My darling valentine

Women scare me.

Ask me anytime, and I’ll argue the merits of bachelorhood with the eloquence of Arabian philosophers and the conviction of pack-mules; any time, except around Valentine’s.

And no, the Hallmark spirit doesn’t penetrate my quiet but callous façade and seep into my shriveled heart, birthing an organ of hope and love – ‘cause that’s just weird; but around Valentine’s, women get dangerous.

Cue childhood trauma music.

Enter Rhonda, my very first experience with obsessive love; but I was not the object of her affections.

Rhonda was part of the circumstantial baggage that came with my first girlfriend, and my roommate Rami was the only boy she could ever possibly love. Ever.

I’ve since learned to identify that particular glimmer of insanity in a woman’s eye, the one you should never, ever reject; but back in our naive teens, we thought that the world was a happy place where yes meant yes, no meant no, and smiling women did not secretly plan on slitting your throat while you slept.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

‘He doesn’t want to make out, what do I do?’

This was the first time my girlfriend and I got close, and that was Rhonda talking loudly through my locked bedroom door at a rather critical moment. I was exasperated.

‘Rhonda, if he doesn’t want you it shouldn’t be forced; give him space.’

I would’ve mentioned that it was an inconvenient time to be discussing this, but it would’ve made no difference whatsoever.

‘But it’ll be Valentine’s in a few days, what do I do?’

I was young, it was late, and I had less than an hour left with my topless girlfriend; I had to say something. I never did get the chance to apologize to Rami.

‘Why don’t you give him the space now, and just plan a surprise for him for Valentine’s?’

I could feel her smile through the door; it was a dark thing, and I should’ve lunged out of bed and driven a stake through her black heart. But try telling a teenage boy not to think of perfect breasts; really, go ahead. The story can wait.

My Valentine’s went really well that year, and by the time we’d finished dining and drinking we were just about ready to go back to her place and figure out what all that French kissing nonsense was really about. I say her place, because Rami had something planned back in our flat.  His date’s name escapes me now; all I remember is getting a call from her around midnight.  ‘Karl, go home now; Rami’s inside, the door is locked and something weird is happening.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘He was fighting with a girl, and then everything went quiet.’

I was too young to drive. In the time it took me to call a cab and get home I’d walked my imagination from murder (his or hers) to sudden uncontrollable love; all possible outcomes to my roommate’s predicament.

Except this.

I ran into the living room; Rami was asleep and naked on our couch, and the panicked girls found no one else was in the flat. Rhonda was gone, but had left some of her things, including random items of clothing (ugh!) and a purse, complete with a box of date-rape pills.

I’d (years) later find out that she’d given him too many, which not only knocked him flat out but also hindered whatever male prowess his body could’ve mustered for her psychotic lust; I would’ve told him too, but we’d long since lost touch.  I hear she’s happily married now; I fear for the future.