Tired of Valentine’s Day advertising? Or maybe sick of it, with it. I didn’t realize how sick of it I’d been until I found a little something I wrote a few years back.
What will I be doing on Valentine’s Day? Celebrating the fifteenth anniversary of my first, very noncommercial date with my now-husband in a very noncommercial way. I hope you enjoy yours.
A fine meal of fine meats and fruits and spices picked with care under the cruel, hot sun. She smiled at me.
Scentless flowers raised in otherwise barren ground. She kissed me.
A fur coat pieced together from small mean creatures kept in wire cages. She slept with me.
A diamond ring, clear as refugees’ tears and hard as hearts. She married me.
A house furnished with rare woods, tiles glazed with poisonous paints. She sighed at me.
Rugs knotted over many years by tiny hands, paintings sold by nameless men in windowless rooms. She frowned at me.
A white tiger cub, servants with no legal existence. She laughed at me.
She told me she was leaving. She was bored, and I was cruel.
A square of dirt for eternity, marble walls behind lock and key.
For I bought my love, and she is mine.