Last Valentine's Day we shared a pizza and a pitcher of beer at a local Italian joint we frequent at least three times a month.
He played his part: he brought flowers, paid compliments, made a toast. And I played mine: I gave him a record, which has since become a regular on our must-play list, and a sentimental, sort-of-sexy card, which caused him to turn an uncomfortable shade of red and which we haven't mentioned since.
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It's not that he doesn't love being loved--trust me, he does--it's just that over-the-top displays of affection, even in the privacy of our own home, trigger an immediate, let's call it allergic, reaction. His cheeks get red, his palms get sweaty, he squirms.
Over the course of our relationship, he's gotten over his discomfort enough to make me happy--he holds my hand in public and doesn't even get itchy anymore!--but when it comes to my showering him with compliments and kisses, it's strictly no-go. So I shouldn't have been surprised when my attempt at romance, even in Hallmark form, last Valentine's Day went over like a peanut at a nut-free lunch table.
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