Ah, the valentine, the enchanter of dreams and confessions. That provocative simplicity that taste could conceal if compassion would spare.
Yes, Valentine's Day! For some, it is an intact memoir of days past. For others, the promise or torment of days not yet come.
My, how exasperatingly boring the experience can be without the lavish array of flower petals, champagne, soapy bubbles, and stiletto heels. And yet how utterly robust when given a sensuous experience that would all together cause one to forego all memories not aphrodisiac in nature.
Oh, I am not speaking of those experiences synonymous with moral leprosy, but rather the desperate honesty that throbs through countless Valentine confessions of people desperately wishing for singing violins that conjure up a tendresse, a passion for the holiday that entrances us with the idea of falling in love, even while abhorring its commercial origins.
Sigh ... Valentine's are vivid characters in a unique story: they entice us with dangerous thoughts; they ferociously point out delightful novelties; and they force us to take a close look at ourselves with still greater vigilance and vision, so that we might make our love stories worthy of the day.
Part One
L, light of my life, fire of my spirit. My error, his life. The idea burns my mind's eye and pierces at my brain, one sting right after the other.
He was L, remarkable, handsome, alluringly powerful, L.
Standing on the deck of the boat in the tropics, he was devastatingly stylish. His prose was stylish. Even the Sun timidly shone upon his forehead. And then there were those water droplets, dripping down the side of his glass. Could he have been more perfect? I suppose, yes. In fact, he could have been many different things, but had one thing changed about him, the allure might have disappeared.
Power seduces, but L was more compelling than that alone. His accent was a combination of Spanish with French. He vacationed on the Riviera. Schooled in Oxford. And had a dash of highly controlled fast talking Americana from NYC.
At forty he was positioned very nicely on the international stage. He campaigned 16 hours of the day, dined for two hours, and slept fast, in preparation of the following day.
We were surrounded by pompous aristocrats and their lovely attendants. I was actually working that day, attending to the details of an upcoming state function with the finance minister. Just as I was about to leave, L was there. Waiting for me in the foyer, he asked why I was leaving so soon.
No tienes que ir, tan pronto, he said.
Claro que no, I smiled.
Thirty minutes later we were aboard the Athena. She was a beautiful vessel, majestic as she was formidable.
L anticipated my every desire. I reached for nothing. I can close my eyes and distinctly remember his large, muscular hands and how very smoothly he slid the glass between my fingertips.
There's more to this story, but I did say it was only going to be a little Valentine romp ....
Whatever Valentine story you tell, create, inspire, or experience, I hope it is one that inspires celebration, infinitely soft partings, delightful debonair manners, and beauty worthy of visual memory.
Happy Valentine's Day
இڿڰۣ
