It’s a sunny February afternoon in Santa Monica, around 3pm. I am on my way to a meeting and then to meet up with the man who makes my heart stop. I walk a razor’s edge with him. I have never been this excited by another human’s presence who was also enchanted with mine. I stack my lovingly wrapped gifts in the trunk and just as the lid slams down, I do the kind of double take only the gut-that-knows-more-than-your-lovestruck-distraction could muster and I realize in my daze I left the keys in with the presents.
The auto-club service is very prompt, I barely have time to eat the taco with mango salsa that I ordered from the nearby taqueria chain/xanax alternative for the wait, but this delay causes me to miss my window of traffic freedom. Rush hour is coming in hot. As a recent transplant in LA, I am about to understand in this moment the reality of what is normally a 40 minute commute to my love’s home, is now easily quadrupled.
I cancel my meeting (actually they cancel it for me when they realize the time and distance and advise me that my eyes are bigger than my distance) and live-text apologies, a few updates, some incredulity and upbeat hope for our plans at stoplights to my heart-stopper. It’s no use. It appears I may have ruined Valentine’s Day. We both have work obligations so our time is reduced to an interaction long enough for him to issue a sweeping rejection of any of my gifts or attention. We agree to meet up after we finish our work.
Sweet and sad.