V-Day I (of Three Parts)

Valentine's Day, 2002.

I love you, he said, and I'm proud to be your valentine.

We danced under the Tagaytay sky, its stars less choked by city smog, burning fiercely, only for us. He smelled like soap and green tea, and I was grateful that he'd finally shaved tonight. Now, he was smooth to touch, velvet to kiss. We had fish sticks with champagne, an odd combination, I said, but we ate it anyway.

There was a big red box behind his car seat. He made me open it slowly, deliberately. I was almost expecting a puppy, or some kind of pet, would be inside of it, because it was so huge.

Savor it, he stretched out on the grass. Take your time.

A rush of ribbons, wrapping paper, small boxes in smaller boxes in the smallest box, in which a very, very small object lay wrapped in thin gold paper. It lay on my hand, a tiny, helpless thing. I couldn't unwrap it - I was afraid of what was inside.

I'll have to leave now, but when I come back, will you still be wearing this?

He took the package - it was so small, how could it promise so much? - from my shaking hand, freed it from its paper prison.

Then there it was.

I'll wait.

I slid the plain gold band on my finger, where it got stuck midway between the knuckle and the base. That should have been a sign, but I was too happy, too profoundly happy to notice.

I'll wait for you.