I carefully positioned a final candle on the small, wooden coffee table next to the sofa, standing back a few metres to admire how the room looked. I'd spent the whole morning chasing my own feet, trying my best to tidy up the sitting room area of the apartment - not an easy feat when said apartment is occupied by two lazy, lethargic, rich lads. I'd filled an entire bin bag with empty food cartons, and accumulated an entire mountain of lost, lonely shoes. The highlight, however, was finding a slice of I-don't-even-want-to-know-how-old pizza hiding under the sofa, coated with an appetizing layer of dust and smelling like something that had died. The delights of living here, I thought to myself.
In my mind, everything had to be perfect for tonight. It wasn't just another evening with Tamara, not just another movie in bed with a Chinese; tonight was going to be special.
Because tonight was the 14th of February.
Valentine's Day.
I knew it wasn't exactly textbook behaviour for Fuck buddies to be each other's Valentine, but I was determined to make the night special, to show her how brilliant I could be, what good care I could take of her. I was decided on convincing her that I could be so much more, that I could be everything she needed - romance, friendship, love, lust - that I could be more than her best friend. There was no point in keeping everything inside anymore, I convinced myself, no point in hiding my feelings because I was scared of myself, and letting my fear hold me back like a prisoner while the girl I loved walked right by and out of my life. I'd never wanted anybody more in my whole existence, and I was the sort of man who got what he wanted.
I was going to tell her everything. All of the feelings, all of the longing. I'd come clean with her, and make sure she knew how I felt.
It terrified me, the thought of being rejected. Of her telling me she didn't want me back, the way I wanted her, but it was better than not knowing. It was better than sitting around and watching her pass me by. I was sick of it, of being overlooked...and of being 'friends'.
In the worst case scenario, even if she said she didn't love me, at least then I'd know. At least then I could start working; start trying my absolute hardest in every little way to make her see that she should love me. I could make her love me back.
I admired my handy work; the room looked very much tidier, and everything was in place for how I pictured our evening - eating dinner by candlelight, how flawless she would look in whatever perfect outfit she wore. We'd eat strawberries with cream and drink champagne, before I would blindfold her and guide her cautiously into the sitting room, tearing off the cover to reveal the romantic scene, the sofa strewn with blankets and hoards of cushions, and scattered with rose petals. We'd make love in the dim light, with her soft moans of my name echoing off the walls and spurring on my confidence. Then, when it was over, I'd kiss her and tell her everything. If things went well, we'd kiss and have sex in the tangled sheets and then we'd be together. Properly. She'd be mine, and I'd be able to show her off and kiss her in public, and everything would be how it was supposed to be.
If she didn't feel the same...my stomach churned at the thought. Well, I'd cross that bridge if I came to it.
I glanced at the ticking clock on the wall, feeling my heart race with sudden nerves, excitement, anticipation of the night ahead. I couldn't deny I was scared stiff, but it would be worth it, I told myself. Worth it just to know that she knew how I felt.
It was rolling up to six, so I finished up in the sitting room, readjusting the candles just a little here and there, spraying a little air freshener that had the pleasant aroma of some kind of flowers that I couldn't put a name to. I traipsed into the kitchen in my low slung jeans, beginning to fiddle with the knobs on the stove. This was where I ought to be nervous; I'd bought steak, and had little to no idea how to cook it. Looking back now, I wondered why I'd bothered. Should have stuck to the fajitas, I told myself, stick to what you know.
