I watch the digital clock on my checkstand monitor, trying to will it to go from 7:55 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. with just the sheer power of my mind. My eyes shift to the day’s date alongside it: February 14, 2021.

“Excuse me!” My heart jumps as I rip my gaze from the clock to the customer standing before me, bottle of rosé in one hand, ice cream in the other, and an annoyed look upon her face. “Can I get some help here?”

“Yes, of course ma’am,” I stammer from beneath my mask. I quickly scan her wine as she runs her card through the POS system. I reach my hand out instinctively to grab the receipt, tearing it from the printer just as it finishes printing. I turn back to the woman and do my best to smile with my eyes. “Have a nice Valentine’s Day!”

The woman humphs at me as she takes her receipt. “Honey, we’re quarantining, the only romantic date I’m having tonight is with my boyfriends, Ben and Jerry.” She waves her ice cream in my face as she stomps away.

I glance back at the clock. It reads 7:58 p.m. Only two more minutes until freedom. I sigh, trying to relax my nerves and daydream about what the night may have in store. It’s my first Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend, and even though most date spots are closed due to Covid-19, I am still looking forward to a nice evening. I thought maybe we’d pull up a few rom-coms on Netflix, break out the wine, and maybe try to cook up some semblance of a romantic dinner from a Pinterest recipe. I pull out my phone as stealthily as I can to look up my “pinned” recipes when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Saw that!” I whirl around to see my manager, Anna, staring at me with a triumphant smirk.

“Sorry,” I mumble, shoving my phone in my back pocket.

“Eh, that’s okay, I don’t really care. Say, my closer just went home sick, was vomiting and everything.” She seems to shudder at the memory. “I was hoping you could close for me, since no one else is available.”

My heart sinks. I turn my head back to the clock. 8:02 p.m. I really want to tell Anna no, that I have plans and need to go. But then I think of the utility bill sitting on the counter at home, waiting to be paid, and how I have not gotten a decent amount of hours in weeks. I slowly exhale, allowing myself to come to the realization that I need to take any extra time I can get. Even if that means watching rom coms another night.

“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “I guess I could -”

“GREAT!” Anna practically shouts in my ear. “Thank you so much, you just saved me big-time.” She prances away happily, probably to relay the latest gossip about her Tinder escapades to girls at the customer service desk.

I pull out my phone quickly and shoot a text to my boyfriend.

Hey Ty, have 2 close 2nite. So srry. Raincheck?

Suddenly, I hear loud thuds at the end of my checkstand. I look up to see a man dumping what must be a hundred cans of cat food onto the belt. I slip my phone back into my pocket and take a deep breath, screaming internally as I force a friendly smile behind my mask. “Good evening sir! Do you have a loyalty card with us?”

...

I trudge my way to the time clock, feeling absolutely exhausted from my night. As I clock out I see the time on my phone. 11:50 p.m. No response from Ty either. My stomach churns with guilt. I shouldn’t have stayed. Or I should have called. He’s probably so dissappointed in me. I start to fumble in my pockets for my keys as I walk out of the store, hoping that maybe I can still get home quick enough to salvage at least a little of our evening.

“Hey beautiful!”

I look up from my keys and begin to feel tears welling up in my eyes.

Ty sits on the tailgate of his truck in the middle of the empty parking lot. It’s dark outside but I can see him grinning from ear to ear under the glow of the fairy lights he has strung all around the back of his truck. Blankets and pillows cover the inside of the truck’s bed. As I walk closer I start to see the rose petals that Ty has laid down, and the bottle of wine that’s propped up against one of the pillows. The heavenly smell of Chinese takeout fills the air. My mouth is gaping open.

“What is all this?”

Ty smiles. “You said you had to work late, and I knew how much you were looking forward to this, so I thought I would bring our evening to you.” He holds up the takeout bag that is the source of the fragrant aroma. “I know you wanted to cook dinner, but I figured this would be easier to eat in the truck. Besides, you know I’m no good in the kitchen.”

I throw my arms around him and bury my face into his neck.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “It’s perfect. I love you.” He wraps his arms around me, and we begin to sway, as if the traffic noises from the street behind us were our very own love song.

Expectations often lead to disappointment. The partner I have grown accustomed to, who I have settled with, has brought me a thoughtless offering of waxy chocolate and a rose with petals bruised from frequent fondling by passersby in whatever grocer he found it. I know there is no ill-intent in this gesture. He is a simple creature who has never been known for surprise or spontaneity. He is a provider, and that is where he ends. Why should grand gestures be expected of a boring man today more than any other?

Still, my calcified heart feels a strong nagging this time of year. Lovers past haunt my dreams, begging me to forsake this extended mortality and join them in the ether, in their eternal celebration of hedonism and promiscuity. An echo of my beginnings, of rites and rituals, sex and death and rebirth and wolves and rabbits and love. A life I abandoned thousands of years ago.

Still I cannot join them, not yet. There is more to explore, to see and feel and learn, even in this mundane and puritanical pocket of time. No, the sacred days I miss so terribly have been reduced to placeholders in seasons, each with their own greedy incentives, yet I cannot return home just yet.

The mortal I now call my husband slumbers next to me. He expects to rise early for work, though another date awaits him this day.

Candy hearts are sweet, but human hearts fuel my occupancy of this realm. Happy last Valentine's day, love.

All I want is to wake up to you. To wake up to your tousled hair, your slightly parted lips, the body heat you're emanating from a night spent sleeping side-by-side. I could get up and make us both coffee, bring it to the bed and sit side-by-side sipping quietly. We wouldn't say anything, content in one another's presence. Being there with you, knowing you're in the next room, hearing the sound of the sink as you watch your heads - each a little present in and of itself. There's nothing I'd rather do on Valentine's Day than quarantine with you. Instead, I wake alone, looking forward only to a FaceTime call connecting us across an ocean.

A bubble of warmth envelops my body under the blankets. It’s freezing outside, and I can see the hail and snow dance with the frenzy of a couple that have one night left to live and love. I snuggle in closer to her, feel her curves fit along me like a key in its lock. This is where I’m meant to be.

We had spent the morning sledding down roads covered in slush, alone in the endless hilly suburbs, the snow blindingly bright in the rising sun. All our neighbors had made the more intelligent decision of staying inside, but we live the day like there won’t be another. We’re snug out here as well, tightly packed into a cheap red sled. She’s basically sitting on my lap, which does both wonders and problems for me depending on the bumps. We fly down, snow spraying up and blasting our faces as we try to keep our eyes open, with water trickling down underneath our clothes. We giggled every time at the bottom without fail like the toddlers we are, she proceeded to push me into several snow banks to get a headstart in the races back up top (leaving me with the sled). I consistently caught up to her and “slipped”, ending in her inevitable victory, and back down we would go. She was permanently aware of how close we were, and took undo pleasure in my heated face as she squirmed into her nook in my lap. Finally, once she had exhausted both of us, we went back inside to warm our icy extremities and her hands found their way under my shirt, much to the complaint of my skin.

“Well I guess the snow means I can’t go get that gift that I definitely didn’t forget at the store.” I say with a sad face. I watch her face fall for just a second and my face opens up in a wide smile.

“Jerk!” She says as she pouts at me and punches my shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry, but really I wish we could go out for our plans. This storm’s the worst for Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s okay,” she comes in for a hug and she continues with a whisper in my ear, “this is where I’m meant to be.” Her sweet voice sends chills down my spine, and I start attack-kissing her, little pecks all over her face and neck until she’s forced to run away laughing.

We cook my choice for lunch: Indian style curry that warms me up almost as much as she does. A knobby snowman named Olaf, (big Disney fans), and many snowballs follow after we’re done eating. A shower together, “We’ll huddle together like penguins for warmth,” she says with a small grin that tugs at the corners of her mouth. Dinner’s amazing, her choice of spaghetti and meatballs, and she covers for my abysmal taste for spicing and I get the grunt work done. There’s a unique satisfaction to eating a meal that you have made with your own hands and with a loved one.

Gifts are given to many hugs and only a little crying. Hot Cocoa with mini marshmallows is the chaser as we watch Hercules and sing the songs too loud and off key. I find myself interlocked with her under the blankets watching the storm living in its own moment. I give her a quick kiss on the back of her head, and wonder at how this is real life. This is actually happening, this is my life. What have I done to deserve such a perfect day?

She starts to do the worm against me and I laugh, jolted slightly from my comfortable position. The blanket shifts as well, and some fresh air drafts in.

“Now I’m cold,” I pout at her.

She flips over and looks me in the eyes, “Well I have a remedy for that…”

This is where I’m meant to be.

I would wake up first thing in the morning to see my lover's face next to mine. A beautiful person they are, with all their perfect imperfections. The sun would shine in through the window of our apartment, giving their tousled bed hair a warm glow. The white sheets would be tucked in so very delicately around their face. I'd smile because today, of all days they'd mine and mine alone, and of all days I'd be their's and their's alone. While not wanting to disturb their morning slumber, I'd still reach over and place my hand on their cheek. It'd be warm compared to my cold hands; soft skin under calloused hands. Their subtle snore would hitch, causing them to stir, and they're eyes would flutter open to look into mine.

"Good morning," they'd say with a smile. I, smile growing wider than before, would respond with a similar "good morning." They, not want to get out of bed, would snuggle closer and try to go back to sleep. A small giggle escaping my lips, I'd ask if they wanted waffles.

In the kitchen, the coffee'd be brewing the eggs would be sizzling. I'd be preparing the waffles and my love would come up behind me, wrap their arms around my waist. Head buried in my neck they'd whisper against my skin, "Happy Valentine's Day." I'd halt my work on the waffles and turn around to face them, "Happy Valentine's Day, my love." With that, I'd kiss them sweetly on their lips.

"After breakfast, what do you want to do?" They'd ask. Biting my lip I'd say,

"I think what we should do is go to the grocery store, get a bunch of chocolate and snacks, some wine, a few ingredients needed for a lovely dinner. Maybe, just maybe, on the way home, we can pick up a few spicy, little pieces of fabric. After that, maybe watch a few good movies, cuddled up on the couch or go on a nice walk? What do you say to that, Love?

"Hm." They'd jokingly ponder for a bit, "How spicy would those little pieces of fabric be?"

I'd laugh and say, "I'll let you pick them out."

"As long as they look good on the floor, anything will do, my love." They'd drop their head into my neck, leaving kiss marks here and there. I'd giggle and say, "Save that for dessert, you. The waffles are going to burn. With that, we'd eat our breakfast and continue on and make our Valentine's Day a happy one.

After writing all of that, I feel so extremely single it hurts. I'm going to go ahead and enjoy a nice warm cup of loneliness as well as steaming hot bowl of "envy of all the couples around me." I'll top it off with the 50% off chocolae from the grocery store tomorrow.

#loneliness #valentinesday #soalone

If I were to set the scene for my perfect valentine’s day, I might’ve started with the weather. It would be sunny and warm enough for us to have a picnic and to maybe stargaze if the clouds cleared (Unfortunately, it would take a large electrical outage in our area to reduce the light pollution enough for the stars to be visible. Maybe this fantasy would also need to take place in a world where we lived in a more rural area).

Considering our current … global situation I might’ve even wished to forgo the outdoor activities for a night out in the city instead. We would have gone to our favorite bar and spent the evening with some of our friends. We had spent so much time alone together, with no kids or roommates, that the company would have been such a treat. This fantasy would have been more so for my husband than for me; I fear the isolation chipped away a part of him that was only soothed by the company of others.

Instead of these things, my truest fantasy would be to wake up to the smell of coffee and French toast and know that he was waiting for me in the kitchen. Or it would be me making breakfast and I could hear him walk up behind me to drape himself over my back to watch me cook. We spent so much time in quarantine together that it seemed like we didn’t need the words anymore, I could press my head back against his and he would just know, but I would say them anyway.

My day would be spent at his side and I would get to listen to him talk for hours; he would have gone back to teaching in person and he would have had so much to say about his students. We would avoid the news with a nature documentary playing in the background. The evening would be quiet, and we would spend the night curled in each other’s arms.

Now if I could, I would tell him – over and over – what he meant to me. I would tell him that it was unbearable to live without my heart by my side, that I hated that he had left me alone. I would tell him that as hard as those days in quarantine were, I never regretted getting to spend them with him.

I love your cancer, it’s my favourite thing.

It’s harsh to say but alas it’s true. There’s something so fascinating about watching you struggle and paddle and wriggle and worm. Accept it my friend, let it take you with grace. It is fate after all. You should feel lucky, to be hand picked by the black. A delicious meal to be eaten. Do not be spiteful and do not be sad. What wonderful things were you to achieve hmm, oh a great many I suppose. It’s better for you and better for me, I’ll take your dust as your form fades. For I am decay. You may spit in my face but I’ll wipe it away with a grin. Enjoy your black babe that builds in ur blood, which smothers you slow and boils your breath. Remember my friend you may hate it but there is no cruelty behind chance actions.

I decide to treat myself to a long weekend in Lisbon. I pack my bags with lightweight clothing I can move in; the hills are intense in Portugal, and so is the dancing. When I come to the part I always struggle with - packing that tiny ziplock bag of liquids - it’s an easy decision to ditch the hand sanitizer for perfume. Perfume is like an armor you wear out into the world that makes you feel truly yourself. You want it to linger in people’s memory - that perfect scent that’s created when it seeps into your pores, combining with your body chemistry to make something uniquely you.

When the Uber arrives, I have no trouble recognizing the driver in the photo as the man in front of me. His face unobscured, I can see he has the same smile as in his profile picture. It’s somehow sensual - like he’s keeping a dirty secret - and his lips look full and soft.

“Kate?” He asks.

“That’s me.” I do my best to give him an equally up-to-no-good smirk because flirting is my favorite past time.

As I slide into the back seat, he tosses the last of a cigarette out the window before quickly rolling it up. “I refuse to let you catch a cold,” he says.

How chivlarous, I think, as I catch his green eyes in the rearview mirror.

“No worries,” I tell him. “I run hot.”

He laughs and turns down the radio. “I guess I haven’t gotten over the whole ‘better safe than sorry’ mantra from these past few months. Besides, maybe I can start a new business - Luke’s Luxurious Sauna On Wheels. You wanna be my first customer?”

I laugh and just say “sure,” as I try to play it cool.

“Wonderful. For now, let’s use our imagination. See the cigarette smoke still floating around in here? Let’s pretend it’s steam. Now just take some cleansing breaths and share this air with me.”

I chuckle nervously for a minute, but decide to commit. I close my eyes and we both inhale and exhale deeply, while I wish I could get a buzz off the lingering smoke. I’ve always found the sensation of Nicotine swimming through my blood suspiciously similar to feelings of pure lust. I guess that’s why they say people crave it. As I settle into my seat, I picture me and my new friend Luke in the back of this Escalade, wearing nothing but towels. He pops open a bottle of champagne and pours me some in a slender crystal flute, looking me in the eye as he sucks the overflowing foam from the top of the glass. I feel my cheeks flush and can’t help but grin.

“See? You’re relaxed already - I can tell. Clearly, your first visit to the sauna mobile will be on the house.”

With my eyes still closed I say, “Well, I can’t resist a good deal...”

As we merge onto the highway the conversation hits a lull, but I don’t mind. My imagination works best when I’m at ease in the quiet. I picture myself already in Lisbon, sitting at a tiny, crowded bar, smoking and drinking port, laughing while a man leans in close to playfully critique my Portuguese. Outside, music echoes in the alleyways and, for just a short while, I’m transported before I’ve even gotten on the plane. I can’t believe it’s been two years since I’ve escaped the states.

#

Before I know it, we’ve arrived at the airport. Luke, my Uber driver that I am now officially on a first name basis with, gets out of the car and unloads my bag from the trunk. He opens my door and extends his hand to help me out.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” he says, and I laugh.

I tell him I can’t promise anything and then wink before heading for the revolving doors. I immediately start shaking my head, wondering who I think I am when I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket.

“A belated Valentine’s dinner when you get back?”

I can’t believe he’s just texted me through the Uber app. I turn around to see him leaning against his car, phone in one hand while he waves sheepishly with the other. I see an airport cop to the right losing patience with his lingering in the drop off lane, but Luke doesn’t seem to notice. He flashes that smile again, and I yell, “If you’re lucky!” before heading inside.

The terminal is packed. Some people are clutching roses and heart-shaped balloons. Others are dressed like they’ve already arrived at whatever beach they’re headed to. (I’ve never understood this.) And I take a moment just to watch. My fellow travelers are standing shoulder to shoulder in line to check their bags, hunched over next to one another illuminated by the glow of boarding pass printers. There is laughing, shouting, crying and hugging. The world spins madly on before me and the noise is something beautiful.

I smile to myself as I head to security and try to think of a way to make going through it sexy, but I realize even I’m not that charming. Plus, I usually don’t let people see me with my clothes off until we’ve at least shared a drink together. Meanwhile, these security guards are seeing me down to my bones in that X-Ray scanner without so much as a hello. I am not feeling properly romanced.

Once I’m finally able to make my way through the security check and on to my gate, I see that nearly every seat at my terminal is taken. I do a squint and scan across the rows of seats until I spot an empty one, then casually speedwalk over to it to beat out any competition. Luckily, I make it unchallenged and uncerimoniously plop down into the plastic chair, kicking my feet up and onto my bag. I am the picture of vacation relaxation. Seated to my right, a man wears a shirt that reads “Don’t Tread On Me.” To my left, a woman with a haircut that screams ‘I work in a mall salon’ sneezes into a handkerchief. She puts it back into her purse and rests her hand on the arm rest beside me. I am completely unbothered.

When they call for first class boarding I try to look aloof, sauntering to get in line. In truth, I’ve never flown first class before and I’m jumping up and down inside. I picture Tom from Parks and Rec saying “Treat yo’self!” and laugh out loud. So much for maintaining my cool jet setter persona. I think that maybe I can save it if I pretend like I’m talking to someone on the phone, so I take one Airpod out of my ear and examine it like I’m making sure it’s working right before putting it back into my ear and nodding vigrously as if listening to a riveting story.

Once I reach my seat, I abandon my performance in an instance. I look up to the sky for a brief moment to confer with cupid. Luke who? I ask. I then look at my boarding pass and back up again at the number just above the row, to make sure I have it right. Thankfully, I do.

I am 6B, and there in 6A is a specimen of man who looks like he could be Theo James’ twin brother. I’ve spent an embarrassing number of nights fantasizing about the actor as of late, since I just binged yet another period drama in which he also happens to star. I will never quite understand how they were able to make a man and a woman simply touching hands while rowing an old wooden boat seem pornographic, but I would recommend it to anyone. I also argue that at least some of that sexual tension had to do with the man himself. Theo is everthing - simultaneously brooding while tender, statuesque yet rugged. His skin has a beautiful golden tone that makes it look as though he radiates with a gentle warmth at all times. His hair is always perfectly tossled, and his voice is what you might expect an exotic dark roast coffee to sound like if it could talk. And here I am, standing before his equally jaw-dropping doppleganger. I take a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

#

I point at my seat and say, “I’m just there,” as coquettishly as possible.

“Ah, sure,” the doppleganger replies, with a rich tone and a lovely accent that I hope I’ve heard correctly. When he shifts, his cardigan clings to him as if wet, showcasing the muscles of his arms, stretched taught across broad shoulders. Once he’s in the aisle, his eyes meet mine as he says, “Here, let me help you with that.”

I let out a puff of air. I was right; he’s speaking with a sing-song Irish brogue, my absolute favorite kind of accent. And what’s more is he has the same smoldering gaze as Theo, but with eyes that are a lovely shade of gray like the Wild Atlantic sea that I imagine him emerging from, flush and dripping. He has the kind of look that says ‘I’m hungry, and I might just devour you.’

To that I say, here’s your fork.

When he takes my bag and lifts it into the overhead bin, I try to start conversation veiled as an exchange of the normal pleasantries.

“Aw, thank you. I really appreciate it. If only I could grow a few inches, I could handle this myself. But unfortunately,” I gesture to my small frame, “I think this is as good as it gets.”

I notice his eyes dart quickly from head to toe.

“But good things come in small packages, right?” He chuckles.

I resist the urge to squeal and instead let out a loud “ha!” that I’m immediately embarrassed of. But I’m also relieved. As beautiful as this man is, he’s also saved me from my typical airplane awkwardness. I’m usually stuck trying (and failing) to hoist my bag above my head before someone takes pity on me and helps. I’m a smart, independent woman, but I can’t defy physics. Thankfully, he jumped in before I could further humiliate myself.

Once my bag is stowed, I slide into my seat. To do so, we have to face each other, our torsos softly grazing one another for few short seconds. In that time, I discover that he smells like oak and leather and bergamot - basically, his perfume armor is that of a very sexy fireplace.

I haven’t even managed to put my book in the seat pocket in front of me - not that I am hoping to get much reading done now that I’ve met my seatmate - when the flight attendant comes by.

“Would you like a cocktail sir?”

It’s 10:30 AM and the plane hasn’t even finished boarding yet.

So this is first class, I think.

“Ah that’d be grand. I’ll have a Jack on the rocks please.”

“And for you miss?”

“Well I guess I shouldn’t let him drink alone. Prosecco for me, please.”

Your move.

When she turns to make her way to the bar cart, he places his hand on my forearm.

“Hey now, don’t go blaming your poor life decisions on me. I’m but a humble man in desperate need of the cure.”

“The cure?” I ask, geniunely confused. “What’s 80′s rock got to do with this?”

“Ha, right. I believe you Americans say hair of the dog.”

I blush. “Oh, okay. I was about to go on a tangent about new wave for a second. But in this case, I say I’m but a humble woman on vacation, where I make my own rules. And today’s rule is that drinking must begin before 11 AM.”

“A woman after my own heart,” he chuckles. “So are you off to visit your long distance Portuguese boyfriend for Valentine’s weekend then?”

“Nope. This is a solo adventure. Though if I play my cards right, I might head home with a long distance Portugeuse boyfriend.” I smirk, anxious to see how he’ll respond.

“Hmm..But I’m not Portuguese. So how’s this going to work?”

At that quip, I nearly die and go to heaven, but God says she wants me to have a religious experience with this man, and I decide I must do as I’m told. Besides, it’s rare that I meet a guy who can just keep up with my banter, let alone hold his own so well. Every time I serve, he cracks it right back to me. I have to rush back to the net to volley, sweating. I am playing a Serena level flirting game at this point.

“How presumptuous of you, sir!” I say. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Well that’s an easy fix, isn’t it? I’m Ian. And you are...”

I extend my hand toward him, as if I’m about to give him a formal handshake.

“Thirsty.”

I shift my hand abruptly into the air and delicately wave my fingers at the flight attendant like I’ve long had experience summoning the help. I’ll find time to be disgusted with myself later.

“Excuse me, miss, can we get another round, please?” I ask, as I settle back into my seat and smile at the bemused look on his face.

While we wait, I tell him I need a sip of what’s left of his whiskey to tie me over. Carefully, I place my lips right on the spot where his last left the glass, leaving my cherry lipstain behind. I can feel him watching me, so I gaze over my shoulder and lick the moisture off my lips.

“It’s Kate.”

And at that, the engines of the plane begin to roar. We surge forward, our bodies vibrating as the force pushes us backwards into our cushy first class seats. I wasn’t paying attention, so I’m startled and instinctively grab his hand. He leans in close and whispers.

“Don’t worry. The takeoff’s the best part.”

#

We spend the next seven hours of the flight bouncing between this kind of flirty chit chat and peppering each other with questions that are usually considered off limits when first meeting someone. (I can’t in good conscience pursue someone who has anything other than feelings of utter contempt for Mitch McConnell.) We also do some dozing off while leaning on one another instead of airplane pillows because day drinking is tough in your thirties and as nice as first class pillows are, they’re not as good as a warm body. I’ll admit, I also spend some of this time wondering what it might be like to join the mile high club, especially after I’d gotten several glasses of Prosecco in, but I decide that my fear of accidentally sticking my foot in the toilet and being sucked out of the plane is greater than any other urges I have right now.

During our marathon conversation, we discover that we’re both staying at the Palácio Belmonte, a former palace turned boutique hotel in the historic Alfama section of Lisbon. At this point, I was starting to think I was being punk’d. This place has only has ten suites - what are the odds he would be staying there too? Besides, it didn’t exactly strike me as somewhere a bachelor of his age might go to stay. It’s a former 15th century palace and akin to sleeping in a museum, decorated with the art and fixtures of the time, restored using all the traditional techniques - a period romance lover’s dream - but I couldn’t see him being taken with it in quite the same way, so I say as much to him. This demands some explanation other than divine intervention.

“Ah, did I forget to mention I’m a history professor? Trinity’s footing the bill for this one. I’m researching the origin of azulejo tiles, and the Palácio Belmonte is home to Lisbon’s largest installation of them. 3,800 of them, truly massive.”

Though this is impressive and I want to know more, I’m not sure I can process anything properly after I hear the word “professor.” The man is sitting here, casually evoking my school girl fantasies. Cupid, you beautiful little cherub, you.

“No, Ian, you failed to mention you are just as big of a nerd as I am. Please tell me you have some tortise shell glasses in that bag of yours...”

Ding! Just then, we are interrupted by the plane’s speaker system.

“Boa noite. Good evening, passengers. We are approaching our final destination of Lisbon, Portugal. The local time is 10:30 PM. It’s a clear night with the current temperature at a pleasant 68 degrees. We hope you enjoy your stay and would like to thank you for choosing Delta.”

#

When we land 20 minutes later, it’s as if a spell is broken. In the air, I became made of it - light and unconstrained - but on the ground I feel heavy, faced with the reality of what could come next. Ian is a stranger I met mere hours ago. I can’t expect him to carry on with me in Lisbon. Like Uber Luke, I must tell myself it was nothing more than a fun way to pass the time, to make sure I’ve still “got it”.

I am a strong, independent woman.

By the time I decide that all I need is ten gallons of water and a greasy Francesinha to make me feel better, Ian grabs my bag from the overhead bin and says, “So, do you fancy sharing a cab to the hotel then?“I stand there for a minute in silence, possibly with my mouth hanging open.

He must see the surprised look on my face because he quickly follows up with, “Ehm, it’s the economical thing to do isn’t it?”

I laugh and touch his arm, raising a mischevious eyebrow. “That’s not the only good reason, is it?” I say, trying to let him know that I’m absolutely definitely totally not trying to ditch him.

“I suppose it’ll be a good craic with you in the car as well,” he says, trying to tease. I take a minute to savor the way he says, “cahhr.”

It’s just a short ride to the Palácio Belmonte, and when we enter the lobby Ian asks me to join him for a drink and tapas at the hotel’s terrace bar. Both of our body clocks are out of sorts, so we’re still wide awake and ravenous. We’re also in luck that late night food is Portugal’s specialty. It’s not rare here for you to see people going off to dinner at 10 PM, with some restaurants staying open and serving until 2 AM. And as one of the main reasons I came to Portugal was to eat as much meat and cheese as possible, I am more than happy to take him up on his offer.

We agree to meet at the bar in an hour, after we’ve had some time to unwind, unpack and freshen up. I wasn’t sure I could possibly unwind, my mind running wild with the possibilities the night might bring, but I could try to do the other two. I dump my duffel onto the bed and contemplate putting on the slinky black dress I brought for dancing, but decide against it in favor of trying to look more effortlessly sultry. I opt for black flowy tie-waist pants and a black crop top that shows off the Joan of Arc tattoo on my rib cage. I refresh my lipstain and tie my hair back into a sophisticated chignon, with just a few tendrels loose to frame my face. Before I leave the room, I dance under a few spritzes of the perfume I packed. I look in the mirror and tell myself, you are a glorious redheaded female warrior before making my way down to the bar.

I get there before Ian. While I wait, I step outside and it’s as if my body awakens from a deep sleep. From the terrace, the view of Alfama and the Tagus River is something of story books. The city pulses with life, lights bouncing over red terracotta tile roofs, the sound of Fado music lingering in the cobblestone alleyways, the laughing and shouting of lovers and families and friends as they make their way home or onto the next bar. The night air carresses my skin like an old friend and I take a long, deep breath. It’s then that I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t think I can wait any longer to do this.”

Ian stands before me looking effortlessly chic and seductive in linen pants and a collared shirt, the first few buttons of which are undone. He leans down and tucks my hair behind my ear before cupping my face and kissing me like we are lovers that have just reunited after years of war. I stuggle to maintain my balance.

When he pulls away, I say, “That was great and all, but what I really want to know is if the rumors are true about Irishmen. Can you make me a great cup of tea?”

He laughs and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

“I guess you’ll have to stay with me until the sun comes up to find out.”

“I’ll do anything for a good cuppa,” I say as I slide my fingers into the belt loops of his pants and kiss him again.

#

Over the last two years, I’ve missed human touch like this, but what I’ve missed even more was the feeling that I was truly alive. Isolated and unable to escape my house, let alone the country, I’d gotten used to living with this hollow feeling - a hole inside my gut that I realized I’d only ever been able to feed with the things and people of faraway places. And don’t get me wrong - Ian is unreal. He’s like Portuguese street art that sprung off the wall and straight into my life in radiant technicolor, his spirit glowing a warm orange, his body buzzing with a quiet intesnity. I can’t wait to see how our adventure unfolds. But even if this thing is fleeting between us, I know I’ll be okay. With the coronavirus finally gone, the only things I need to keep going are a backpack and a plane ticket. Travel makes me whole, and the journey will forever be my first and greatest love affair.

But for now, I’ll see if this can be one hell of a runner up.

The ring sparkled so brightly upon my finger it was almost blinding. The diamond wasn't huge, but it sure did dazzle. I was speechless, my heart fluttering in my chest like the wings of a hummingbird; beating so hard and so fast I thought I might explode. He was looking at me with such love in his eyes; those eyes that I would melt into every time he laid them on me.

And then another flutter. My hand instinctively rested on my turgid belly as the life inside moved in rhythm with my heart.

"So," he asked "is it a yes?"

"Yes!" I cried as he drew up to his feet. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!!" I flung my arms around him and he encircled me with his in the warmest embrace.

"I love you." he whispered. "I'll love you forever."

A tear tumbled down my cheek. "I love you too."

I woke up sobbing. My bare hand clutched at my empty stomach. No ring. No baby. Just me, curled in my bed alone. My phone screen the only light in the darkness of my bedroom, still open on his last text message.

I am seated on an airplane. The girl across from me has a knotted bun on top of her head, a temple urging me to pray. There is no reason to have fear. Stress is not on my mind as we lift into the stars.

April is the name I chose for my writing, when this all started. During quarantine, I wrote a poem about Lolita and got famous. I look down at my Starbucks cup, where my new name is scrawled in chicken scratch, as official as any signature on a marriage license. It is Valentine's Day, and the loneliness doesn't drown me out anymore, a grayscale picture taken out of focus. The plane is full of candor and good manners; everyone is happy.

Sylvia Plath once wrote, I am I am I am. I think of how Valentine's Day once wrote me into a stupor of self-hatred and incomplete sentences. Now it rolls out of my mouth like perfect marbles: I am alone. That is the prayer I mumble to myself, the internal poem that becomes a holy trinity of words. I think of language, how we can manipulate words to be perfectly rounded in supple mouths that are built to swallow.

The plane ride ends in a sunrise, and I am grateful, finally, for this holiday; this reminder to read into ourselves, if nothing else.

I am April.

I am alone.

I am myself.