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(story continued ) 
Saturday will see the battle commence. Determination, progress and strength of character squaring up against romanticised, warm, fuzzy, nostalgia. The day will run something like this: Wake up. Ignore inner voices. Cast a discreet 'expectation-free' eye on the post. Ignore inner voices. Grab breakfast. Block out thoughts of previous romantic weekend mornings in bed. Go for run. Ignore inner voices. Cut through the chemistry of couples as they walk arm in arm through the park. Ignore inner voices. Check email offline. Ignore inner voices. Draft a couple of 'casual messages'. Visit single friends and discuss merits of being 'the captain of your destiny'. Ignore inner voices. Listen to a specially pre-vetted set of music (Rocky Soundtrack, Leftfield etc). Ignore. Clean house. Inner. Wash car. Voices. Relax. Confront inner voices. Bed.
-- Anonymous

The phone rang again. This time Brigid had had enough. She left me, mid "moment" in the living room. Striding through the scattered paraphernalia of the two hours of celebrating that had left my duck burning in the oven, she picked up my cell phone and slammed the door to my office behind her. The angry shouting wasn't muffled enough to keep from hearing, very clearly, "Why don't you talk to your HUSBAND!"

I was just as angry as Brigid by the time she came out and we were about to launch into the Valentine's Screaming Match of the Century. Our first screaming match even, let's get that on the calendar. Squared off and red-faced, we could only glare at each other when the phone rang. Again.

We stood there, half naked and poised to strike. She, to intercept me to the phone should I have balls enough to actually try for it. Me ready to rip the damn phone out of the wall. Instead we listened to the machine pick up, and heard a familiar voice. Not the ex's this time. A sigh of relief escaped us both and then was sucked back in with the sudden punch the word suicide delivers. Maybe I hadn't grown balls but I knew there was no way Brigid would stop me from taking this call. I brushed past her and picked up the phone.

There was no recovering the mood of course. It was at least as ruined as dinner. We picked at bits of crusty duck, sulking. I caught her glance and led it around the mess we'd left in the living room. We looked at each other again and laughed wearily. Not a very auspicious first Valentine's Day. The following year was much quieter and it wasn't until we hadn't had messages for days I finally realized someone had unplugged the phone. 
-- L. Eller

keep on moseying please

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