The one I love thinks of me a foolish, reckless little girl. “You’re still young. You don’t know what love is,” he keeps telling me. “Be nice hon. Today is Valentine's Day,” I say with wide puppy dog eyes. Since my docile attitude fails to make the charmingly devastating impression I was aiming for, I decide to switch to frisky, seductress mode; but this does not work either.
“Here’s a thing about love. It’s not all physical,” I say to him. Because actions speak louder than words, he moves a bit further and asks me about my hobbies. Alas, all I could think of, while he speaks about his passion for extreme sports, is skinny-dipping with my legs tied around him like a lifebuoy, mounting his highest peak before sky dropping from cloud number nine and freefalling into the roughest landscapes…. So I cut the lesson short, “Love can’t be all about sharing the same hobbies. Friends can do that! What about love sparks, chemistry, or kisses that steel the soul away?”
Brutal and collected all at the same time, he assures me that it is all highly overrated, just illusions of the mind, inventions of the art, and a bunch of sweet-talk jingles to sell the whole “Valentine Extravaganza.” Driven by the need to escape the room that echoed his blasphemous theories, I head to the balcony. There is oxygen there.
As I recall his notions time after time, a complete disorientation takes over me. Is he calling my loving him a logical consequence of the laissez-faire economy, some elaborated marketing plan? Am I not supposed to be feeling what I have been feeling all this time? Fortunately, nature had all the answers I needed to get my mind straight. Now that the bad thoughts are gone, I can see the beauty that lies around – the garden of grey orchids and indigo hybrids, the lake where mermaids and dusk melt in a wet kiss, and my body; that fleshy temple God gave me to experience wholesome sex and bring life!
“You’re melancholic. It shows in the melody of your breath. You're more transparent than a waterfall's robe at spring. That's what makes girls like you beautiful,” he says.
“Shush. Come here and listen closely!” I can hear his footsteps stop all of a sudden and his hysterical laugh grow fonder.
“You sound mad, mad like sex on a rollercoaster," he says and kisses me. I ask him about those love lessons with which he has been showering me so ardently. He laughs and kisses me again. How is it possible that he – and he alone – knows how to turn me into a fury that keeps falling in and out of love?
“Here's something else about love. It has no rules. It has no code of conduct. And whatever hypothesis you may come up with will turn to dust as soon as you fall back in love.” Fantasizing about having his lips and tongue all over my face, all over my body, my skin, I inquire about the likelihood of taking special private lessons for "bedroom use."
He does not protest, and his approval hits me like a heart attack. It felt like the universe’s balance shook for a while. Another surprise was waiting for me in the bedroom. Never imagined he could be the geeky type. Stacks of business magazines scattered on the floor. Collectibles from the Star Wars franchise stacked neatly on a low shelf. He even had a giant figurine of Yoda.
"Imported from Japan, right from a convention in Tokyo…” and he paused for a second. I feared he was recalling a past-lost love. I really cannot compete with cosplay goddesses or anime warriors with short costumes, geisha-like teens, or whatever exotic creature crossing Shibuya at night…. To regain control over the situation, I approach him and give him a salute in Klingon, “If I were Leia Organa, would you be my Luke Skywalker?” Did not know it was a turn on until he took hold of my neck, throwing me in a whirlwind of arousing and troubling symbiosis.
He was about to French kiss me when I surprisingly found the strength to pull back and slip away from the magical bubble where we were breathing as one. Switching back to frisky, seductress mode, I decide to take my ribbon off and blindfold him. He was obviously shocked, as he should be, and blurted, “And you think you need me to teach you what your instincts and impulses are urging you to do right now?”
I swear I heard something strikingly resembling genuine and helpless ardor in his trembling voice. I swear I almost had him. He was getting ready to unbutton and lose his polo-shirt when I took hold of his forearms, placed them behind his feverish head, and handcuffed him with what was left of my ribbon. As the momentum of our dicey game reached a road of no return, it was unfortunately time to shoot my Valentine bang, bang, “Here’s one more thing you haven’t mentioned about love, babe. Love is a bitch!” and I leave the room.