Pobrecito

I had no Valentine on Valentine's Day, but I sent my mother a dozen red roses.  I thought that was nice.  I made dinner for her the night before and gave her a card, but getting flowers delivered is better than having someone hand them to you in many ways.  However, I got sticker shock.  They doubled the prices.  Of course.  One clam (is a "clam" $100?). I guess that seems cheap if you live in New York.

But Valentine's Day is reserved for lovers, and so I had no card, no flowers, no warm and heartfelt love.  That is how I wish to present it.  Pobrecito.

But just before visiting hours ended, the phone rang.  Hmm.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"Who is this?"

"It's your work wife."

It was a woman from the factory with a husband and three beautiful little girls and a Ph.D. in mathematics.  It was nice.  It was sweet.

And that is what I get.

What was I hoping for, though?

Emails at least.  Jpegs of women naked in mirrors with their shoe phones provocatively wooing me to be their lovers.  Where has all that gone?  I used to get scented undergarments left in my Jeep with sweet notes telling me all the ways that I was beautiful and thrilling.

I know.  I am being stupid and immodest if not maudlin.

I have succor, though.  I got this photograph in the mail yesterday.  It was intended for my birthday and is from someone far away.  It is a sweet present from a person who owes me nothing.  A vintage photo from an estate sale.  As good as Vivian Maier's work, no?  Someone somewhere thought of me.  What more can one ask?