He is fifteen, and
not yet old enough to drive, so he shuffles forward in his too-small shoes, grinding against the carpet because he isn't feeling very confident – at least not right now. He isn't particularly handsome, but cute enough so that most girls would willingly give him a try. A boy with a strong jaw, smooth tanned skin, a clean goatee and some pleasant braces – not bad, but not Prince Charming. Just everything you'd expect from a boy his age and
maturity. But, of course there's only one thing about him that makes him unique, more than any other boy you know at school; is it his hair? No – it's pretty much average and very straight, slightly spilling over his milky chocolate eyes like a mystic veil. He's not too tall and not very short, and his voice isn't high and he isn't so fat, and a billion explanations pour into your mind before you gasp and remember that, "oh yeah",
He loves you.
But you can only see him in your mind for now, because it's Sunday night and 3 AM and you should be fast asleep but his image is livid in your mind. What do you think he's doing right now?
He slides forward on the carpet, approaching his sister and muttering (because he can't legally drive, not yet)
"can I have a ride to Wal-Mart"
And she stares at him for a moment, mostly for the sake of a
pregnant silence, which she enjoys for a formidable time. She grins to herself asks him why, and he honestly can't think of much so he says the first thing that pops into his head as to why he should be asking his dear sister for a ride to Wal-Mart at this unearthly hour: "I was in the mood for
Kool-Aid. Orange. We're out of powder."
And she stares at him again. It's such a lie that he wants a sweet orange drink at 3:00 in the morning, but she tiptoes to the pantry and notices that yeah… they are out of powder. Sugar, too. So without much thought she snatches up her little black coat and combs her hair so that she looks presentable even though it's just Wal-Mart, and gives her
fifteen-year old
brother a ride to the store. He doesn't say much in the car as he sits like a rock in the passenger seat, staring intently at the diminishing lights and the lost opportunities of yesterday as they make their way out of sight, out of mind, making way for the calming new glimpses of Monday morning sunshine. But the streets are wet with heartbreak tonight, and he stares out the window at all of this torture because he's thinking of you, and
He loves you.
And the kid and his sister pull into Wal-Mart, avoiding a lost puppy on their way in, careful not to hit him because he could
belong to someone
and nothing hurts more than having your little puppy hit by a car. So they swerve around the puppy, who squeaks and continues on his way, and they park snugly in a tight yellow parking space and the girl begins to undo her seatbelt when her brother mutters
"I'll go by myself"
and she's tired so she nods. And he gingerly pats his pockets to make sure that he has a good amount of money in them before he opens the door and shuffles off into the wet and grimy street, bathed in dying moonlight because it's 3 AM
and not exactly a safe time to be in a parking lot.
His chocolate eyes scan the street because he's somewhat tired and somewhat afraid because he's so far from home, but very
ready for this moment. He knows that nothing can harm him, nothing in this dangerous street, this moonlit journey – a quest that he has somehow found the courage to do after all of this agonizing time sitting around the house doing absolutely nothing. And as long as he keeps this important quest in mind, he can continue walking until
he reaches the automatic sliding door, and infrared sensors scan his bedraggled and tired form and he lets his foot (in his too-small shoes) dangle over the filthy white tile before he steps forward and the doors snap shut and he's in.
And the florescent lighting is horribly uncomfortable in his bitter brownish eyes, but he stares up at the massive ceiling, almost defiant towards the vile florescent God who seems to be against his awe-inspiring quest, partly because he's tired and somewhat delusional, but also because he knows in his heart that
He loves you.
And as the florescent poisoning dissipates from his eyes, he scans around for a moment and tries diligently to remember why he had even asked his sister to drive him to Wal-Mart at three o'clock in the morning – and it hits him, just as he sets his eyes on an enormous Kool-Aid advertisement.
It's a giant cardboard cut-out of a red glass jug with happy eyes and a wide perverted grin. He's full of juice. Sweet, delicious juice.
And he's carrying a crate that harbors sweet and delicious multicolored powder. He's a happy drug-dealer, made rich from his invention, selling such a wonderful and addicting drug to children for goodness' sake, rotting teeth and causing pain and breaking people down and unwillingly sending
fifteen-year olds to the store at 3:00 in the morning, at a time when it's not at all safe to be buying Kool-Aid. But of course, it's not at all safe to buy Kool-Aid in the first place.
And as the boy, lanky and thinking, runs his callused fingers across the cold and tasty packets of drugs, not at all ready to choose because there are just so many. Should he get the orange as he promised his poor sister, or the
?grape?
?the kiwi?
!chocolate!
…do they make chocolate Kool-Aid? Because he's in the mood for chocolate; he wants a refreshing chocolate drink so badly, but nobody has gotten around to it, at least not here in America, because
Americans don't drink chocolate with ice.
And the fifteen-year old (who so craves chocolate) lets his fingers droop into his pockets. He doesn't really want Kool-Aid anymore. So he wanders
round and round the store, glancing at the characters that you'd expect to see at Wal-Mart at 3:00 in the morning. He counts: two rowdy college guys, three mentally retarded kids, one staggering whore, seventeen Mexicans in hats, twelve Mexicans without hats, five girls with moustaches, a short man in a trench coat and two disgustingly fat women who are fighting diligently over the last Nintendo Wii on the shelf. And he
wishes he has the money on him to buy a videogame but he suddenly remembers that he hates videogames and he continues walking until he finds exactly what he's looking for – not five feet away from him stands a beautiful assortment of freshly-picked flowers.
They aren't perfect flowers, but he knows he has to get just one for you because
He loves you
and in just a few hours he would have to be at school – not because he wants to learn but because today is Valentine's Day and he wants so badly to tell you how pretty you are (because you are so pretty, you know). And he suddenly realizes why he had shuffled into his sister's room to ask for a ride at 3:00 AM to Wal-Mart just to buy some stupid orange Kool-Aid even though he never wanted Kool-Aid at all.
Because the Kool-Aid was a lie.
And he shoves his hand forward through the first layers of flowers because everybody knows that the first layers of flowers at Wal-Mart are the worst ones. That's just common knowledge. So he digs and he digs and he feels nothing except flowers caressing his skin and it reminds him of you because
He loves you.
And he starts to stand on his tiptoes and he groans and moans and feels so deeply until he's reached so far into the flowers that he thinks he's reached the Land of Oz. It's a gorgeous place (almost as pretty as you) where there are flowers that go beyond reason and comprehension. The flowers there are hurtfully, undeservedly, lustfully beautiful – so much so that everyone who sees them will cry for eternity.
And he doesn't want to see you cry, so he stops digging so deeply.
And he pulls back just a little bit until he's on the outskirts of Oz, and plucks up the prettiest rose that his lanky fingers can pluck. And, as he whisks his pollen-soaked hand from the orgy of multicolored flowers, he sees that he plucked perfectly.
In his fist, pristine and arched, seeming to radiate its own dark aura, is
a
pitch
black
rose.
It glistens in the florescent Wal-Mart lighting, and he smiles wide, in awe of what he has done. He knows that you'll love this gift, this perfect rose, this child of God. He just knows it. So, his journey completed, he
strides along the dirty tile floor, past a few rowdy college kids, past a lady with a moustache, past a hooker who is rubbing her poor feet because she's worked so hard tonight. And the boy keeps walking until he makes it to the register and waits his turn behind a tall Mexican man in a
hat. It's a pretty nice hat, with some pretty nice stitching. The boy stares at the hat and then stares at the gum, because that's what you do when you're waiting in line – you stare at the gum. It's a very, very large amount of gum. So much gum that it's almost
unfair, but really, when you think about it… it's only gum. And soon the Mexican guy walks off and the fifteen-year old strides up to the counter with his arm covered in pollen and an ebony rose clutched in his hand as if it were a newborn baby. And the cashier mumbles a half-dead
"special on black roses one for $100"
And normally he'd screech bloody murder and drop the expensive rose because honestly – who pays one hundred smackers for a little flower? There are only twenty petals, so that's five bucks for a black petal. Who would pay five dollars for a flower petal? Well apparently
he would because he reaches inside his pocket and slaps a wrinkled old Benjamin on the counter that he had been saving for so long, just for this moment. And the cashier takes the money and the boy takes the flower and he doesn't even bother to take his receipt for his very, very expensive black rose because it's for you and
He loves you.
And, the rose still stuck in his palm, he makes his way back outside to his sister, who sees the rose and doesn't even ask about orange Kool-Aid. The girl nods silently and presses the pedal to the metal because it's three-thirty in the morning and both of them need to be at school in a few hours. But not
because they want to learn. Because today… is Valentine's Day.
And it's suddenly four hours later because he doesn't remember what happened after that. All he can remember is that he bought you a flower. He leans against the bus stop in the cool Monday morning wind as it tries to topple him like a twig, but he stays strong and lets nature play itself out. And the dandelion-yellow bus that, every day, would whisk him off to school, pulls up (because he's not yet old enough to drive) and
he steps onto the threshold of the bus
and he sees you.
And his pitch-black rose, pristine (or even more so) than the moment he bought it at a Wal-Mart for one-hundred measly dollars, sits and waits patiently in his palm because it knows it is about to be adored. And
you see him too, because there's a certain electricity between two normal teenagers who are not yet old enough to drive. They neither want to take the bus nor get a ride from their parents, and they simply need to realize
?who do they hate more?
so they ride the bus and realize that no matter how old you become a school bus is just a school bus. Nothing more and nothing less.
So he tiptoes forward because you see him and he sees you, and he has a smile plastered on that average face with his half-beard and his pleasant braces, glinting at you in the Monday morning light. And the rose whips out like an anaconda from behind his back, and the same light that hits his braces makes the black rose look so very, very gorgeous and you immediately know that it's for you.
And he holds it out two inches from your face, the face you're so used to – the face with thin glasses and black hair that spills over your forehead like a plague, the melted-mocha face with little dimples on your cheeks and little wet lips that aren't too wide and aren't paper thin and that quiver when you're sad. It's the face with eyes like twilight, even though they're very endothermic and brown, he thinks they're gorgeous. It's a face that laughs just like angels ought to laugh, and that tries to sing but can't – and that just makes you more adorable but you don't ever really notice. Only he notices, because
He loves you
more than life itself, than air, than fun, than prosperity. He'd rather spend all day covered in Ebola than to see you cry. He'd trade every drop of blood he has just so you can get that necklace you want. He'd slaughter God to know that you're happy.
And he gingerly hands the black rose to you and he hopes and prays that you take it and
you do.
You snatch the rose and rip it up and watch as every broken, five-dollar petal comes crashing to the floor of the school bus. And you step on them and mutter
"I don't love you"
even though he worked so hard to make you happy, to make you laugh, to make you anything but wretched. Because on this special February morning, he wanted so badly for his Valentine to be you, the perfect girl that he adores. And even though
nobody likes you, even though you've killed more dreams than God, even though he can get so much better than you – you bitch! – he's going to do the exact same thing next Valentine's Day, and the next, and the next, because… well, because
He loves you.