The Valentine

Elena wished she could be one of those girls who shunned the whole circus that was Valentine's Day, just like her girlfriends, giggling over guesses and making wagers and contests of who might receive the most suitors.

On the surface, she had been one with them, laughing, joking, and with each word hiding her heart more deeply inside.

How long had been the night! The night, wicked and cruel, had brought no sleep, no rest free from torment. And now this day! This dreaded day! It set her nerves afire and made her doubt her strength to survive it.

All the other girls went about, to the various social engagements that should have occupied Elena's mind as fully as theirs. The sudden, shocking illness that halted her participation was true enough, though doubtless brought on by her worries.

The minutes could hardly pass, weighted so, the ticking of the clock so slow time itself seemed caught in the muddled sludge of her worry-sick heart.

Elena's family had long since ceased to open the door to the sitting room, lest they cause her heart soar, then break, when she found them without what she so longed to see.

Each messenger, then, brought hope in his hands, hope with his steps up the street.

Each hope, though, brought a sudden paling of face, a gentle tap, as the card landed where she stood, her soft hands unable to bring more pain to her heart in holding the wrong declaration before her.

"Wrong, it is wrong, he does not mean it."

The first time she said it, it was barely a whisper on her breath. The repetition made it softer, less sure, her poor weary heart caught between hope and doubt.

When her girlfriends came to call, between a luncheon and a ball, they were shown the door immediately. Miss Elena was much too ill, you see, too ill to see them in all their cheer.

The day had already threatened to fade into blackness, taking with it Elena's hope, her heart, when came a last and lonely messenger to the door. Elena's heart caught quickly, the desire to soar outweighing the fear that the next time it shattered might also be the last.

And quickly the messenger was also shown the door, lest he be another bearer of bad news, lest he glimpse Elena dropping the card, losing her heart, and report such to the author.

This time it was not to be. This time there was no gentle tap of heavy card on polished floor. This time came instead a thud to chill them all. This time, perhaps it had finally been the last, too much, for dear Elena.

"He loves me."

These words were barely louder than the ones before them, but the look of wonder crossing Elena's face was new indeed. She looked up from the floor as though afraid to believe the world existed in this way, then rose in a rush, and was out the door before anyone could think to stop her.

"Wait, oh, do wait!"

How entirely unladylike to be running through the street, her dress held up in her hand! How very inappropriate to be, unescorted, chasing down a man, any man, but most surely a messenger man.

Hesitantly, afraid not only of overstepping his place, but of the very many ways in which this was wrong, the messenger man stopped. His greater fear was of not hearing her answer.

"Please..." Her breath seemed too big a thing, too big to stay within her chest, and came out gasping and choking.

He waited, still, silently, not turning to face her, not speaking a word.

"Please ... you'll tell him ... tell him ..."

Elena had had all her life to think of her feelings for him, all this day to obsess over her love, and whether he would care. In this moment, though, there were not words for it, it was so much bigger than she could ever understand, let alone begin to explain.

"You already have," came the reply, as the man turned and removed the hat of the messenger's costume it had taken him all day to find.