VALENTINE'S DAY
"Our lust has dissolved into dust and our love has crashed back to earth like a riddled dove," thought Estanislao Contreras, the author of Chicano Fuck Songs.
He knew that wouldn't do. It would defeat the whole purpose of a dozen roses and a card. He was trying his best to avoid confrontations, not initiate them. He knew that there would be an incident in the next few days that would ignite a war of words. He did not need to fan the flames that were burning beneath the surface.Instead, he penned, "Thank-you for all the joy you have brought into my life. I give thanks to God every day for our love."
Would she see through his words? He hadn't told her anything affectionate in years and she knew that he didn't believe in God. But he wasn't good at sweet nothings. And the only reason she wanted flowers sent to her office was to avoid the embarrassment of her colleagues displaying their husbands and boyfriends' offerings at their desks.
She was always accusing him of taking the fun out of holidays and special occasions with his sour face. He had tried to prove her wrong by spending hundreds on gifts for every one at Christmas, but he had been in a state of depression for the past month because he had been without cash as a result of paying for so many presents. If it hadn't been for his small income tax refund, he wouldn't have had the money to buy the roses.
"Will these flowers arrive at her office on the morning of the Fourteenth?"
"Yes sir."
"Would you consider this a nice bouquet of roses if somebody sent them to you?"
"They're very nice sir, but if you want..."
"That's fine, ma'am. Just be sure that they're there on time."
Contreras left the shop shaking his head.
"Why are we such cowards that we are too frightened to flee from our own misery?" Contreras asked himself.
Wrestling with the futility of existence, he was in one of his French moods. He felt he was trying to extinguish a forest fire by pissing on it.
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