Sometimes, in a fairy tale...

Once he sent her a Valentine. They were in third grade, and he made it himself. He cut out the construction paper, and he glued the lace on the edges, and he wrote her name and “I love you" in big black letters. They didn’t know what love was. But they knew the words belonged on a ruby paper heart.

She kept the card forever pressed between her favorite pages of a gilded, hardbound collection of fairy tales. And she never showed it to anyone else. Because nobody else would understand.

Once he sent her a parking ticket. He had been loitering in his car outside of her house, waiting, watching, hoping for a glimpse, and then he’d gotten out to stretch his legs, to give his body and brain a break, and in the few moments he was away, a meter maid had issued him a ticket. He’d scrawled “I love you” on the slip of paper and thrust it in her bright red mailbox.

She paid the ticket, of course. How could she not?

Once he sent her a postcard. He sent her a postcard from a faraway land where he’d gone to get her out of his head.

Can’t get her out of his head.

She put the postcard with the Valentine and reread the fairy tale about a girl who spoke in gems and flowers, diamonds and petals falling from her lips with every word she uttered. A fairy had charmed her as a reward for her goodness. Those things don’t happen in modern times. Because we don’t believe in fairy tales anymore, so when a fairy in filthy disguise asks us to fetch a cup of water from the well, we hurry on our way to Pilates without a second glance.

Once she sent him a Valentine. It was in 7th grade, and she made it herself and tucked it between the slats in his dinged blue locker that was scrawled all over with dirty words and irreverent slogans. She slid it in when nobody was looking, not wanting to be teased for having such an impossible crush.

Once she sent him a dry cleaning receipt. She’d been watching his apartment window, hoping for a glimpse, a peek, a moment, and a car had driven past and splashed her with dirty gutter water.

Once she sent him a postcard. She sent him a postcard from a faraway land where she’d gone to get him out of her head.

Can’t get him out of her head.

She imagined him putting the postcard on his refrigerator with a heart-shaped magnet. The only art on the fridge. Maybe the only art in his apartment. She could visualize the way he might live. An almost barren studio. A thrift-store table. A sofa from the side of the road. A few used paperbacks.

It was a black-and-white postcard of two people kissing in a faraway land. He would look at it any time he walked by the refrigerator. He would think of her.

Once he carved their initials in a park bench. His plus hers entwined amongst the leftover graffiti from other decades. Kilroy, where did you go? Where are you now?

Once she took out a personal ad, telling him how to find her. “Find me. Come find me.” She was explicit. She was sincere. But he didn’t respond.

She can close her eyes and see him. Clear as day. Black slacks. White shirt. Trench coat. Boots. A ring on one finger. A scar on his knuckle. She whispers to herself, “Let me kiss you and make you whole.”

She knows he can close his eyes and see her. Bright as the sun. Blue silk dress with pearl buttons. Black leather boots that lace to the calf. A petticoat. Hair in a bun. Undo her and make her whole.

Once she tried to call him from a stray payphone late at night, on a side street in a bad part of town, when loneliness had overwhelmed her, and she didn’t think she could take another second. She stood there with her dime in hand, but when she dropped in the coin, it came back again. And when she attempted to call collect, the operator said there was no one in the book by that name and rudely disconnected the line.

Once upon a time, they would have met in a forest by a kingdom. He’d have slain the dragon. She would have waited in the tower for his triumphant return. How she would have rewarded him. Diamonds and petals for his efforts. Roses all around.

And instead she is so lonely that she’s invented an imaginary lover, and cuts her own Valentine’s Day cards, and pretends she knows where her “boyfriend” lives, as if she had a boyfriend. Because only only one of them exists, and that’s where this all gets complicated.

A made up guy.

An empty locker.

A postcard mailed to herself.

A Valentine she cut and adorned.

An apartment where a stranger lives.

A ticket she got that she turned into a fantasy.

When you’re lonely, your brain can solve for X. Create a fantasy friend, partner, amour to make the lights brighter, the nights less chilly. You can live a romance novel timeline, walk through a chilly city solo but with a fictitious lover at your side, someone only you can see when you stare in a plate glass window at your solitary reflection.

Look at him standing there, collar turned up against the cold, cheekbones touched with pink. Look at him, with a scarf she made him, wrapped twice around his throat. A ring he wears that she has the match of.

Because once he sent her a Valentine, and they held hands when nobody was looking. And they went behind the laundromat, and they told each other fairy tales and they kissed madly up against the bricks until their lips felt bruised.

And afterwards, he carved their initials into an old park bench.

She + he = true love always.

Sometimes, in a fairy tale.