St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
Always the same.
I should’ve prepared. It’s not like they didn’t tell me. As soon as the turkey curry repeated on me, they were festooning the shops with the gaudy red, the hearts and the semi-naked cupids. Get ready, Clive, they shouted.
Yet, I waited.
Maybe I’m a visionary. A modern-day James Dean, fighting the unfair commerciality of love. Only more chunky. Only more unconventionally handsome. A rebel without a Paws.
Paws. Oh, how she mocks me. Her cutesy kitten fluff-body, wrapped in oh-too-big eyes that look like an all-night nineties raver on one too many E’s and caffeine tabs.
The purrfect Valentine’s gift. So the adverts say. She wants one. I don’t know why. But what chance have I? I should’ve basked in the warmth of the e-store and their smiley-box deliveries.
And now, a gladiator of the malls, a stalker of the aisles. In the annual St. Valentine’s Day massacre, my only weapons are my phone and my don’t **** with me eyes. But, it’s too late.
Maybe, I’ll just get her nothing. My love for her should be enough.
I’ll express my love in the form of word. For I was once a childhood poet. A Haiku. In one of those rainbow cards.