Unhappy Valentine

I sit at a table outside the Food Court, taking shots of seagulls frolicking at the water feature, trying to catch one in flight with the Canon.

The table can seat at least eight folks, on benches either side. I am the only person there. Then a soft, cuddly being flops down next to me. About twenty years my junior. If she reincarnates as a dog, she’d be a fluffy golden retriever. Snuggling up to me, she asks if it is okay if she sits with me. Her accent could be German, even Austrian. Really an attractive, agreeable being, about six foot tall, with a large bone structure, copper blonde hair at shoulder length. Wavy, curly, well looked after. And an agreeably upholstered physique.

I answer her, pointing towards the opposite side of the table, that she is welcome to sit there, as she is presently occupying the seat reserved for my wife.

A coil spring stiffens next to me, it jumps up and disappears as if into thin air. I turn around yet she has vanished.

Sorry, dear, if I spoiled your Valentine’s Day 2017. I can truly love many women, but romance I reserve for the queen who had graced me with a YES on the rear steps of a little English church in a town called Darling, some three decades ago.

As beautiful as they are, they also make the greatest of friends, but King Solomon found that, confusing issues, can divide a nation. I don’t need seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. Getting to know just one takes a lifetime.

We have a happy Valentine’s every day as we are never sure of the actual date.

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