I was a freshman in college. It was February.

I’d started dating this boy right around New Years named Graham. He was an English major. Welsh. Tall and thin, with a beautiful little mole on his left asscheek. He hated it when I talked about that mole. He was very modest. I might have even called him uptight at the time—although now I realize he was just a late bloomer, on the verge of blooming. And I realize this because, as I understand it, he is presently quite the ladies’ man.

He had me good. Although I tried to play it as cool as I possibly could, I secretly wrote several poems about him, and hoped that our interactions would, someday, grow to something beyond sex. It seemed doubtful, but I’ve always been an optimist at heart.

While I was seeing Graham, I met Richard.

Richard was mixed—half black, half Mexican. Although he was on the dim side, he was so damned gorgeous that I was willing to overlook his paltry little brain. His lips, his lips were big loving pillows that consumed me. I actually didn’t meet Richard, so much as I was set up with him by a mutual friend, Jean. Jean had started bringing Richard around to our coffeeshop a few weeks prior. He had asked her to introduce us, so she did.

We made out in cars and smoked pot together. He let me wear his soft flannel work jacket with the quilted lining, and I’d spend all night counting the freckles on the bridge of his nose by the light of the streetlamp.

About three weeks into that, an older fellow called Dan who came to the coffeeshop with the post-college crowd took a fancy to me. He was unbearably mysterious. I don't know where he was from. I don't know what he did for a living. But he always wore flip-flops and cargo shorts.

The second time he talked to me, he asked me to be his date for his birthday brunch that weekend, in the private restaurant at Disneyland, above the Pirates of the Carribean. I got to drink champagne, even though I wasn’t of age. I wore borrowed heels, and a dress too old for me.

As Valentine’s Day approached, I grew worried.

I’d never had a Valentine to speak of, and now it looked like I’d have three. I would have to pick one for the big day. Of course, I wanted that one to be Graham. Since he was the only one I’d been intimate with, I figured something special was in order. I went down to find myself some lingerie and chose a black baby doll, with hearts embroidered on the cups. That was for Graham, Friday. Saturday, Richard. Sunday, Dan.

February 14th came.

That morning my phone rang. It was a friend who had been out of town with a group including Richard and Jean that past week. He said, he felt obligated to tell me, I should know, that the two had been inseparable. Attached at the mouth. All week.

I called Graham to ask what time I should be over. He opened his end of the conversation with, “I’ve been thinking.”

Determined not to spend this day alone again, I phoned Dan. He’d meant to call. His friends had hijacked him and his van for an impromptu trip to Vegas, to reunite him with an ex.

Dumped by three guys in one day. It had to be a record. And all before five o’clock.

After that, Richard got Jean pregnant. I heard she’d said she was on the pill, when she wasn’t. I’m not sure if they got married, but I think they moved in together, with Jean's mom. Graham, like I said, he turned out to be sort of a Casanova. And Dan, I don’t have the slightest idea what happened to him. Figures.

Then there’s me. After that, I had the same Valentine five years running. And even though it is Halloween, I’m hung up on a dumb day, more than three months away, and how It terrifies me more than any Frankenstein or Dracula ever did.