It was February 14th, Valentine’s Day. We were home alone. The kids were at the grandparents; finally, a romantic evening to ourselves. Valentine’s Day wasn’t a holiday we normally celebrated. I feel it’s just a holiday designed to bilk people out of their hard earned cash by making them feel they have to buy some fancy greeting card, which will likely be tossed aside and forgotten about, or buying a box of chocolates, which probably consists of several flavors neither person likes and really isn’t that good for you anyways. Oh…and jewelry, forget about jewelry. It’s so overpriced, and besides, she has so much jewelry that she doesn’t wear, it would be a waste of money to buy her anymore. Nope, Valentine’s Day just isn’t something I get into. If you really love her, love her every day. That’s my philosophy.

How does she feel about Valentine’s Day? I don’t really know. She knows how I feel and aside from a few snide remarks, she really hasn’t expressed much interest in it herself. Despite all that, this year was different. We were alone. We had the house to ourselves and the time and freedom to do what we wanted. So, setting aside my feelings regarding the holiday, I planned a romantic evening.

I decided we would have dinner at a fancy French restaurant, “Boeuf Parfait.” We dressed nice. I wore my black suit with a red tie. She wore her black dress, the v-neck one with the built-in bra. Around her neck was the pendant I bought her for our tenth wedding anniversary. She looked radiant. I told her so. She smiled and told me I looked nice. We left the house. I opened her car door. There on the passenger seat sat the dozen red roses I purchased earlier in the day. She turned and kissed me. I knew at that moment that I was getting lucky that night; at least I thought I was.

We arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before six. The lobby was full. According to the employee who took our name, it was about a 20-minute wait. Twenty minutes wasn’t bad. It gave us time to talk. She asked how my week was. I told her it was okay and then asked how her week was. She replied “fine.” Of course, we already knew how each other’s week was. Aside from children, money, and what’s for dinner, work is one of the few things we talk about on a regular basis. That’s not to imply we did not occasionally discuss other things, it’s just that with both of us working, four kids, and the various other responsibilities we have, we rarely find time to talk about other things. When we do find time, the conversation doesn’t last long as it is often interrupted by one of the children, a phone call or some other distraction. However, tonight was different. There was nothing to distract us. Finally, at 6:35, they called our name, and although it took longer than expected to get a table, we didn’t mind. It was our night out. We were free. We were in love.

The menu was in French. I couldn’t read it. She could. She studied French in high school and college. She ordered an appetizer, oignons frits; which in French means “fried onions,” better known as onion rings in America. Upon hearing her request onion rings, my mind flipped out. It isn’t something I would think one would order while on a romantic dinner date, especially if you’re hoping for a little physical intimacy. Maybe I was getting my hopes up. Maybe she wasn’t thinking the same thing I was. Regardless, I decided that since she was eating the “oignons frits,” I would also. Besides, we could always brush our teeth and sanitize our mouths with a little minty fresh Scope.

For dinner, I ordered the Filet Mignon with a side of steamed vegetables. She also ordered the filet but added a side of purée de pommes de terre a l’ail, better known as garlic mashed potatoes. Again, not a good choice I thought.

After we placed our order, I excused myself telling her I had to use the restroom. Secretly, I was heading back to the car to put the next step of my romantic plan into action. Five minutes later, I returned. A giant plate of onion rings lay sprawled out in the center of the table. As we sat waiting for our meal, we devoured every onion ring. They were good; the best I’d ever eaten. A little oil from the onion rings had dripped onto my plate leaving a pool of shiny goodness. Once the onion rings were gone, I sopped up the oil with a slice of bread; not wanting to miss one scrumptious drop of the heavenly substance. It was unlike any oil I had ever tasted. As I consumed it, she sat there staring at me. I couldn’t tell whether the look on her face was one of surprise, disgust, or anger. It could have been any; surprise that I ate as much I did, disgust at the way I was consuming every ounce of oil, or anger that I didn’t leave much for her. I must admit I was somewhat of a pig and ended up eating more of the onion rings than she did. I couldn’t help myself. The smell and taste were irresistible.

Just as I swallowed the last piece of oil flavored bread, the server arrived with our dinner. We ate, occasionally stopping to comment on how wonderful the food was. She complimented me for picking a fine restaurant. I thanked her and told her I knew she would like it. We finished dinner, skipped dessert, paid the bill and left. As we arrived at the car, I once again opened the door for her.

“You are quite the gentleman tonight,” she said while pressing her soft warm hand on my chest. As she turned to get into the car, she noticed the small brown envelope on the seat. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Just something I thought you would like,” I replied coyly.

She opened the envelope and examined the contents. In a state of shock, with tears flowing, she wrapped her arms around me. It was one of, if not, the best hug I had ever received. “Thank you,” she said as she kissed my lips. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“That’s okay. You’re all I need. You’re always there for me.”

As we drove home, a change came over me. My feelings of joy, love, and happiness slowly faded away as uneasiness, irritability, and pain took over my insides. I tried not to think about it. I didn’t want to ruin the evening. “Are you okay?” she asked.

I just smiled and nodded my head implying I was fine, which was a lie. I wasn’t okay. My insides were burning. An angry beast had invaded by stomach doing everything in its power to destroy what I hoped to be one of the most romantic nights of my life.
Immediately upon arriving home I jumped out of the car and rushed up stairs to the bathroom. There I sat, pants down around my ankles, ass on toilet struggling to release the lump of coal filling my bowels. The pain was excruciating. No amount of pushing, clenching of the buttocks, or straining seemed to do anything. I grunted and softly screamed with every tiny movement of the rock-solid beast taking its time as it toured my innards. From the bedroom, I could hear my wife’s voice as she responded to each painful grunt and scream with, “are you alright in there?”

I wanted to smack her. I wasn’t all right. That should be obvious. A giant piece of shit was holding me captive on an uncomfortable porcelain throne. I felt like yelling back some sarcastic childish put down with a few expletives thrown in, but I knew how she felt about offensive language. Besides, I was still hoping to get lucky that night, even though I knew my chances were rapidly fading away with every second I sat there struggling to defeat the smelly beast.

Eventually, being such a concerning and loving person, she came into the bathroom. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’m trying to poop!” I shouted, clinching my teeth as the pain continued to shoot through me. “It won’t come out. That French food sucks.”

“It’s not the French food. You just ate it. It’s probably something you ate yesterday. Sounds like you’re constipated.”

As she said the word constipated, she walked away. Two minutes later she returned.

“What are those for?” I immediately said upon seeing the whitish colored plastic things in her hand. “And what is that for?”

“I’m going to help you. You need my help.”

“No,” I mumbled realizing what she was planning. “No. No. No. You aren’t doing that!”

With the oily gloves on her hands she rushed to me, shoving me against the wall that luckily was less than a foot from the side of the toilet. Now, with my butt slightly at an angle as I leaned against the wall, she quickly shoved her fingers up my ass. After a slight jiggle she yanked her fingers out and it began. Within seconds, I was healed and pain free. “Happy Valentine’s Day. I love you. See you in bed,” she said with a seductive smile.

And that’s true love. Having a companion who would do anything for you. By the way. The gift in the envelope was tickets to Paris; the one place she always wanted to visit. Mon véritable amour!

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The above short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2019 by Joseph Bunch

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, scanning, uploading, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying, recording, or by any other storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.