He awoke on the couch
'midst the ruins of St. Valentine's Day–
cumpled brown wrappers
    from a box of Russel Stovers;
a bent Hallmark card
    (heavy on the red)
    jammed between two cushions;
the dryness of his mouth
    from too much wine.

(He could see the Franzia cube
still on the kitchen counter,
its plastic spout extending over the edge,
and knew he'd be wiping dried burgundy
off the tiles below.)

His date, however,
was nowhere to be seen. 

"Chris?" he called out,
then winced–
the sudden sound hurt his head. 

No response.

Gone, he concluded,
probably the moment I fell asleep.
(He snored,
resonantly,
and wine enhanced it like a subwoofer.)

At least he was dressed.
That was good,
because he had no memory
of anything other
then a few tentative kisses…
or had he imagined those?

He stuggled to his feet,
an effort that worsened the pain in his head
but also cleared his fogginess.

Wait:
Chris never showed.
I was stood up.

He glumly surveyed the couch and its surroundings:
    the lone wine glass empty on the coffee table,
    the half-eaten box of chocolates,
    the card–meant for Chris–
    that he'd finally given to himself.

 He sighed and said aloud,
"Pathetic."

Another few moments passed
as he reframed;
he was, after all,
nothing if not a hungover optimist:

No, not pathetic. 
How often do I have the chance
to enjoy my own company
over a box of chocolate
and a box of wine?
And everything in the card is true:
I am sweet, kind and gentle. 

When it came to dating,
he knew he could do much worse
than spend an evening with himself.

He turned and headed to the bathroom.
Perhaps he'd just established
a new Valentine's tradition.

Text and image © 2013 by Dirk deVries. All
rights reserved.