I spent my Valentine’s Day exactly how I wanted to be spending it this year- at work. My boss hesitantly asked me to do a few surveillances this weekend and I jumped at the opportunity. As much as I love being single and not having to worry about the psychology of a relationship, there’s no denying the impact that the holiday has on people. There’s really no way to not feel as though you’re missing a large chunk of your life on this day. And it’s really so much easier not to think about that when you’re nose-deep in an investigation.

The investigator I was working with was actually in another location for the same surveillance, so we had our speakerphones on for the last few hours. This investigator is my age and is engaged- one of those engagements where you fall in love with hearing stories about the two of them. He’s one of those rare genuine people, and the way he speaks about her is with utter respect and admiration.

In one of the slower parts of the night, I asked him how she felt about them spending the day apart. It launched first the story of what he did for her as a gift (which was one of the most caring things I’ve ever heard). Then he said, “You know, I’ll never forget the day I asked her out…” and he told me- down to the day, the hour, what he was wearing, how her voice sounded- about that night. He knew every minute detail with such delicacy that you knew the importance that day had on him. I pointed out how envious I was of that, and he said, “Don’t you have anything like that?”

I remember that my first real boyfriend was actually accidental and that I regretted dating him and losing a best friend in the process. I remember sneaking out of my house to meet the second, but could never tell dates or exact details. The third boyfriend, I remember our first kiss outside of my house, but the date is lost on me. So on, and so on.

And then I remembered a date. Driving to the movies. Wearing my favorite J.Crew jeans (which are absolutely tattered and I still haven’t thrown them out) and a black v-neck. I remember every detail of those first nights.

“I guess one,” I told the investigator. I told him that I even remembered my clothes from that night, the speeding ticket.

He laughed, said, “then that’s your one.”

It’s not.

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