“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”
“Well, then.” Elizabeth ever so gently took Mr. Darcy’s hand and landed a loving kiss on it. “Your hands are cold.”
Ok, Ok Elizabeth. I see what you are trying to do. Nice tactic.
As the sun rises, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth come closer, their noses touching.
But no kiss happens. Not even a French kiss.
Grrrr. Is it asking a lot for two people, madly in love, to kiss? It isn’t like binding leather chains on someone in a sound-proof red wall and telling her to say his name.
I am not guilty rather a victim. The 50 Shades of Gray trailer played in between commercials and the popcorn was maximum full.
Today is Valentine’s Day and I am Valentineless.
I avoid Facebook, Instagram, and the Internet on this day, since the heart-shaped box of chocolates, letters that start with “My love, my one”, dozens of roses with the caption of “From my only” ending with a heart emojis makes my stomach sick.
Am I a hater of Valentine? Yes, for overused messages.
Am I a hater for love? No.
I had consecutive boyfriends which demonstrated the same result: gone. Gone as in ghosted.
One minute, we were having a great time--canoeing along the Merced River, clubbing in downtown, picnicing on the beach watching the stars and moon.
On Valentine’s Day, we watched girly movies like Pride & Prejudice and Titanic.
My friends say those men aren’t the “right one for me” and the “right one” will the “last and best”.
Does anyone believe in that mantra? I certainly don’t.
I feel cursed and my failure of love isn’t a coincidence.
Dry erase board and markers. Check.
Family-sized Cheetos. Check.
“Elizabeth, what on earth are you doing?” In her pale pink nightgown dress.
“Grandmom, I am going to be busy.”
“Of a project?”
“Project of love. I am going to list out our family tree that will show me who’s fault is it for my cursed love life!”
“Oh dear, sweetie. I will have to talk about that,” grandmom wobbles to the haphazard bed, setting the cane on the side. “Come here dear.”
“Once upon a time,” grandmom said, hazel eyes distant. “Your great-great-great-great-great grandmother worked as a maid for a wealthy Scottish family in Edinburgh. She was orphaned at age five and had no choice but to enter into the workforce, abandoning her education. At the tender age of seventeen, she was hired by the government.”
“No, it wasn’t great.”
“Better job security, pay. Why?”
“My dear Liz, it isn’t the American government. The Scottish government designed the ‘S.S.S’ who hired youngsters like her--orphaned with no family or friends. The sad truth is most of them died at a young age.”
“What was the ‘S.S.S’?”
“They were a special cadre that went through extensive and intense training, to participate in high-ranking missions. Your grandmother’s name was Aila but the organization changed it to #100. She had always very guarded with her feelings and her heart and was beautiful as you, dear. Brownie-colored hair,” grandmom touched my curls. “Heart-shaped face, full lips, and doe-shaped light green eyes. An athletic and petite figure which all the men wanted. And the perfect bait.”
“Was she able to settle down?”
“On one of the missions, Aila’s mission was to assassinate Oliver II Thomson, son of an aristocrat Harris Thomson, a politician. Unlike his father, Oliver II was a politician that had captured the heart of the Scottish people and some of the officials within the institution afraid, Oliver II would use that power to oppose the rules, the desires of the institution.”
“What happened?” I hug Brown, my brown pushy bear; he gives comfort during scary movies or stories.
“Knowing this mission, Aila warned Oliver to escape, to start a new life in another county with a new identify and occupation. Aila never had anybody giving her warmth and love, so Oliver was the perfect man to do the job.”
“They were in love.”
“Most profoundly,” grandmom said. “Despite Aila’s warning, Oliver refused as the Scottish people needed his help to end poverty and greed in the system. One night, he worked late, before went to bed, went to the kitchen and warmed some milk. Someone lurked in the shadows, waiting for him to put down his guard down.”
This is the scary part! Hold on Brown. I squeezed him in my chest.
“When he turned around, holding the glass of milk, he saw the face of his murderer. His last words were, ‘You are always lovely no matter what.’”
“Who was the murderer?” I softly asked, knowing the answer.
My family is cursed.
Thanks great-great-great-great-great grandmother Aila. Now, I, your great-great-great-great-great granddaughter would never get married and only able to get laid.
I am going to be a lonely, wrinkly, grumpy old lady owning a bunch of dogs and cats.
Is true love only occurs in Elizabeth and Darcy’s time? Could I escape this so-called ‘fate’? Grandmother Rose and her grandmother meet the same fate; their love ones left (not through death) and moved on to somebody ‘better’.
They are Valentineless and unlovable.
Is that going to be my future?
Eating a box of Godiva, partying pass one, dating and having sex with good-looking men are wonderful and mind-blowing. But it would be nice to have someone to cuddle with in bed, to have someone to cook burned chicken pot pie, then throw that away and dig into blueberry cheesecake.
From an oak tree, the leaves coming off and landing on a lone bench.
Leaves, human life share a threshold: it is short.
I shall accept my fate but on my own terms.
With a pen and paper.
Scotland, 1862, Aila had a mission that tested her two loves: her duties and beloved, Oliver II.
It was forbidden as Oliver and Aila were on separate sides of good and evil though their love was absolute.
“Oliver, save yourself.”
“I can’t leave you,” Oliver cupped her black gloved hands, in his eyes, hands of an angel not a killer. “Come with me.”
“They will hunt us down.”
“Then let me them hunt us. Rain, snow, heat…whatever! We will be together. That is all it matters. Aila, you are my one and I will spend the rest of my life with you either through life or death.”
“Oliver, I will do the same.”
Imagination is a powerful thing.