Andy didn't rush home from work on Valentine's Day to toss rose petals over our bed and place a sparkling diamond necklace against my pillow. I wasn't apron-clad, peeking into the stove to check the temperature of a perfectly crisp roasted chicken. My legs weren't even shaved. (TMI?)
No, on the evening of Valentine's Day I was parked on the couch savoring a piece of chocolate cheesecake I had bought for myself. Andy was in Maryland and had been there since Sunday night, and I was waiting for him to come home. When he called to say he was an hour away I moved to kitchen and stared at the leftover Mexican lasagna we had in the fridge, feeling guilty that I hadn't made something new. I cut out a heart-shaped piece of lasagna, tidied up the downstairs, made a handmade Valentine, put on deodorant and waited some more.
My guy was exhausted when he came in the door. He smiled at his heart-shaped dinner and then devoured it. We exchanged cards and watched "The Voice" until Andy's eyes couldn't stay open. We fell asleep, feet entwined.