Portrait of a young Reluctant Artiste in love: Exact. Oh.
February 14, 2014 
It wasn’t what I wanted.
We’d only been together a few months. And I was in love—capital L-O-V-E—and I wasn’t sure he was.
At least there’d been no words to that effect. Not one. Despite all the silences I had placed strategically in his path, wide and waiting.
And it was Valentine’s Day and I thought maybe he might take the opportunity to demonstrate what he had not yet said.
The box he held out was rectangular. Bracelet-shaped—which I thought was promising. I would have preferred ring-shaped, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I unwrapped it, heart a pitter patter, and saw, not a blue velvet jewelry box, but a blister pack.
An Exacto knife.
Narrow and matte silver chrome. The sort used for slicing the waxed sheets of copy that we both worked with, in the dusty days before computers replaced the sweat and smoke tinged lay-out tables of the newspaper print shop. I would be the envy of the slicers, I realized, much later.
At that moment, all I could think was a) he doesn’t love me b) he wants me to be more employable so he can dump me in good conscience and c) what the hell do I do with my face, in case I am wrong about a) and b).
“It reminded me of you.”
What did that mean? He saw me as cold, hard-edged, the kind of woman who cut things? Very particular things? The kind of woman who you certainly did not envision a life with, because you don’t spend your life with retractable razors—not if you have any sense at all.
“What? Don’t you like it?”
“Of course I do. It’s great. It’s just—“
“What?”
“Well. It’s an unusual gift for Valentine’s Day.”
“You said Valentine’s Day was a corporate plot.”
“I didn’t mean it!”
Tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“I love you. Do you love me at all?”
“Of course I love you. I’d kill for a knife this cool. It’s got a rubberized grip—“
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Go back.”
“Where?”
“To the part where you love me. “
“Of course I love you. What did you think we were doing all this time?”
I didn’t know. Because there’d been no words. He didn’t know that I didn’t know—‘cause every gesture he’d made since the day he’d met me, was him telling me.
He had yet to learn the language of silence yearning for words. And I had yet to learn the language of Exacto knives.
Happy Valentine's Day.
