When I separated from my first wife in 1997 at the age of 33, I had only ever slept with her; she was my first and only.

Newly single, living in a rented room down on the Southcoast of Massachusetts, working as a carpenter, I decided one night after work to go check out the scene at a popular pub called the Mattapoisett Inn. I walked into this crooked old New England building nestled by the fishing docks and stopped just inside the door while my eyes adjusted to the dark. A band was playing in the far corner and some people were dancing but something drew my gaze down the length of the wooden bar along the other side. About half-way down, a woman was turned on her stool, looking over the heads of the Friday crowd directly at me. She had dark hair and, as I saw as I came closer, a freckled face and paint-spattered overalls. I walked deeper into the room, winding my way through the tables without taking my eyes from hers until I stood directly in front of her. She leaned toward me, so I did the same. We kissed, long and deep.

Not a word had been spoken.

This is a true story and it’s a fun memory for me despite the fact that this rocky romance ended nearly as quickly as it started. An hour or two later, I followed her to her house, which was crowded with her paintings and copper sculptures—she was an artist. I didn’t leave that house for two weeks except to go to work. Maybe it was three weeks. We spent most of our time in bed.

She would buy wine at the liquor store, three for ten, and we clinked a few glasses. My ex-wife and I seldom drank—we were young and never took up the sport—and I’d only just started enjoying a drink or two on the weekends. But mostly I avoided over-indulging. I noticed whenever I returned from work that most of those wine bottles would be gone and it was time to make another trip to the packie. Eventually, I commented on this woman’s consumption, which was rather concerning for me. She threw me out. Like, literally; I came to the house from work the day after the fight and found everything I’d left at her house—my clothes, shoes, backpack, some tools, a few books—out on the front lawn.

I never saw her again, and that’s my Valentine’s story. 😊