Valentine's Day, the shittiest day of the year. Chocolates in heart shaped boxes, excuses to push aside detrimental issues to hold someone close. Red roses, pleads to fulfill the principles of affection. Sincere lovers would never consider this day as being a day of celebration to the one you've foolishly committed yourself to.

Cupid's arrow slicing through your heart and letting the blood pour out mercilessly, the life leaving your eyes as the darkness engulfs you.

I sit at the table chugging on a massive mug of coffee as the hangover from last night is alleviated by advil and caffeine. The stench of strong alcohol oozing out of my skin. Fuck a Valentine.

I've been drinking myself into oblivion for the past few weeks, my mind being tormented by drunken dreams of Sunshine. Last night sent me tugging off any clothes I was wearing and rushing to the bathroom to hurl the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

My eyes pull apart slowly at the sound of shuffling and song, she always liked dancing in the kitchen. Her nimble body skipping around the kitchen in search of a breakfast she'll never find in our emptied fridge. The rain pelting down against the window pane to blur the outside world.

'Tiff's it is,' I hear her quiet whisper mutter out.

The rich scent of caffeine wafting around her swaying figure as she mumbles out the words that the vinyl has poured out upon her request. She spins and sways her hips to the melodic music. I hear the clanging of mugs hitting the counter, I've always liked waking up to coffee.

Her porcelain skin bare of anything, the dim light shining through the window to shine a spotlight on her perfect body. God she's beautiful, I've never seen someone make living seem so enchantingly elegant. Everything she does is done with an unmatched grace, her heavenly shape met with her brilliant mind leaves me in awe.

She twirls to tug on a button up of mine that was discarded on a kitchen chair the night before, wrapping it around her torso to hide her shivering skin. Her quiet steps speed up in pace as she nears the foot of our bed. She jumps up into the air and falls into my body as she hits the bed. A groan leaves my chest from the impact as I tug her into me, enveloping her waist and digging the tips of my fingers into the plush of her hips.

Her soft giggles swirl my insides and leave a flutter in my chest, I press soft kisses to the revealed skin on her shoulder that's been abandoned by the fallen shirt. I toss the top duvet cover over the both of us and begin nibbling at her neck which elicit hitched breaths from her perfectly pink lips.

The telephone rings to which she sits up and removes it from the receiver, my hands grasping at any available skin I can find. She swats away my advances as she listens intently to the caller.

I tug at her waist and wrap my hands around her thighs in an attempt to bring her closer to me but instead she stands up from the bed and begins twisting the cord between her fingers nervously.

"Sunshine, what's going on?" I mutter out with a groggy voice as I move to sit at the edge of the bed.

She drops the phone and it falls to the floorboard, a loud clang following its release. Her face pale, all of the color drained from it in an instant. She steps away from me cautiously as her voice shakes, "How could you do that to them?"

I stand from the bed and lower my brow in inquisition, "What?"

"You killed them." She says through choking sobs that rattle through her chest.

That was what led to the emptying of my stomach last night. I prayed that the bottle I downed would drown out the nightmares but it only enhanced them. The sweet smell of her hair--stronger, the shine of her smile--brighter, the gushing of her giggles--louder. Everything about her made me want her more--until she found out the truth.

The grinding of the chair legs against the wooden floor causes me to grimace as I push the chair away from the table. I cut my way through the mess spread across the ground to the bathroom. The clothing and emptied take-away containers kicked out of my path as I shuffled past my unmade bed and the record player I'm far too apprehensive to touch for fear of reawakening the previous night's nausea--she always liked dancing in the kitchen.

I twist the handle to bring a stream of boiling water to spout from the shower head. The steam spilling off of it and billowing to hit the mirror to leave a fog behind. I step under the assail of burning liquid and my shoulders pull back as I groan out at the blazing spray.

I loosen my tensed muscles and lean back to soak my hair, bringing my fingers to scrape against my scalp. I attempt to scrub the scenes of her hair whipping back and forth as her body spun in circles and the feeling of her body pressed against mine under soft sheets.

I can't even distract myself with a bit of mindless fucking. I was on the verge of pulling all my hair out with Rebecca. She kept bitching about my schedule or that I never brought her to my place or that I wasn't 'fun.' The last straw was her pulling up in front of Dorthea's in her car and slamming her fist down on the horn when I didn't come to some stupid fucking party she wanted me at.

I ended up in a ball next to the door of my apartment, only finding sleep when my body gave out in pure exhaustion after sweating bullets that left my clothes soaked through and a heart racing so fast it left my chest sore. I woke up so out of it the next morning that I didn't even bother to go down to the store to work. I just stayed in that same spot all day, squeezing my fists until bruises imprinted on my palms and my muscles ached from their lack of movement. My grandmother left a take-away box from Tiff's on the landing outside and I ate half a grilled cheese which I proceeded to spew into the kitchen sink not long after consuming.

That was last week. Now I'm nowhere near as unstable, but just as lonely.

I fucking hate Valentine's Day. Brainless couples will come into the store and steal up all the good records--all the records she likes--and won't even listen to them. I'll have to hear lovesick mutterings of, 'this is our song,' and, 'we're gonna to dance all night.'

My mother loved Valentine's Day, she'd always take the day off work and spend it with me. We'd go to the movies or buy a new record. Afternoons of fish and chips after scouring record store after record store or bellyaches from one too many red vines. She always told me that she was lucky to have me as valentine--turns out being my valentine is the most unlucky title one could achieve.

I punch the side of the shower, the tile fracturing under my fist. I shake out my hand and twist the handle to turn the water off. Son of a bitch, I hate Valentine's Day.

Maybe she hates it too.

She can't hate Valentine's Day, she has Loverboy, he wouldn't let her. Her eyes dripping with guilt the morning after that contest, her unnecessary displeasure made my fist clench. He causes her pain without even being around. She sees him so devastatingly perfect that it destroys her.

I rustle my hair around with the towel as I drag myself back out of the bathroom before tossing it on the ground to meet the array of debris already inhabiting the floor. I dig out a plain black hooded jumper from the pile of possibly clean clothes next to my bed and pull it over my head before tugging on a pair of black jeans from the same pile.

My dampened hair drips water down my spine and onto my face as I dart around my apartment for my phone and keys. I finally find what I'm looking for--my phone between the red velvet couch cushions and my keys behind a short table near the door. My feet are smashed into boots as I swing the door open and step onto the landing.

The winter air is slowly transitioning to spring, each day less frigid and biting as the last. Snow still sprinkles the tops of buildings and the streets. Spring is coming at a snail's pace, the snow will warm to rain and nature will wake up again.

She loves rain.

The rusted staircase creaks under my footsteps as I descend them, melting icicles hang from the handrail as displays of changing seasons. Four seasons, they fly by and yet drag on forever. My feet hit the slush on the concrete and I sink into the low slush as I round the corner of the building to meet the storefront.

I open the door and step inside, the warm air brushing my skin. I hear footsteps and the muffled voices of my grandparents. My feet take me around the desk and I take the keys from my pocket and toss them behind a framed black and white picture of my grandparents that rests in a copper frame on the desktop.

I slump down onto the stool and begin jotting down albums to play over the store's sound system. I attempt to avoid any song of lovers but the industry has failed me--musician's are just as lovesick and heartbroken as the rest of us.

Just as I presumed, couple after couple come into the store. Old married couples take all of her favorite crooners off the shelves, young lovers remove all of the new age music that I think she'd enjoy. Every note stolen from the inventory causes another round of frustrated knuckle cracks to ring out.

Slow hour, mid-afternoon, comes around and I finally receive some peace from the constant gooey gushing of romance in the air--until the bell above the door chimes.

My eyes lift from the notepad of scribbled out album titles to see a mop of messy blonde hair. Oh Loverboy, I'm really not in the mood today--or ever.

His annoyingly cheery disposition makes my blood boil, his steps on the linoleum flooring squeaking from the moisture on the soles of his shoes makes my jaw tense, his scrolling fingers through the bins of music I know she won't like makes my already tense muscles flex.

He searches through the aisles of music, his music--country and rock. She enjoys music that has individuality and genuineness in its composure, his taste is flat. The only proper choice he's made is on her, somehow he got her.

He circles through the store before coming up to the desk empty handed. He places his palms on the edge of the desk and leans forward on them, "Hi, how's it going Harry? I'm just looking for a CD today."

I grunt out a humming acknowledgement as I continue to scratch out album titles I know we have in stock.

"Do you happen to have any Nickelback?" He asks as his head falls farther forward in an attempt to meet my lowered gaze.

I blink a few times as I recall the last time she was in the store, two days ago, she came with her sister right before closing. Her torso engulfed in a white crew neck jumper that had a comic style concept art on it and brown trousers that fit her thin legs very well. Her nose red from the cold and blowing on her fingertips as she rubbed her palms together to warm them. I stared for far too long but I could tell she was avoiding my sight, she looked anywhere but where I was sitting at the desk.

Her sister's boisterous voice echoes through the store, "He played what in the car?"

"Nickelback," she groans.

Teddy's laugh so vividly loud that it made my ears ring, "Yikes Pheebs, you really know how to pick 'em."

"It's his car, he can play what he wants." Her kind voice defends her tasteless lover.

"Does he know how much you hate them?" Teddy asks through her fading laughter.

She shakes her head and looks over at her sister, "I didn't have the heart to tell him." She steps past the desk and I hear her say under her breath, "Wouldn't be the first time."

They browsed for a little while past closing and I snuck to the back of the store when I saw them headed for the checkout. I wasn't in the mood to deal with her invalidly guilt-ridden state. The overhead bell rang, signalling their departure, and I rushed to the door to lock it and flip the sign to read, 'Sorry, we're closed.'

I look up from the yellow legal pad to meet his face, "No, we only sell respectable music here." Of course we have Nickelback in stock, it's always in stock, no self-respecting person would even dare to borrow their work. I should have guessed that's what he'd ask for, something generic and bland, he's the type.

His face scrunches up in confusion, "Oh."

"What'd you need that shit for anyways?" I berate as I lean over the desk with a hardened expression.

He pushes himself to stand straight up and clasps his hands in front of him, "Well, it's Valentine's Day and she likes music."

I can't help the laugh that erupts from my chest, "It's Valentine's Day? So you want her ears to bleed?"

He blinks at my insult and his lips pull to gather at the corner of his mouth, "She liked it when I played it in the car the other day."

I shake my head and my tongue runs over my top row of teeth, "You're a fuckin' idiot. Absolute wanker."

He goes to say something but grandfather interrupts him, "Happy Valentine's Day! How may I help you today?"

He turns to my grandfather, "I was just looking for a Nickelback CD."

My grandfather nods before tapping his shoulder, "I believe we have what you're looking for." They begin to walk away, as they do my grandfather shoots me a glare. If looks could kill.

I huff out an angered breath and go back to the yellow lined paper, mumbling curses under my breath as more titles are scripted out poorly onto the page. I get so fed up that I slap the pad down onto the table, spending the pencil soaring across the store behind a bin. I dig my feet into the floor and tramp back to the back of the store. I plug my Fender into the amp and begin strumming out the harsh chords of Zeppelin's, 'Babe I'm Gonna Leave You.'

My fingers fondling the fretboard in an irate attempt to distract myself. My head is spinning from the pure dismal he had for her, he doesn't ask her, he just assumes. An ass, he's an ass. I graze the strings brutally, I can't even think straight.

I don't even hear the chime to signal Loverboy's exit or the strides my grandfather takes to get to me. I only notice my grandfather's presence when the roll of my guitar is cut off. When I look up, I see my grandfather holding the cord to the amp in his hand with a look I've only seen a handful of times before, complete anger searing his skin and face as red as the devil himself.

"What is your fuckin' problem?" I bark out.

He drops the amp cord and I see his hands tense like he's holding back the urge to strangle me, "My fuckin' problem?" He mocks, "My fuckin' problem is that I take you in when no one else would, I give you a place to stay and a place to work, I don't hound you for coming in everyday hungover, and yet you can't give up this pathetic bastard attitude."

I scoff out a breathy laugh, "I didn't ask you to do any of that shit, you did that all on your own."

"I don't know what your deal is but you better get your ass over it. If I catch you treating my customers like shit or coming into work reeking of alcohol like some cheap hooker I'm kicking your ass to the curb." He words seething with pure resentment.

He's serious, the few times I've seen him this inflamed his words were also followed by their promised actions. Whether it was a swift ass kickin' in the form of making me sit by myself with no music, which trust me was torture as a child, or a retelling of my pitiful deeds to my father, he always did what he promised.

I shrug my shoulders and send a daringly uninterested look his way, "Promise?"

He exhales slowly and I can hear his teeth grind, "Trust me, son. It's a promise."

He storms off to the front of the store and I hear the crashing of a cup of pens hitting the floor violently. Good thing my grandmother left to get our asses lunch.

I put my guitar back on the stand and begrudgingly wander up to the front of the store where I'm met with the scent I've been craving all day--chocolate chip pancakes.

I can't help but jump behind my grandmother, frightening her in the process, to get what I've sought after. I shouldn't be as elated as I am to have a taste of saccharine syrup and chocolate morsels. I need a bit of Sunshine and right now, this is the closest I can get.

I take my box to the back of the store and fall to the floor, popping the tabs to open the box. Three perfectly pristine pancakes, sinking in sticky syrup and coated in melted chocolate.

I push the fork through the fluffy sand dollars and stab pieces to toss into my mouth. The cakey confection coating my taste buds in bright rays of light, Sunshine. It tastes like the squeaking of spinning red stools and tossed about teasings.

I hum along to the old lover's music of the sixties as I scarf down forkful after forkful until the box is nothing but maple flavored residue and crumbs of cocoa.

My grandmother walks towards me and holds out something in front of me. It's a long, thin red box. I scramble to stand up and accept the gift, taking the box into my sugar coated fingerprints and leaving sweetener sticking to the sides. I fumble with the top of the box and it finally falls to the ground.

A thin sheet of creamy tissue paper covers a treasure I'd been searching for since I got here, my mother's guitar strap. I drop the box as I hold the strap in my hands, it's psychedelic pattern vaguely reminiscent of floral.

I open my mouth to speak but words don't come out, "How did you- Where was"

"I found it in a box of her things in the storage area," My grandmother speaks over me through a light snicker.

I nod quickly, "Thank you."

She nods back in acknowledgement, "I guess I'll leave you to play."

Her light steps clink against the floor until she's out of sight. I dash over to the stand and pull the Gibson from where it was resting, quick to attach the strap.

I plug it into the amp and lower the volume to its lowest setting before sitting down on the stool. I finnick with the tuners before settling down into playing.

I think back to the hushed mumblings I tossed around what feels like ages ago and begin plucking at the strings, my fingers finesse the neck and the words spill out.

"Just a little bit of your heart," I mutter out as I pick up the chord where I left off, "Just a little bit is all I'm asking for."

"I know I'm not your only, but at least I'm one. I heard a little love is better than none."