Valentine's Day Virgin

1

Sally

“Thank you very much,” I say with a smile as I hand the woman her absurdly large box of chocolate. Finally, a breather. I’ve been going non-stop for what feels like hours. This is always the busiest time of year for the ‘I Love Chocolate’ stand. Valentine’s Day is in three days and everyone is stocking up, buying gifts for their special someone.

I haven’t been stocking up on chocolate. Vodka is a different story. I'm going to need that in a couple of days when I'm home on Valentine’s Day alone. Again.

I just missed it again this time, too. Bryan broke up with me a week ago, and even though it wasn't great, I would have liked for it to last through the holiday. I've never had a boyfriend for Valentine's, and it sucks.

Iris keeps telling me that it's not my fault, that the guys I'm seeing don't seem to realize how great I am and that's why they keep leaving. That's pretty hard to believe when the same thing keeps happening over and over, but God bless my best friend for trying to make me feel better whenever I call her. She ends up consoling me while I cry into a bowl full of ice cream.

I take a chocolate from under the counter and bite down. Cherry filling. Not the worst, not the best. A kid running away from his father knocked into the cart and landed on this box. I had to damage it out anyway, the non-squished chocolates might as well not go to waste. It's the most excitement I'm going to get this weekend anyway.

It's Wednesday, and Valentine's is Saturday. Which means we'll probably be twice as busy as we normally are. And of course, I have a shift that day. Retail, go figure. I can't even just stay home and ignore the fact that no one wants me.

If Iris were here she'd smack me for talking to myself that way, but I can't help it. I work at a chocolate stand. All I do is see people buy little gifts for their significant others. And they all seem so happy while they're doing it. Is it so wrong that I want the same thing?

Of course it's not wrong, but deep down I know what the real problem is. I look around, even just thinking the thought makes me anxious. Somehow I've made it to twenty-five and I’m a virgin. That's the problem. I'll meet a great guy, and we'll get along, and suddenly when I tell him that I still have my V-card, he freaks out and leaves.

I don't get it. I thought that guys were supposed to love virgins. Primal instinct and all that. But every one I've encountered gets the same uncomfortable look on his face, and within days, they're gone. Bryan was the same. I cried a little, but I'm mostly over it now. It's happened too many times for me to expect anything different. There was a feeling in my gut when he called me and said he wanted to meet. Like suddenly I just knew.

A sigh escapes me. I'm just cursed. Something somebody did generations ago has made it so that I can't have a boyfriend on Valentine's and that nobody wants to fuck me. I know I'm a virgin but I'm not an idiot—I think I could be a pretty good time in bed if someone actually gave me a shot.

There's a couple walking by the cart, and they're perfect. She's wearing a red dress that looks too formal for a Wednesday but also perfect for her. He's tall and is laughing at something she said while her arm is tucked into his. The way he looks at her, I have to look away. I want that, and I hate that I do. I hate that my chest aches when I see people like that who seem so blissfully happy.

I lean down on the cart, eating another chocolate, caramel this time. Just once I want to be wearing the red dress. I want to be the one who's funny, who has someone look at me like that. We could go dancing, and in my mind a ballroom unfolds with perfect fancy music and people dressed from a different era. I'm swept across the dance floor by a tall man in a brilliant tuxedo, and I can feel my stomach do a little flip-flop as he dips me backwards. There's a smile on my face even though I have no idea who he is.

The vision is faceless, but it's the feeling I want. That sensation of being completely loved and accepted and cherished. I've never had that. Not in the way I hoped. I had a couple boyfriends who came close, but even if I pretend otherwise, I'm a romantic at heart and I want nothing more than to be swept wholly off my feet. But if I continue to fall for guys who make up excuses for why they don't want to be with me, then it's never going to happen. They'll pretend it's something else, but it's always the sex. I'm not stupid.

The man dancing with me won't care that I'm a virgin. He'll be happy that I haven't had to suffer through a lot of bad sex just to find him. He'll take me to bed and rock my world and care for me at the same time, and everything will be perfect.

It's the movement of the cart that jerks me out of the vision, suddenly rolling out from underneath me because I was leaning so heavily on it. It moves faster than I thought possible, and suddenly I'm on the ground, the cart speeding away from me through the mall. Shit! I forgot to lock the cart down when I brought it out of storage this morning. I get to my feet and chase after it. There's some yelling as people realize what's happening and run to get out of the way. I can't seem to catch it, my breath burning in my chest. I'm no athlete. I mean, I go to the gym but I don't make the hundred-meter dash on a regular basis.

Oh my God, the cart is heading to the escalator. If it falls down the escalator it's going to be damaged beyond repair. But it's worse than that, because I can see a woman riding up the escalator, and I can see that she's going to reach the top right when the cart is going to crash into her and the tiny dog that she's carrying.

I push myself forward, faster than I thought possible, I've got to stop it. I have to stop it. I reach out and grab the cart, and it doesn't want to slow, it's momentum already too much, but I dig in my heels and yank. The cart crashes to the side, the glass of the display shattering and chocolate flying everywhere as I go flying in the opposite direction. The woman and her dog arrive at the top of the escalator to a scene that must look crazy. She looks at me, and then she looks at the cart, blinks, and blinks again.

I realize that I haven't killed anyone, and let myself sag back onto the floor. Ow. First I fell on my front, and then it threw me on my back, and my body is shaking from the exertion of chasing the cart. I really am cursed. Truly. Only I could let myself daydream for five minutes and then almost kill someone. I didn't think that Valentine’s could get any worse this year. Clearly I was wrong.

Fuck.

"Are you all right?" The woman—who is younger than I first thought, only a few years older than I am—appears over me.

"I think so. Or I will be." I manage to sit up and survey the damage.

Honestly, I didn't think that the carts were that fragile, but apparently subpar craftsmanship has taken its toll, because the cupboard doors are swinging off their hinges, the roof has fallen off, and the shelves are scattered across the floor surrounded

by chocolate and glass. Oh God.

The woman helps me to my feet slowly. "Thanks. I have to call the owner."

I reach for my cell phone but a voice interrupts me. "I already did." It's Gus, one of the mall security guards who's a million years old and seems to think that anyone under thirty with a job at the mall is a child that he's allowed to punish. "He's on his way."

Great. So now instead of Mr. Ferguson hearing about the accident from me, it's going to look like I tried to hide it from him. "Thanks," I say. That means he'll be here shortly. He owns several stores and kiosks in the mall, so he's probably already in the building. I'm doomed.

"What the fuck happened?" A voice echoes from across the mall, really too loud and too far away to be asking.

And there's Mr. Ferguson.

I wait because I'm honestly not sure what to do here. I don't have gloves, so I can't start cleaning up the glass yet. All I can do is watch while Mr. Ferguson storms around the railing that surrounds the elevators toward me. He stops, staring at the wreckage of the cart, his face angry, veins popping in his forehead. "How did this happen?"

"It slipped," I say quietly. "I must have forgotten to lock it down this morning."

"Oh, well that's better than a freak accident," he says. "Oh wait, no it's not. I've made exceptions for you, Sally, but this is the last straw. You're the worst on the sales team, and now you've ruined a couple thousand dollar’s worth of merchandise. Go find someone else to terrorize."

I stare at him, gaping. "You mean?"

"You're fired." He yells it, and it rings out across the mall.

People are staring, watching the show, and it's all I can do not to run and hide. I can feel my face go beet red and suddenly I'm fighting off tears. "Do you want me to help you clean up?" I ask softly.

"And risk even more damage to anything that's not already broken? No thanks. But I can assure you, you will pay me back for every cent of this. I'm not going to be out this amount of money for your stupidity. I'll expect whatever isn't covered by this paycheck by the next billing cycle."

I don't have that kind of money. There's no way I can cover what's got to be probably two grand worth of chocolate above and beyond my pretty pathetic paycheck. Oh God, what am I going to do? Mr. Ferguson is the kind of man that will definitely sue me if I don't pay him back, and the case is pretty clear on this one. He'd win.

"I'll pay for it," a female voice says behind me, and I turn to find the blonde from the escalator. She's digging in her bag and pulls out a checkbook, "How much? For that and the cost of the girl’s salary, which you will pay her."