February 14, 2013
I have been dating a boy from my brother school since May. And by dating, I mean exclusively making out in Central Park and groping in broom closets at parties. Other than that, we might as well be strangers. He’s never come to watch me perform at an open mic night. I’ve never seen him play basketball, which is the only thing he talks about when his tongue isn’t down my throat. I’ve written dozens of songs about him and let him fondle my boobs. I am not in love, but I want to experience being loved.
Valentine’s Day falls on the same day as our school’s annual Dance Concert. I buy him a small gift. Nothing ostentatious. A tiny leather keychain with his initials on it. A present that says, “I’d be open to getting to know you better and maybe letting you finger me sometime soon.” But he hasn’t texted me all day. I check my phone at intermission. Nothing. The dancers’ high kicks land straight in my gut. Tears sashay all over my cheeks. I feel small and pathetic. Humiliated. For showing my hand, for letting my mask of indifference slip.
The final curtain falls, and my phone pings. I am vindicated. He hasn’t forgotten me after all. I look down at the screen. 10:03 PM: Yo. I date him until graduation.
February 14, 2015
It is an abnormally cold night in Washington, D.C. A guy friend of mine has recently gone through a messy breakup. He needs a platonic date for a party, and I am chosen as tribute. At this event, each couple is handcuffed together until they finish a handle of liquor. My partner chose Fireball, which tastes like liquid cinnamon gum. We play to win. Hours later, my friend is throwing up in a frat house bathroom (the seventh circle of hell), and I am making out with one of his brothers against the door.
I generally do not recommend hooking up with someone new on Valentine’s Day. Especially if said person just got out of a long-term relationship. But if you’re going to do so, I highly suggest refusing to take them home. And if you do decide to take them home, do not, for the love of God, let them stay the night. Or the weekend. Also, if there's an unexpected snowstorm (an unprecedented amount of inches) (that’s what she said) the following week, and classes are canceled, under no circumstances are you to allow this person to basically camp out in your bedroom like Fort fucking Knox. Trust me. The combination of pheromones from sex, lingering romance from Valentine’s Day, and forced proximity from the isolation may lead to you doing insane things for which you cannot be held accountable. Like convincing yourself that you’ve fallen in love in under a week. Or confessing your deepest, darkest childhood traumas.
Because when the snow melts and the fog clears, all you’ll be left with are stale conversation hearts and green conversation bubbles.
February 14, 2016
The coworker I’ve been secretly dry-humping in the back office tells me he is in love with his best friend during our Valentine’s Day shift together.
For the first time in my life, I feel ambivalent about attending the same gatherings with the same people. I crave an arousing rush of adrenaline. And my new coworker is a thrill-seeker. He takes me on spontaneous 4:00 A.M. dates to the national monuments. We have heart-to-hearts while hanging over the edge of the Potomac River. I rip my pants climbing a fence, so we can sneak onto a football field to fornicate. These adventures help me feel something other than indifference.
Snow falls silently, getting caught in my lashes, and blurring my vision. Love songs drift from the overhead speaker. The red glare of the snack shop’s neon sign above the cash register. I go in for a kiss, and he ducks. Words of explanation vomit all over the just mopped floors. I give him an ultimatum. He chooses wrong. I walk home alone.
February 14, 2017
I just said “I love you” for the first time.
I have developed a measly crush on a friend. One night, we run into each other while Irish exiting a club in New York and decide to go to a nearby empty rooftop to talk. Hidden in the dark, we have the kind of conversation you save for your therapist. I tell him that I don’t think I am capable of falling in love. He disagrees. We don’t kiss. We don’t even hold hands. But for the first time in ages, I feel safe. When the sun rises, we both blush and part ways.
The next time we see each other, we make out in the middle of a crowded, rowdy sports bar. Months later, we are celebrating Valentine’s Day together.
We rent an Airbnb in the city center with a marble kitchen island and a mattress on the bedroom floor. He is cooking steak. We exchange hand-written cards and reading mine, he turns as red as the wine. He kisses the top of my head and tells me loves me. The words fall out of my own mouth before I can catch them.
