about having not one but two men sending valentine gifts. And then wondered if the word “lover” could ever comfortably pass her lips?

She had bought Kevin a red cashmere/wool blend sweater from the most expensive store in town. It would look great on him with his dark eyes and hair. She wasn’t sure what women gave to men on Valentine’s Day beside sex. It was an overtly feminine holiday but she wanted to have something to give him in case he gave her something. She also got a red collar for Earl and some heart-shaped treats. She bought a small box of Godiva truffles to share. She was prepared for whatever though her own heart possessed a disconcerting negative vibration.

Kevin spent all afternoon in his boss’s office going over plans for the next segment of the investigation. He was being given an another important assignment and it would be a great byline. “We‘ll chew them up and spit them out, said a gleeful O’Reilly. “This might earn you an AP award, kid. Who knows? I was fifty before I got one but you could nail one at…how old are you? Twenty-two, twenty three? Great on the old resume.”

His enthusiasm was contagious and Kevin was feeling a flood of warm liquid expanding in his chest cavity. Back at his desk, his heart was thumping. Turns out the boss ran out earlier to take his wife to lunch. Kevin had nothing to worry about. He complimented Kevin on the story and told him to keep up the good work. Kevin had a fulfilling day and restored ambition. An AP award, he thought. Wow!

For the record, Kevin’s story, the investigation into a dicey matter of city business and politics is not the story we are concerned with. It is only background material; these type of stories fill the newspapers in every town and city repeatedly. No, this is the story of expectation and mixed-signals. It’s a story of men and women and how things are often more and then less than they seem. It is also a story that plays out in towns and cities all over the world but its appeal is psychological and will continue to be relevant long after all the mayors, governors, developers and citizens settle their disputes.

Monica arrived at Kevin’s place at 6 p.m. just as he was returning from walking Earl. “Hey girl. Glad you could make it. Did you see today’s paper? Big story with yours truly credited. And this is just the beginning. We’re going to hammer both the mayor and the developer. I could even win an AP award. That’s Associated Press. Big deal for journalists. I had a great day, it started out really nerve-wracking but it shaped up nicely. How about you, did you have a good day?”
“No Kevin, I was very busy today. Everyone had lunch dates and I had to cover. I haven’t seen the paper. I’m happy for you.”
“You sound kind of down. Got a headache?”
“No. I’m fine. I was wondering what we are going to do tonight.” She slumped into the ratty couch with a sigh.
“Up to you. I’m a little short of cash until tomorrow when I get paid but I could manage a pizza for dinner if you’re hungry. I’m starving. I didn’t eat lunch. My boss and I were holed up all afternoon plotting our strategy. I’ve been living on cookies that someone brought into the newsroom for Valentine’s Day. I must have eaten twenty of them, plus candy. I’m on a real sugar buzz, I tell you. I need something substantial like a pepperoni and sausage pizza and a gallon of milk. Unless you want beer? There’s some beer in the fridge, help yourself. I’ve got to feed Earl and clean up a bit. Make yourself at home. Watch whatever you want on TV. I’ll let you control the remote tonight,” he said with an affectionate laugh. “You can watch all the chick stuff seeing how it’s Valentine’s Day. My gift to you.”

He went into the kitchen and Monica could hear him filling the dog dish with kibbles. Then she heard water running in the shower. She sat on the couch without moving a so much as a hair. Stupefied. His gift to her? His fucking gift to her? How totally insensitive! She was speechless but her mind was ratcheting about like the stock market in free-fall. She could hear Kevin singing in the shower. She wished she could shut him up--with some dramatic impact. She had no impact, obviously. She was without weight and as such not worth a whole lot, apparently. She began to brood. Earl seemed to sense her sadness and put his head on her lap. His eyes seemed to cry for her. She got up off the couch, dropped Earl’s gift on the table and left the apartment. She turned her phone off, drove home and having the place to herself--Dora and Jen with their current boyfriends possibly doing something fun--she opened the Godiva chocolates and turned on the TV. It was romance heaven; her favorite romantic comedies playing on every channel. She did not need Kevin’s “gift.” She had her own flipping remote, thank you very much. She wasn’t exactly in the mood for vicarious romance but what else was there?

She settled on “Moonstruck” but during the commercials surfed between reruns of “Sex and the City” and “French Kiss.” By the time Nicholas Cage proposed to Cher at the family breakfast table she was fuming. She didn’t have Ronny, she had the clueless brother, Johnny, the mama’s boy. She fluffed up a pillow waiting for the next movie, “Pride and Prejudice,” and popped another truffle in her mouth fully aware that it was only an antidote to the shriveling her heart was undergoing.

Kevin, fresh from his shower called out for Monica but received no answer. Toweling himself off, he went into the living room, the only room, to find it, as we already know, vacated except for Earl. “What the hell…?” Kevin looked for a note but only found a package addressed to Earl. He opened it and read the valentine message that said, To Earl, man’s best friend and a girl’s best protection. Earl had once growled at a guy who yelled at Monica in the parking lot over her car being in his spot. He backed off quickly and she thereafter referred to him as her bodyguard. “Where did she go, Earl, huh? She was here. Where’d she go?” Earl had no reply but was bright enough to glance at the door before grabbing the offered treat.

Kevin called her cell phone but got no connection. Now he was really confused but just then the pizza arrived. He rushed to the door thinking it was Monica. He had to scrounge around for change to tip the guy. He and Earl ate the pizza while trying to reach Monica. Finally he gave up, pissed at her for leaving without so much as a goodbye. Several hours later just before he fell asleep he got her on the line. “Monica, it’s Kevin. Where the hell did you go? Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m at home,” she said diffidently. She had gorged herself on chocolate and romance and was feeling a little dissolute. Mr. Darcy’s grandeur made her own romance seem even more deficient.
“Why did you leave without saying anything? That’s really rude, Monica.”
“Really, Kevin? I could tell you a thing or two about rude but I’m sleepy and have lost the urge.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No Kevin. Nothing wrong, nothing right.”
“Explain, please.”
“Have you ever heard anything about the romantic significance of Valentine’s Day, Kevin?”
“So that’s it. You’re mad about Valentine’s Day. I’m sorry I didn’t send a card or take you to lunch. I wasn’t sure you’d think it was any big deal. You seemed cold when I called to say happy Valentine’s Day. I thought maybe I was being presumptuous calling you my valentine. I didn’t want to overstep my bounds. I’m sorry. I didn’t know, you should have said something.”
“Forget it, Kevin. I’m going to sleep. We can talk about it next year if there is a next year, goodnight.”
“Just tell me what you were expecting. I’ll try to make it up to you. Don‘t just bust my chops. Talk to me.”
“Goodnight, Kevin.”
“By the way, Earl says thanks. He loved the treats and the collar. He’ll be sending you a thank-you note personally. I’ll have to write it for him; he’s smart but his penmanship isn’t the most legible.” He hoped she would lighten up with some dog humor; it usually worked.
She hung up, her head starting to ache from the sugar deluge and crawled to bed eager to avoid Jen and Dora’s return.

Kevin went to bed more mystified than ever but wrote it off as female drama, something he had hoped to avoid with Monica. “Dogs are so much easier,” said Kevin to no one in particular. Tomorrow he would ask her to lunch. If he could get away from the news desk.

Valentine’s Day came and went, mostly forgotten by February 15. The women in Monica’s office were subdued for a variety of reasons, except Lenora who had no expectations and was not disappointed. The newsroom had not the slightest residue of the previous day. Kevin began work on his next story but forgot about lunch when his boss called him in the office to discuss tactics. Monica noted his failure to call but was not unduly bothered by it: Valentine’s Day was over, he blew that. She no longer cared if her fixer-upper would ever meet her standards. Neither one ever mentioned the missed opportunity again but Monica kept it in reserve. She returned the sweater for a full refund.