sweat pearling down my forehead, knees clicking from the poor choice of footwear and teeth grinding with frustration, i was on a mission. after having dialed just about every pizza place in the area, only one would accommodate my request. one. where? 45th st. living in the financial district and pulling together a surprise with a spark of spontaneity was no easy task. construction paper was cut meticulously into tiny purple, red and pink paper hearts and sprinkled among the rose petals, covering my then boyfriend’s dorm room in cheesy, 80’s rom-com fashion as i would only do for someone. when i finally swapped in my $20 for a heart shaped pizza pie, i remembered i only had about 30 minutes to spare before he arrived back home. dodging the black-iced concrete, i opted for a cab instead of usually unreliable MTA trip back downtown; this was when i thought cabbing it was easier, i soon learned the error of my ways. 

how’d the night turn out? forced romance with the right intention and innocent sweetness. the pizza was cold, the candles smelt like christmastime and flower petals were already dying. the chemistry, however, is something i’ll always remember. 

valentine’s day is the day of sex. do it up, pups.