Page 2 of Not Your Valentine
I wish I were kidding.
And I wish he hadn’t done it in public. At a loud volume. While someone was filming it, and someone else was live-tweeting the whole debacle.
The video went viral. It was everywhere. Why can’t people mind their own damn business and not post such shit online? Please. Just stick to posting about your own lives.
It was a low point in the life of Helen Tsang, boring lab tech who just wants to drink wine and eat charcuterie without being perceived.
Anyway. Nothing I can do about it now, except make sure it never happens again.
“I’m not interested in dating,” I tell my friends. “But you, uh, have fun,” I say to Esther. “Stay safe. Try to avoid public break-ups.”
“It’s been almost a year,” Whitney says. “You sure you don’t want to try again?”
“I’m sure.”
Yeah, I know, not every guy out there is Charlie Kung, but I’m just not interested. Although I’ve never been the super romantic type—roses and pink hearts? Meh—I can’t even tolerate the idea of anything lovey-dovey now.
Valentine’s Day is such an insincere holiday, a performance I don’t understand. Charlie took me out to a nice restaurant, putting on a show for February fourteenth, even though he was already having doubts about the relationship, as he later revealed. And then, when I laughed at his terrible business idea, he told me he’d “reached his limit” and decided to break up on the spot.
Whitney looks at me with pity, and that’s the part I’ve hated most about this whole nonsense, once the initial shitshow died down: people feeling sorry for me.
There’s something about it that makes me more than a little uncomfortable.
I’ve told my friends not to feel bad for me. It happened, it’s mostly over now—sure, the other day, someone dredged up the video and it briefly circled around the internet again—but the first week was the worst, and that’s long past. Though I do suspect it’ll be brought up again this coming Valentine’s Day.
When I glare at Whitney, she stops looking at me like I’m a pitiful creature and manages a smile.
“Maybe I’ll date again one day,” I say. I don’t foresee returning to the dating scene, but it’s still a slim possibility. Plus, it’s best not to be too negative, because one of my friends would call me out on it, and I’m not in the mood for any psychoanalysis. “Just not ready yet. We’re still young.”
“The other day,” Esther says, “a guy looked mildly freaked out after learning that I’m twenty-nine.”
I snort. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Was he hitting on you?”
“Well, not after I told him my age. He insisted that I shouldn’t worry, it wasn’t too late to accomplish my dreams, but he spoke like he didn’t really believe it.”
I remember being twenty-one. I was in my final year of undergrad, planning to go to grad school.
I’ve definitely changed since then.
“If you’re not going to date,” Jasmeet says, “what are your resolutions?”
“Helen doesn’t do resolutions, right?” Esther looks at me.
I nod. “They’re silly. In January, the gyms are full of people who made resolutions.” So I’m told; I don’t go to the gym. “But that doesn’t last, does it? It’s foolish to resolve to do something that you’ll give up in a few weeks.”
“I feel attacked.” Whitney sticks out her tongue at me. “But this year will be different.”
“Though I do resolve not to be dumped on Valentine’s Day. I think that’s a good resolution. One I can keep.”
My friends laugh, though Whitney’s chuckle seems a bit forced.
I think she’d feel more comfortable if I could prove that I’ve moved on. But I have moved on. The whole thing made me realize that romantic relationships aren’t something I need, just like I realized a PhD wasn’t for me. I don’t need to “move on” the way other people want me to. No, I just need more wine and cheese…and salami roof tiles.
“By the way,” I say as I reach for a piece of salami, “Charlie has a new girlfriend.”
