To My Future Valentine

Dear Sweetheart,

We haven't met yet, and perhaps we never will. I would like to think that we will and relatively soon. We'll probably meet at a library or a coffee shop--or even at a grocery store. You'll notice something about me--maybe my smile. We'll strike up a conversation, and you'll like what you hear. I have a breathy voice, complete with a slight sibilant s. I'm told that I give good phone because of it.

You'll think I'm funny--sometimes I am—and quick-witted. We’ll trade a few comments back and forth. Verbal sparring is a necessary step in this dance, but it’s never vindictive or cruel. It’s the mental fencing that I crave—someone smart enough to make me run to the nearest computer to find out if that strange fact was indeed correct.

You'll ask for my number; I'll hand you my E-mail address. You'll write. I’ll be impressed by how you write—you’re smart, and I find that infinitely attractive.

We trade a few E-mails back and forth; we speak on the phone. We decide to meet for drinks. I'll try hard to look nice--perhaps I'll even get a manicure. That won't matter to you, though, as you see the outside as just wrapping. You want to learn about me. We talk for hours. You walk me to my car. You kiss me on the cheek good-bye.

You tell me to call when I get home, and we talk again for hours. We make plans for dinner, and you don't mind working around my crazy schedule. You pick me up, and you bring flowers--a nice bunch from the grocery store. The bunch is not ostentatious—clearly nothing that makes me feel funny or obligated. You know a handful of flowers will make me feel special, as you sense that feeling has been lacking in my life. You want to correct it--you'll want to break down the barriers that I have in place, but you are smart enough to do so slowly.

We go out to dinner and enjoy each other's company. We share dessert. You suggest dancing to burn off those Tiramisu calories and let me pick the place--a quiet, dark jazz club. You take my hand and we dance. You laugh when I start to lead, but you correct that bad habit right away. You kiss me on the dance floor; the room spins. We close the club, and we walk out to the car. It's late, and you drive me home. You walk me to the door, kiss me good night, and leave. You're not pushy, and you sense that I'm wary. You know there's time enough.

You want to work around my schedule, and you don’t want to make me feel pressured. Perhaps you see in my eyes the past hurt and realize that all those I’ve let in have eventually hurt me--destructive beetles boring into the cane of the rose, sucking the life from it. Residual phantom pain from severed pieces of my heart lingers deep within my soul from promises already empty and broken before they were finished being whispered.

On our next date, while drinking a glass of wine by candlelight in a dimly lit restaurant, you’ll tell me that you find me desirable. I’ll turn away; I always do. You’ll tell me to look at you and you’ll say it again, "Trust me; I want to be with you." I always think I’m second-choice, the last resort, one step above hanging out with a blow-up doll or your sister. It’s just the way my mind works, and unfortunately, I’m not exaggerating. You realize it’s going to be a slow, arduous campaign maneuvering though my ravaged psyche, but you decided I just might be worth the extra effort.

What do you get for your trouble? I am trouble—it is frustrating being friends with me at times yet alone being my lover. I have a list of people who could attest to this fact. How I let people in, and then suddenly, brutally push them away. How I snarl and snap when I feel that they’ve gotten too close, and they’re left wondering what made me lash out. Of course they have no idea how I’m not comfortable with how far I’ve let them in, as if my letting them breach my defenses was their fault.

So, you’ll get a complicated woman with a lot of depth. I’m bright—a few of my professors remarked that I could be scary smart if I would stay focused, but I’m scatterbrained and my mind jumps around a lot. I think a lot and like to debate.

I’m considerate and do little things that will make you feel special; perhaps I’ll slip your favorite candy into your briefcase or tuck a note into the book you’re reading. You read—you read a lot. Sometimes you read me a paragraph that you find funny or a sentence that’s well-constructed. You send me websites that make me think.You encourage me to write and to bring my writing to a higher level.

I’m passionate. I’ll wake you up gently with kisses; heck, I’ll even make the morning coffee. I’ll run to Hesh’s so we can have pastries on a lazy Sunday morning while we devour the paper. Later, I’ll devour you with an intensity and abandonment that you’ll find pleasurable. I’ll surprise you with tickets to your favorite event, and I’ll eventually plan a fun getaway, because once I feel comfortable, I can be fun. Getting me to feel safe enough to let go and to have fun is the key to crumbling the fortress I’ve placed around my heart.

Thank you for helping me let go and for giving me a chance, my future Valentine.