MY RED-MASKED VALENTINE
“VALENTINE’S DAY SUCKS,” OLIVIA COMPLAINS, DROPPING HER HEAD ONTO THE TABLE. Lacey laughs unsympathetically, grinning at her friend over her iced coffee.
“What, you don’t like all the sweet post-Valentine chocolate sales?” she jokes, knowing very well that chocolate isn’t the issue here. Olivia raises her head to instead rest her chin on the table, glaring at the other woman.
“I hate you,” she decides, earning herself another laugh from her friend. “And no; I don’t like the chocolate sales even half as much as I hate the pre-Valentine rush.” Lacey smiles with amusement.
“Oh no,” she coos sarcastically, “what ever will you do? It must be so hard to make so much money.”
Olivia kicks her under the table.
“I’m so swamped I had to stop taking clients,” she groans. “God, and it’s always ‘oh that’s too frilly’, ‘oh that’s too plain’, ‘oh that just doesn’t have the right energy’.” She uses a high-pitched, mocking whine to mimic them. “And they always want it by the end of the week or something; like, why doesn’t anyone ever get their ads made ahead of time?!”
“Hmm, people are stupid,” Lacey agrees conversationally, taking a swipe of whipped cream off her drink with her finger. “Couples’ discounts are cool, though.” Olivia pouts.
“Easy for you to say,” she grumbles, finally lifting her head off the table to lean back against her chair. Lacey grins widely.
“Ha ha, I live with my fiancé and you got stuck with a Brit,” she mocks. Olivia rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah,” she huffs. “Rub it in, why don’t you? Lucky bitch.” Lacey grins, but eases up on her poor mocked friend.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” she assures the sulking brunette. “You’ll save up enough for plane tickets soon.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. “For now, I guess it’s Skype for us.”
“You know, you’re gonna have to introduce me someday,” Lacey warns, pointing her straw at Olivia as she sips her own coffee. Olivia grins.
“Never gonna happen,” she refuses, shutting her friend down at once. Lacey groans.
“Aw, come on! Why not?” she complains. “I wanna meet this hot British dude you can’t seem to make up your mind about.”
Because he’s a mildly homicidal Norse god currently serving out a lifetime sentence on another planet, Olivia wants to say.
“Because I hate you,” she shrugs instead, swirling her coffee around and flashing Lacey a glib smile.
“Is this because I said your brother’s hot?” she pouts. Olivia’s entire face crinkles up with disgust.
“No, but thanks for reminding me of that; now you can’t meet either of them,” she decides, the light undertone in her voice almost entirely banished by how genuinely gross she finds that statement.
“What?” her friend whines. “Not fair; come on, even Mira agrees with me!” Olivia stares at Lacey for a long moment.
“I… literally hate that you and your fiancée talk about how hot my brother is when I’m not there,” she declares. “This might be the most disturbing news I’ve ever received.”
“Well obviously I’m not gonna hit on him,” Lacey scoffs, in the most obvious tone of voice Olivia has ever had to hear. “But I’m gay, not blind. Come on, have you seen him? He looks—“
“—like a fucking chemistry teacher,” Olivia finishes, interrupting her friend. “Can we please talk about, uh… anything else? I’m actually begging. I’ll buy if you never bring this up again.” Lacey nods without hesitation.
“Point one for Lacey,” she grins victoriously. “You’re way too easy, you know that? That’s why you always end up paying.” Olivia scrunches her nose up in disgust.
“Honestly, I’m fine with paying forever if it means you don’t make me suffer through listening to you say nasty shit like that,” she confesses, taking a swig out of her coffee to wash down the memory of her friend calling her brother hot.
“Good,” Lacey chuckles. Then, she suddenly snaps. “Right, yeah— actually, I was thinking about going to that climbing place with Mira for Valentine’s Day. The one we went to on your birthday; what was it called again?”
“Rock and Roll Climbing Gym,” Olivia supplies. Lacey nods, pulling out her phone to save that name.
“Thank youuu,” she hums absently. Olivia smiles lightly.
“If my soulmate ever does come to town, you have to help me think up cool date ideas,”she warns, pointing at Lacey with the same hand she’s using to hold her drink.
“Oh, so now I get to meet him?” said woman muses, raising her eyebrows at Olivia as she puts her phone down. Olivia laughs.
“Oh, absolutely not,” she refuses, shaking her head. “You can help me plan dates, but that’s the closest you get to be.” Now, it’s Lacey’s turn to pout.
“Meanie,” she complains, sticking her tongue out at her friend.
Their laughter rings out through the food court.
***
Olivia walks into her apartment building, waving lightly to the doorman on her way in, coffee in hand. It’s been a truly long day, and she’s more than ready to retire. As she passes the mailboxes, though, the doorman calls out to her.
“Hey, Liv. Letter came in for you this morning,” he explains. “Maiman left it on my desk, for some stupid reason. Left it in your box for you.” Olivia nods, backtracking a little.
“Thanks, John,” she replies appreciatively, raising a hand briefly. He nods once, going back to playing Candy Crush on his phone. She turns to the row of metal boxes, tracing them for hers.
Pulling out her key, she unlocks the one labeled 38. It’s got a couple magazines and letters from different banks inside— junk mail, mostly, she thinks. She doesn’t check it a whole lot, so it’s probably accumulated.
Heading up the stairs to her apartment, she shuffles idly through them— oh hey, that’s a fashion magazine. She flips it open for a second, taking a whiff of one of the perfume samples. A little too floral for her tastes.
But as she pushes open her apartment door, one envelope in particular catches her attention. A smaller one, bright red, with her address scrawled across the front in pen. No stamp, though.
She drops the rest of her mail on the couch as she slides open the envelope with her thumb, dread building in her stomach.
Turning it upside down, a single business card comes out, into her waiting hand. On one side, an all-too familiar stamp. On the other, in simple print, is only two lines of text.
Tomorrow’s date, 2/14/13, and a time.
4:00 PM.
She drops it on her kitchen counter with a deep sigh, knowing she’ll have to burn both the card and the envelope later, and walks over to her couch.
Reaching into the cushions, she pulls out a red mask, designed to cover the nose and everything above.
“Valentine’s Day sucks,” she sighs bitterly.