I'll slip into the sheer,
flimsy, filmy underwear you bought me
that almost fits,
skin bathed, powdered, perfumed,
and meet you at the door
in time for you to get home
with a bunch of flowers,
and I'll try to ignore the allergic reaction
that makes my nose itch
and my eyes sting,
blurring vision and wrecking mascara.
Then we'll go upstairs
and act out the role-play
we indulge in every February 14th.
We'll pretend the words
in the cards we exchanged were sincere,
pretend
that romance didn't flatline years ago,
that we still see in one another
something in some way desirable.
You'll pretend
that you're not
secretly screwing around,
and I'll pretend
not to know that you are.
I'll pretend that the boxes
from the jewellers and the fancy chocolatier
make up for all those nights
you had to work late.
We'll pretend it's the size
- not the taste or the act itself -
that makes me gag,
and when you move in me,
I'll pretend I can feel it,
that I'm not numbed
by boredom's epidural.
We'll both pretend that my orgasm isn't faked.
We'll pretend that everything's all right.
And when the make-believe is done,
and the bed is silent
and chaste for another year,
we'll feign satisfied exhaustion
and we'll sleep,
relieved we got away with it,
grateful we won't have to use our imaginations
until Valentine's Day rolls around again.

[I'd like to point out that this piece is NOT in any way autobiographical. My partner and I spent a perfectly happy Valentine's Day together, without a card, bouquet or stuffed toy saying "I wuv you" in sight. I'm just jaded and cynical and perhaps a tad bitchy, and I fucking hate Valentine's Day.]

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