I pick up the cooling concoction
in the Coalport teacup with its pink mulberry wreath design, her most requested
set and place it to my lips. The taste is pleasing. Past the rim of the cup I
notice a white statue of a man on one knee before a woman in a flowing dress
catches my eye. I, Eros, envy him his love; envy the love of the mortals that
are affected by the proverbial arrows of amour. These modern mortals have
forgotten that centuries ago during Emperor Claudius, who banned marriage to
keep his soldiers focused on war, lovers sought out Valentine, a priest, to
marry them in secret. If it meant being with my chocolate haired writer I would
go to any corner of the earth to be with her.
Valentine married the secret
lovers until Emperor Claudius discovered the treason. He sentenced the
treacherous Valentine to death. I watched as he sat in his prison, a dank and
dirty place, no regret shadowed his face. Lovers who he had secretly married
visited him bringing him flowers and notes showing their gratitude. I would
shower my cherub with anything that she desires. As I have come to know she
does not require extravagance. Hers is a giving heart. Running through her
veins is pure intentions towards mankind as evident in her actions. Caring for
those who cannot care for themselves is the essence of who she is.
My intentions, genuine as they
may have been, to help Valentine escape his confinement were locked away too. I
am bound, by law, not to interfere. Interference on my part is prohibited. The
only act of mercy I could give was the gift of love for the jailer’s daughter
and hers in return. For the time they had with each other he felt the same love
others had experienced. The same love I
pray to experience with her. Not just until death but for all eternity.
I set down my teacup and for a
moment I watch out the window as numerous couples waltz in perfect step to Sleeping Beauty Waltz by Tchaikovsky. It
took me back to another February 14th when the couples Valentine had
married and all citizens gathered. Not for a festive dance but for an execution;
Valentine’s execution. Before he was taken to meet the hangman he gave his love
one last letter signing it ‘From your Valentine.’ I understand better now the
magnitude of sorrow each tear she shed at his death and after with each word
she read. If I were never to hold my tender-hearted angel again, or gaze into
her ever changing hazel eyes, or cherish each word she spoke the world would
know my sorrow.
Doubt, an uncharacteristic
becoming a god but not a man, harassed my mind as the hands faithfully circled
the clock to the hour of her coming. Would she come? A shadow passes by the
window, the bell above the door chimes; my heart stops and my breath catches.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I enter The Antique Tea Shop with
my overburdened laptop case slung painfully over my shoulder. I wasn’t going to
come today. The thought of being around love sick couples was a little
nauseating more on the envious side. Then deciding against an equally depressing
night alone at home I gathered my things and came to the place that could take
me away from the world, even for a short time.
February 14th is just another day I
tell myself hoping one day I will believe it. I definitely didn’t have ‘a love
of my life’ who would get on bended knee, buy chocolates, send flowers, or shower me with jewellery (not that I care
for an abundance of those things but once in awhile would be nice). All my
married or dating friends would be out tonight. They invited me to come along.
But really, who wants to be a third seat on a bicycle built for two. This is a
night for lovers to declare, again or for the first time, their undying love.
Of course I am jealous and it hurts to know that I will never feel that kind of
adoration. If we are being realistic who would ever go out with me.
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