A Christmastime Valentine's Day Love Story by Hanover

“Be Mine”

It was such a far reaching request. Lying in my bed, gazing at that sugary heart shaped candy at the top of the open box, it staring back at me and through me, directing me to give myself, my soul, my entire essence to the sender. Whoever could it be asking so much of me? I had found that box at the Walgreens, sitting there waiting patiently for me on the counter next to the Chapstick. How did whoever sent this message know how to reach me? How did this person, so far away, know which box to place it in, know which truck to send it on, know which person to have unpack it from the crate, and know which person to place it on the counter so that it would be there at just the right moment so that I would look down and choose to purchase it? Who would have done all of this just for me?

Those questions would have left me pondering, but I couldn’t bother with them all too long because the real task was at hand. I was being directed to give myself to this special person out there, and it was upon only me to find them. I emerged from my bed, and found my way through the jingle jangle beads that hung from the ceiling above my closet door and grabbed my finest bedazzled leggings, stripped down naked but for my smirky smile, and then pulled those bad boys tightly up my thighs, squeezing the bejesus out of my loins, driving the bedazzles into my flesh. I coordinated my partying lower half with a bright yellow half shirt that summoned all within eyesight to “DANCE!” With that and my alligator boots and matching “Spring Break 1984” hat, my juicy fruit self made its way to my motor-sickle to find me my secret suitor. I mounted the bike with a full throttle crash slam of my underbottom, and I was to be off!

“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life…” The sage lyrics of Abba, my constant companion through thick and thin, dancing in my head, as I made my way to find my One, the leaver of small gifts with big demands.

I turned the key and gave it some gas. It clicked and whined and whined and clicked, but finally as I pulled back on the gas, the bike rattled and roared, flinging me back just slightly, reminding me of the bruise I had just recently forged into my hindquarters. The throb reminded me I was alive and ready to find love. I reached deep deep down between my legs, massaging the ouch the best I could, my other hand now unsteady on the handle bar, causing the bike to start to flail about. I wrestled control the best I could, the sidecar finally settling down onto the ground like a fallen deer, and I continued on my way.

The streets were empty now. Sun had fallen several hours earlier and the frigid wind had picked up and was whipping about. Ice patches spotted the street. The only activity was the smoke that billowed from the chimneys. It was a dark soot colored smoke, the sort you’d expect from a Dickens’ novel with a coughing and wheezing Tiny Tim hanging on to his last breath, saying shit like “Father, methinks me is going to die on Christmas and you will forever remember this holiday as a season of loss and shitiness and not of love and giving.” The freezing gusts stung my uncovered sassy half-belly with a jolt. Had I not had such serious business to tend to, I’d have likely returned to my hovel I had just departed.

I saw a small light from just across the way. It flickered on and off. Flicker flacker flicker flacker is how it flickered. It said “Bud’s Suds.” It was a laundromat for those who needed cleansing of their late night garment sullying. Oh what crust those machines must’ve seen! I gassed forward towards the place. Full throttle baby! Coming in hot! Coming in hard! No time to delay! I saw a perfect spot to park, just beneath the apostrophe “s” of the sign. I aimed between the two painted lines, eased off the gas, white knuckled squeezed the brake, veered sideways just a smidgen, slammed my fucking sidecar into the mama minivan just beside me, ricocheted hard towards the parking meter, and then the bike finally rested, but not before slinging me off into the shrubs. Not a bad recovery I thought. Not bad at all.

I dusted myself off, pulled some briars out my backside and did the two step toward the door while “Friday night and the lights are low. Looking out for a place to go” screamed in my head.

There before me was a lone olive skinned man staring at his wet socks going in circles, as if entranced by the world’s most boring movie. I crouched next to him, placing my cheek within inches of his and gazed along with him. The rumble of the machine was haunting, as if offering a warning that some fucked up shit was about to go down. He moved back from my advance, adding a few more inches between his unshaven face and my ear flip flap.

“Anybody could be that guy. The night is young and the music highhhhh!” I could still hear above the rumble.

This was likely him I thought. This is the One who called upon me to give myself to him. I had to be clear, be bold, let him know I knew. I offered no hesitation, whiplashing my cheek toward his, hoping the intermingling of face would tell me all I needed to know. My “1984” hat went a-flinging up toward the laundromat sky. What happened then was a holy hell jaw smashing. We both reeled on the floor, me now thinking that the head smash was a bad idea, him probably not knowing what the fuck just happened. As I held my face in hand, I did some quick figuring, and decided he must not be the One based upon the way things sort of just happened. So with that, I giddy upped out the door. As I got to a full trot, I kicked my legs high into my ass cheeks, thinking that was the way to move along the fastest, adding further insult to my undercarriage .

Once outside, I dropped hard to the ground, rebruising my already kicked silly buttocks I found the parking meter pole and rested my aching bones against it. From there, I contemplated my next move, just beneath the apostrophe “s.” Some fucker moved in front of me, trying to force coins into the meter, like there’s a danger of a midnight meter reader, all the while smashing his zipper against my nose. God damn. A simple “excuse me” might have been in order. A small tear formed in my eye and a trail of Leprechaun Green mascara rolled down my neck, pooling onto the collar of my funtastic dantastic DANCE shirt. Even my shirt was sad! The smell of zipper still lingering in my nose holes and beyond. Fuckety fuck!

I summoned the strength to get up. Enough feeling sorry for myself! I needed to find my way to the One who had asked for my very being. I gently mounted my embattled steed, protecting my haunches from more onslaught. A sharp pain pierced within me from the pebble that had lodged beside my pucker from when I was sitting baby crying on the ground. I was able to expertly gyrate it out of the way without having to root around for its removal. Thank goodness for the skills I learned at summer camp.

I then righted the bike and pulled back slowly on the throttle and began moving slowly away. As shit would have it, the twisted side car pulled me to the side, forced my throttle hand down too far and jolted the bike forward. Perhaps the slick ice on the road or just general bad luck, but I blasted sideways down the road. I lurched and spun and crashed into what I was hoping was just a dog, but it was a mother fucker with a dog. No fucking way he would survive that blow I thought. No fucking way. Oopsie fucking whoopsie.

My bike continued spinning down the road, casting me off it, leaving me skipping down the street like a rock over a still pond, as if thrown by Prince Charming as he held the hand of his lover on a lazy afternoon. My clothes now in tatters, my bedazzles undazzled, now shaking desperately in the cold, with my ass shaved down a good quarter inch from the sandpapery road drag. I limped over to the downed dog walker and looked into his eyes, nudging him with my boot, hoping for some kind of wail or cry to let me know something was left of his life down there. One of his eyes was staring deep into the heavens, the other spinning uncontrollably. “Fuck” I thought to myself. “Do I call the cops or just bury this shit?”

The dog looked fine at least. I smashed the dead man’s hand with my boot heel a few times to get him to let go of the dog that was straining to get away from this bullshit. Once released, the dog ran off, but he apparently wasn’t fine. He coughed a few times, spit, yelped a horrible howl, shit all over himself, and then curled his back backwards and died a slow painful death on a cold emotionless roadway.

I’m just kidding. The dog was fine. I would never hurt a dog in a story. That’d be way fucked up, right?

As the Good Book says, there’s a time to mourn and a time to dance, and now, it’s no time to mourn, not even for dead dog walker man. So, dance it is!

“You’re a teaser, you turn ‘em on. Leave them burning and then you’re gone. Looking out for another, anyone will do. You’re in the mood for a dance.” Those lyrics in my head rang so true. Abba, thank you for never deserting me!

I sang those words loudly as I hobble-ran into the frozen night, still looking desperately for my secret admirer.

I made it to the edge of town, beyond all the light from the city, away from all the difficulties that had come my way. Here I would make a new start, look for the One, and just put the thoughts of that silly dead man out my head. I had to find me a way to get around, but my bike was far away and in shambles and my legs were now barely holding my bubblicious self up. As if a gift from God, I saw a pogo stick leaning against a mailbox. Since no one was there to say “don’t steal my pogo stick,” and I about deserved anything that might come my way given what I’d been through, I made that sweet ride mine. I hopped aboard and hippidied hoppidied down the road, my battered body like a rag doll flopping in the now gusting arctic blasts.

I hopped past foxes, bunnies, deer, and even a late night squirrel who had a few pints too many. I hopped through the meadows, the fields, the prairies, the steppes, and the plains. I hopped into what I think was a fucking water meter hole and it caught the stick and launched me like a bottle rocket straight toward Alpha Centauri, then straight down head first like a lawn dart. The smell of zipper now being replaced by worms and an old partially buried spark plug. For a while at least, I was done for. Unable to do much else, I rolled onto my back, stared up into the heavens, and tried to connect the stars up to make a picture of a crab or fish or lion or some other such bullshit like they said it would. My nose hairs froze and every breath burned as I breathed in the icy mist.

My mind drifted and I blacked out, finally out for the count. When I awoke, who knows how much later, I was on a table covered in sushi. I was apparently scraped up from the dirt and was now being repurposed as a human serving dish, but don’t feel sorry for me. Shit like this happens in the city every day. My story’s not unusual. Nothing pervy was happening and I was being treated with dignity and respect. I was dressed modestly and appropriately, but, in all candor, it wasn’t the fate I expected after killing a man, fleeing, crashing on a stolen pogo stick, and then having meandering thoughts about astrological signs. But, as I’ve always been told, one should always expect the unexpected, even if it’s being relegated to being a seafood serving piece.

As I was lying on the table, I saw above me a man with a long beard with small flecks of rice in it wearing thick rimmed glasses. He was staring down at my navel, trying desperately to pick the Fiery Tuna Roll up with his chopsticks, but because my belly button is a delightful little innie, the sushi was hard to secure. The man was awkward and relentless as he poked and prodded, prodded and poked into that tight little hole. He wouldn’t quit, and he wouldn’t just reach down with his hands and take care of bidness. I grew impatient, but I was starting to settle in into my new role as a plate and I didn’t want to be disruptive or appear ungrateful for those who brought me in from the cold. I did begin to wonder though, might this gent be the One.

“And when you get the chance, you are the dancing queen” I thought to myself. I had to find out, and I had to find out now, was I his and his mine?

“Are you the One,” I tried to scream, but it came out as a whisper past my ice charred larynx. The room fell silent. The bearded man looked closely, moving his face toward my lips for just a moment, but then he went back to trying to fish out the sushi roll as if I hadn’t ever said a thing. I mean I get it. He came there to eat and not be bothered by my goings on, but I just think he could have taken a moment to let me know if he was the one who messaged me via a candy heart. I feel like I’m being a complainer for even bringing it up, but it just hurts not to be heard. If you want to say no or whatever that’s one thing, but to not even act like I said anything. I mean wow. Wow!

Look at me, getting all emotional! It has been a hard day. Maybe that’s what bringing all this on. I apologize for being such a bother.

I was able to get control of myself and the stuff I was dealing with in my head, and I tried to make the best of things, leaning this way or that way, trying to help the diners secure the food as easily as possible. The bearded man finally gave up and I could hear him chatting about his investments or whatever across the room. He was so full of himself. I’m so over all that! I mean, if he is the One, I’d rather not know it. He thinks just because he has that beard he’s amazing or something, but anyone can have a cool beard. I mean, yes, the way the rice hung there was pretty fucking cool, but whatevs.

The evening grew on and I was tired. Tired of the cold, tired of the searching, tired of the dead ends, tired of just everything. I had laughed, I had cried, I had fallen, and I had gotten up. With those thoughts, I rolled off the table, the final pieces of sushi falling to the floor. A woman with a dragon tattoo approached me. She reached out her hand and asked me my name. I told her I hadn’t yet been given a name by whoever was writing this story. She told me she understood. I asked her why the tattoo. She said not to worry, that was another story. She continued to hold my hand and she pulled me along, leading me into a bedroom. I entered. A disco light flashed overhead.

“See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen” was playing in the room, this time not just in my head. I could feel my knees growing weak.

As we moved toward the bed, I crumbled into her arms and we “danced” about the bedroom, whatever that means. I leaned into her and she into me, her lips parting and mine as well. Her tongue placed its sweetness onto mine and I felt a hard candy planted into my being, my essence, or, more specifically, my mouth. She spun me back, dipping me to the floor, my eyes now staring directly into the mirrored ceiling. I stuck out my tongue so I could see what she had just spit in my mouth, and with the flashing lights I could just make out what it was. I read the words of the heart shape candy inserted inside of me:

“You’re mine”

And in that moment, despite all the directionless crashing, the loss, the pain, and the consequences that would likely find their way back to me, all was at this moment perfectly perfect.

“You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life.”