Conversation Hearts, Part Two

SWEET TALK

In was the days of 99 red balloons, and I was cast in a tale of much [eventual] woe, playing the penultimate Juliet to my hands-down all-time Romeo. What follows is Act III, designed to show just how lovesick teenagers will bring nothing but tragedy upon themselves and everyone around them.

The prologue and Acts I and II of this epic disaster offered plenty of foreshadowing that this star-crossed alliance was doomed from the start, but I was head-over-heels. And I was thrilled to be one-half of an honest-to-goodness relationship during Valentine's Day--a completely novel experience for this little Capulet. Sure, I had my shares of fine young Paris-like callers in the past, but none of them ever lasted until or coincided with the so-called Hallmark holiday (completely false by the way, like most holidays this one sprung from pagans and got all mixed up with Church matters. Calling it the H.H. is merely a defense mechanism for people who do not wish to get all immortal beloved on their someone. I say, love is all around you and celebrate however that comes to you on V-Day. Don't ruin it for the rest of us who appreciate the sentimental journey even as a singleton.)

But back to the hallowed halls of Tara--for once my big romantic dreams would come true on Valentine Hearts' Day--there would be music, and wonderful roses, and all sorts of lovey-dovey goodness. I was eager for the big day. I fretted over appropriate gifting for the boy who clearly had everything already (a.k.a, me.) My dear pal Deerslayer was also eagerly anticipating celebrating this holiday with her honey, who being a responsible R.A. type was scheduled to be on duty in his hall that night--hence, no romantic dinner a deux for them. Deerslayer was not overjoyed at this prospect. But being as compassionate and charming and courageous as Natty Bumpo before her, she planned to thoroughly love-fest the love-nest by renting a gigantic helium tank and purchasing 84,000 balloons and ribbons. Idea being, when her said hunk o' burning love returned to his cell on lockdown, he would find it filled with the very Plathiest of guileless orbs of red and white. In the meantime, it was quite exciting for the rest of us, who got to use the helium tank to blow up the balloons (and subsequently huff a few in order to munchkin-up our voices) as well as participate in the sweet subterfuge involved at keeping 84,000 balloons a secret from said HOBL.

Mid-day, Project Luft Love was starting resemble Project Panic Mode. My pals enlisted the aid of my Romeo in my absence. I returned home to find him gossiping and deftly working the tank and tying on ribbons with them. Supportive guy, be still my heart. Old Romes then told me to leave the room and come in again when he gave the go-ahead. I complied--and when I walked in he was in the process of grinning his fool head off at me whilst blowing up one of the handful of the balloons that were imprinted with three little words. Yes! I thought. What better time to be told for the first time, officially, by your boy toy that he loves you? There is no better time than the fourteenth of February for that shit! Love, love me do buddy is what I thought, and later on when we are alone on our awesome evening date you have surely planned for us, I will let you know that I love you too.

So that evening I accompany Ro on an audition. The drive there is as swell as our drives always were. Post-audition as we drove homeward, I kept expecting us to stop at one of the 500 restauants we passed along the way. We didn't stop at any of them, not even the last one which was a Wendy's (hey, loaded baked potatoes could be very romantic to poor college kids, right?) I was a bit disappointed, but still flush with success regarding the big step he had taken earlier. We decided to check in on the balloonists, since the big reveal had occurred in our absence. On our way in, swinging hands through the parking lot and being not a little sentimental, I said what I wanted to say ever since big red was blown up in front of me, for me--"hey R....I love you."

Big kiss finish right? Wait for it...wait....keep waiting....nope. No, he isn't responding. Maybe....no. He isn't responding. That seems odd. Awk-ward. In fact, "panic bells it's red alert there's something here from somewhere else." Huh? Okay then, moving on.....?

Moving on was us infringing upon our friends whose love did dare to say its name for a slightly uncomfortable meal of take-out from some local place, for which I. Paid. Half. Happy V-Day to you, sucker. For dessert, we were on our own, so treated each other to a chat that began with "You say you love me, but I don't know that you know me well enough to say that," (note: we had "known" each other two-and-a-half years at this point, and college years are like dog years so really like 18 years, and we had been having a torrid affair for the past six months at this point--just saying.) I pointed out that I was not the one who had started this shit, that Mr. Montague here had gone there first with his balloon-blowing-upping move earlier in the day, and I was only responding in kind. The next words out of his mouth? Ah yes, the classic, "I do not know what love is." Here's the full for you Monty, if you don't know what love is, don't blow up a balloon on purpose for your girlfriend on V-Day that claims you know enough about it to have it for her.

So, no, the night did not end well. And though we floated back into each other soon after and there was no lack of the love, he ended up cheating on me for some fascinating piece of non-me trash. Somehow that surprised me at the time. Clearly when I review the lay of this scene, it should not have. And I am pretty sure, "just to prove the world was here" that I still have that deflated motherfucker somewhere--as my little souvenir.

And so love lesson number two, aged 19: getting it in writing by no means seals the deal, and a verbal contract could table negotiations. Otherwise known as, "here is a red balloon; I think of you, and let it go."