---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Seahorse” Down in the Dirt, v194 (the 4/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Ice that Was the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Running Out of Time the 2022 poetry, flash fiction, prose, & art collection anthology		get the one-of-a-kind poetry, flash fiction, prose, artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

My Saddest Valentine’s Day

Mike Schneider

    When Paul was alive Valentine’s was my favorite day of the year. He always sent a beautiful bouquet of flowers to the office, making me the envy of all my coworkers. At home he would greet me with a three-layer, heart-shaped box of chocolates as big as a turkey platter before we’d go out to dinner at the best non-franchise restaurant in town. And he always insisted we both take the next day off so we had no worries about allowing the mood and the moment to carry us as far into the night as possible.
    Can you imagine anyone more romantic?
    Then my life was pulled out from under me when, at 32, he collapsed at work and died. The coroner said it was caused by a previously undetected congenital heart defect.
    My doctor prescribed a strong tranquilizer to help me make it through the funeral and I accidentally took nearly enough to cause my own death. Fortunately, a couple days in ICU with tubes and wires stuck here and there, close monitoring, along with some really deep sleep, saved me.
    We had been married 10 years. We met during our sophomore year at Oberlin, drove to Boston the day we graduated and tied the knot. While New Jersey was the closest state to allow same sex marriage, in Boston Paul’s family could participate in the ceremony, and host a small reception with family, friends, and a few neighbors. It was the greatest day of my life.
    With Paul gone I did nothing of an intimate nature, or even looked at men romantically, for three years. I still attended gay social events, frequented gay bars, and other LGBTQ establishments, as German Village in Columbus, where we lived, has a very active gay community, and I wanted to be among my people, who were wonderfully supportive. Relationships, however, were always platonic.
    Then two years ago Diego set out to change that. Our new mail carrier at work, he took a liking to me right away. And resisting didn’t come easy because he was hot—beautiful light brown skin, curly black hair, a kind face with a broad smile, and a 5 o’clock shadow that ranked a perfect 10. The body that went with it had obviously seen the inside of a gym several times a week for several years. His arms and legs sported artistic memorial tats of parents and other relatives, friends, deceased celebrities like Selena and Marilyn Monroe, and even Max and Irma, his two huskies who were poisoned by a neighbor. How could I not be attracted to him?
    But as much as I yearned for him on the inside, outwardly I rejected all his advances. I wasn’t ready.
    Before long he set up his lunch period to coincide with mine and said he was going to bring me a different sandwich every day until I agreed to go out with him. And he made good on that promise. Different combinations of breads, meats, vegetables, condiments, and ethnicities, every single day. A Norwegian herring sandwich one day, leftover Gullah meatloaf the next, followed by Kosher poached salmon, and I can’t begin to tell you how many others. Ever thoughtful, each day he also brought my good old standby, peanut butter with blueberry jam, as a backup in case some of his more exotic creations didn’t appeal to me.
    Finally, after 10 months of incredible lunches, and a burning desire for him, I allowed pent up emotions and testosterone to slay my reluctance and agreed to go out with him. By then we knew each other so well, and wanted each other so ravenously, that there were no preliminaries on the way to consummating our relationship. He moved in three weeks later and life again became so worth living.
    We took a two-week vacation to Yosemite and Big Sur. Also went on a gay couples cruise. And engaging in gay activist events became a way of life for us.
    As you may have guessed, Diego could do things with beef, lamb, and even green beans your mother and grandmother could only dream of equaling. Except for having to go to work every day we enjoyed an idyllic lifestyle.
    Then he disappeared.
    Gone.
    His mailbag was found in front of a house on Lansing Street, his truck down at the corner. Police said there were no signs of a struggle, and the bag looked undisturbed, as though he simply set it down and walked off.
    I could not believe it was happening again, but it was.
    That was January 30. I gave the police a current picture and it was broadcast on all the television stations, first those in Columbus, a day later across Ohio, and surrounding states. It also went viral on social media. The police told me they received dozens of calls and were following up on them but none of the leads had panned out. I took off work the first week, called everyone I knew who might have seen him, distributed 348 pictures to businesses, churches, lodges, and such, and posted them on bulletin boards and utility poles, but then had to go back to work.
    My weight went down 10 pounds in 10 days after his disappearance as I only occasionally felt like eating or drinking. I knew he didn’t run out on me. My greatest fear he had been abducted, tortured, and killed.
    I was devastated. We had made plans for our future, were seriously discussing the “M” word, and figuring on a long happy life together.
    On Valentine’s Day when a bouquet was delivered to Momna, a new girl at the office, I broke down.
    It was the lowest of lows.
    I left work, went home to pine, cry, and pray.
    It had always been such a special day for Paul and me, and Diego and I had talked a lot about it, too. Now they were both gone and the world closed in on me. Rock bottom. I don’t know how else to describe it. What can you do when twice the love of your life is taken from you? Pick yourself up like you were thrown by a horse, remount, and search for number three? Hardly.
    At dinner time I was actually a little hungry, made a sandwich out of some mystery meat Diego had in the refrigerator that looked like hard salami but tasted more like old fashioned loaf, and brewed a cup of tea. Sitting in front of the TV eating, I switched from the local news that led with a Valentine’s Day story, to the DIY Network that had a remodel of a master bedroom that was also something I didn’t much care to see, so switched to classical music. No video or sad lyrics to ambush me.
    Halfway satisfied with my sandwich and tea, and with Orono, Diego’s Maine Coon cat, sitting peacefully on my lap, I almost didn’t answer the door when the bell rang, but then a shiver of fear ran through me when I realized it could be the police with news about their search. When I opened the door and saw an officer standing there, for a moment I thought I was going to faint.
    But then I glimpsed Diego standing behind him.
    “We found him Mr. Trent, or rather he found us. We’re going to need—” That was all he got out because Diego and I sidestepped the officer and were in each other’s arms, tears streaming down both our faces.
    When we finally realized the cop was still standing there we broke our hug and, rather sheepishly, looked at him.
    “We’re going to need him down at the station for a while,” he said to me, “But he insisted on coming by here first. You’re welcome to come along.”
    Diego filled me in on the way to the station.
    “This crazy geezer on my route who sees LGBTQ folks as the source of all evil, drugged me with some kind of anesthetic when I handed him his mail, and I awoke in his basement, my wrists handcuffed to the arms of a captain’s chair with a gag in my mouth, and my ankles cuffed to the chair’s legs.”
    “My God!”
    “He kept me in a constant state of semi-consciousness but twice a day brought me out of it enough to preach conversion therapy to me. And get this, the guy videotaped everything, was planning to put it on the internet as a guide for others of his ilk.”
    “What an idiot! How did you get away?”
    “When using the bathroom this afternoon I decided to lock myself in it long enough to become almost totally functional. As soon as I was, amid his yelling and screaming I said I was coming out, pasted him good when I did, then ran down the block to the house of people I knew, and pounded on their door.”
    On the 13^th I would not have believed it, nor on the 14^th right up until the Officer Haynes showed up with him. Then, what started out as the saddest Valentine’s Day of my life quickly turned into my happiest Valentine’s Day.
    Even Orono agreed, made a beeline straight to Diego as soon as we walked in the door from the police station.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...