Every year he would open The Box, leafing through the fading collection of old Valentines, each a forlorn memory marked, “Return to Sender.”
She awoke to syrup on her arm and a plate held by little sticky fingers. “Happy Valentine’s Day, mommy.” A bite was missing from the heart.
He was madly in love. This was definitely the girl he was going to marry. He might only be 4 years old but he knew what he wanted.
He found love everywhere, like the droplets of mist sitting proudly astride a mountain top or gently cushioning a lonely valley.
He squatted and strained above a tiny pink satin box. Oh, she’d get a fucking Valentine alright.
A tall pale man places his stethoscope on her black skin and smiles. She blushes and lowers her eyes as the Nigerian sun breaks the horizon.