Happy Valentine’s Day! Me and Valentine’s Day ( I could say “Valentine’s Day and I” but that just sounds so ridiculously formal, and well, now I’ve established that I know the correct grammar, I feel that I can break the rule with impunity)… So, where was I? Ah yes - me. Valentine’s day. We don’t really get on. Not because we hate each other or anything, just because we can never seem to get it together. The timing’s always off. When Valentine’s Day is available, I’m busy. When I’m ready to be with Valentine’s Day it’s off trying to pull some other girl. Sometimes these things just happen. If you’re me, they happen a lot. But hey, I remain hopeful. One day, we will sit down and have that long-promised coffee together. Who knows? We might even share a slice of carrot cake.

Anyway, this whole long preamble is to introduce a story. If you like it, say nice things. I like it when people say nice things.

Moving Day

The last of my possessions sit on the doorstep of the new flat as the removal van pulls away. I heave a big sigh and look up at the sunny yellow front door. New start. I whisper to myself. Then again, as if to confirm it and make it more real. New Start.

The guy next door pops his head out of what I assume is his living room window. “Hey’ he calls cheerily. “Do you need a hand?” I guess I do. I nod wearily.

“I’m pretty much done except for these bags.”

“Be right there” he says, popping his head back in. Minutes later he appears by the door. He’s taller than I thought. He smiles.

“I’m Jim”
“Melinda. call me Mel” I shake his outstretched hand.

He grabs a a big black plastic bag- the biggest one, I note - on top of it lies a shoebox which he makes to tuck under his arm.

“Careful with that,” I say, maybe a little too sharply.

“Uh, sorry” he says running his free hand through a mess of dirty blond curls. His blue eyes darken with concern.

“It’s fragile.” I say, by way of explanation and in a tone which I hope makes me sound more neighbourly. Nice one, I think to myself. Only been here a minute.

“‘S okay,” he shrugs. Half smiles.

I open up the box carefully to make sure the contents are still intact.

“What’s in there anyway?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. Then he sees it. “Oh” he says and I can feel the pity and warmth and sadness, all mingled together in that one husky, knowing word. I look down at the deflated, anaemic, blue-tinged muscle of my heart. It looks pitiful. It beats in painfull, stuttering bursts.

“What happened?” asks Jim

“Boyfriend,” I say unthinking, then automatically correct myself. “Ex boyfriend. We broke up. That’s why I’m here,” I say gesturing to the front door with my head.

“Looks like he really did a number on you,” he says

My heart shudders again. I gently place the lid back on the box and hold it in the crook of my arm.

“You know, I can help you with that,” says Jim, reaching into his shirt pocket and pulling out his own heart. It’s rosy red, plump and shiny as a waxed apple. It beats with a strong steady rhythm.  I stare at it for a moment, then shake my head. No. “thanks, I say but I’m not sure what my heart needs right now. I think I’m just going to leave it in the box and see what happens.”

Jim Smiles. “Sure. If you ever change your mind…” he casually slips it back in his pocket.

We take the rest of my stuff up the stairs in silence.

“You can just put the bags over there”, I say pointing to the sofa in the corner.

“Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? I ask heading towards the small kitchen.

“Tea would be nice” he replies, nosing around an open box filled with books.

“How do you take it?” I call from the other room

“white, two sugars”

“Sugar? Don’t you think you’re sweet enough?” It comes out before I can stop myself. It’s the kind of thing Steve would say. I feel a fleeting pang of regret, followed by worry - I’m not sure how much more of this my heart can take. It was already in a bad way by the time I moved out of the house and into my friend Sophie’s spare room and a month of moping and crying hasn’t helped matters.

Jim laughs. It’s a rich, dark, sweet sound that makes me think of coffee and molasses.

“So how long have you been living in the neighbourhood?” I ask, busying myself with boiling the kettle - top of the box marked “kitchen emergencies” - and unwrapping the mugs.

“About six years. It’s not bad here. Plenty of things to do, near amenities, nice friendly people, in the main. Mostly young, single.”

“You sound like my estate agent,” I laugh bringing the teas through.

“I am an estate agent,” he says going  a little red.

“Oh,” I say, bursting into a fit of embarrassed giggles. “For what it’s worth, I really like my estate agent.”

“Uh huh”, he says, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am well aware of the reputation of estate agents and I am reserving the right not to comment any further.”

I laugh. “But I know you’re okay, I’ve already seen your heart.”

“Oh yeah”, he says, looking down at the heart steadily beating on his sleeve, “so you have.”