2 p.m. Tuesday

I step out of the locker room shower wrapped in a towel. I hear my cell phone ringing. I check the caller id and see a number with an area code I don't recognize. I think, "This is probably one of my students with a cell phone from some suburb of Detroit. I'm not talking to any student of mine while I'm naked."

Later I listen to the message.

"Oh. Hi. This is HB. It's a little awkward--it's Valentine's Day. I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Valentine's Day. So, happy Valentine's Day. Talk to you later."

???!?!?!?!?

When I ask Sid what she thinks is going on, she says, "Oh, you mean he's 47, sad, lonely, has 8 jobs and no one to spend his time with?"

Right.

Fef, a woman in my lit class said, "Well, I don't know anything about any of this, but that seems terribly selfish of him."

Mmm. I like Fef.

Later that night, I got a text message--not even a voicemail--from yet another unavailable man. "Happy Valentine's Day!" he wrote.

How does this make me feel? A little loved, strangely. But a little loved. Haven't I already mentioned that reciprocity is what I'm after? When I love, I love huge. Shit, when I do anything, I do it huge. And I want huge love back.

Little love distracts me; it leaves me hungry, doesn't fill me up.

Maybe that's why I ate four sandwiches for lunch and still haven't finished my screenplay.

I'm also starting to feel a little sick, so I made sure to sleep 8 hours last night.

I need a break. Thank God for Dublin. . . .

But don't get me wrong, I'm getting some good love, too. I treated myself to a fine pasta primavera dinner at home with wine, candlelight and chocolate for dessert; I got a couple of lovely valentines (thanks da, thanks Gram); I even got jewelry (thanks for the bracelet, mama); I also got unselfish phone calls (thanks Sid, Kiki, Murder Pig, aka BFF).

It is possible to be grateful and hungry.