A Souvenir
"Will you be my valentine?" seems a simple request, and the boy does not expect Anthy to consider it as deeply as she does. The proffered heart is pink, and the paste on the paper lace is not yet dry.
When she gives him no response beyond a politely blank stare, he departs, leaving her alone in the classroom with his crayon-scrawled card dumbly cradled in her hands, delicately as if it were a bomb or a baby. She is not sure what its function is, or even what her obligations are now that it is in her possession.
The card's color-- of new roses, curls of hair, and the radiant sweat-shiny flush on a victorious girl-athlete's face-- troubles her, and she tucks it away before-- the sepia photograph's promise can fill her mind-- she can think why.
Long after the boy has forgotten her name, his card-- no longer a memento of himself, but an entity all to itself-- lingers in her desk drawer. The construction paper refuses to fade, and so from time to time, amid the clutter of the drawer, she catches a flash of the paper's heart-stopping, castle-razing brilliance. It seems to glow in the gloom of her room, the color pink, singing alone in the drawer: I will be your valentine, your Prince, yours, yours, yours. The melody, just as lovely and constant as a music box, waits patiently until Anthy is ready to lift the lid on her memories and listen.
