Valentino vestito di nuovo

8 am. You pretend you don’t understand. What is this overflow of chocolate hearts, astonished-looking plush toys, candies with Peynet’s sweethearts perched on them? But it’s Valentine’s Day, the stupid festivity, in which you have to feel in love, even if you’re not fifteen, your daughter isn’t too anymore, and your marriage tastes like chewing gum chewed for hours.

8.15 am. You decide to text him.

You type: I love you

You think about it. Erase.

Love You so much. No, too many characters.

LYSM. Ohibò, adolescent.

I love you. That is, in short.

I still feel something for you. If I try.

Forget it, he always keeps his cell phone off.

9 am. Infected by the sugary atmosphere, you buy: a) heart-shaped cake. b) tray of heart-shaped pastries. c) ½ kg of heart-shaped ravioli. More than the shopping list, it looks like the electrocardiogram.

9.15 am. The outfeats in the window of the underwear store would make even Alex Comfort blush. You burst in, fascinated by a red and black leotard. They assure you that it is identical to the one worn by Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge. It is supported, they explain, by authentic whalebones. It costs the same as the mortgage payment, but you can’t resist and you can also combine it with a coordinated garter belt. Meanwhile, you are thinking about when was the last time you did it. Maybe three months ago, on the evening of Grandma Rosina’s birthday? Or four months ago, to celebrate the new car? You check the diary and there it is, clearly visible, the red cross that indicates the occurrence of sexual activity, filed between 3 pm and 4 pm last Saturday. But perhaps because it took place between the Aunt Pina phone call and the renewal of the upholstery of the sofa, you really don’t remember it at all.

10 am. Your colleague arrives at the office with a dreamy air. Like Violetta in the last scene of the traviata, she holds a bouquet of flowers to her chest. She has soft cheeks, bright eyes. She frantically agitates her files, in case you hadn’t noticed the solitaire that sparkles on her ring finger. In the end, she doesn’t hold back anymore. “Look what he gave me!” And you, candid: “Which of the three?”

11 am. Immersed in reading an aphrodisiac recipe manual, you are about to discover how to stuff the fillet with cayenne pepper when your boss appears. You blush and stammer disconnected sentences on the importance of daily updating in the administrative field. He walks away shaking his head and you understand that he didn’t buy it even this time. You spend the rest of the morning writing (on an original heart-shaped note) how much respect, esteem and complicity count in the relationship of a couple. You try to forget when, at the beginning, you ran naked and drunk in the park.

5 pm. You catapult to the hairdresser, who examines you in disgust and immediately sinks the scissors. You give up on the ginseng mask with a sigh, because you have already spent your entire salary and we are still on the 14th of the month.

6 pm. You stuff the meat with a double dose of hot cayenne pepper. You turn over your drawers for those heart-shaped molds your sister threw away after discovering her husband in bed with her best friend. You put the sparkling wine in the fridge and open the oysters.

7 pm. You light more candles than Monsignor Milingo during one of his exorcisms, you spread on the bed the leopard-print sheets bought in mid-August by the street vendor, you immerse yourself in a Hollywood foam bath.

7,10 pm. The phone rings. Like a fountain, you wallow around the house in search of your cell phone. “Darling”, he whispers, “I’m in a meeting, I’ll be there as soon as I can”. You wanna scream “do you know what day it is today?“, instead you bite the handset and choo: “Okay, I’ll wait for you.” Then, furious, you dry the puddles of water on the parquet.

7,30 pm. Rather than remembering Nicole Kidman and the can-can, the red and black leotard with authentic whalebones, on you creates the ring road effect. It must be because of those rolls of meat peeking out from the hips. You rummage in the closet looking for that low-back shantung dress that looked so good on you this summer. You discover that you have gained five kilos since Christmas. The whalebones stick to your stomach and you realize you can’t breathe anymore. You climb into a pair of silver stiletto heel sandals. You tie them on your bare, shaved legs, like those of Hollywood stars, (which, by the way, is in California, where it’s hot even in February.)

Wait.

8.45 pm. You hear the sound of his key in the lock. Bruised by the cold, you cry out: “Surprise!” Wobbling on the heels of 12 centimeters, you point ecstatic at the table set with the tablecloth for special occasions, the flutes that are bubbling, and the heart-shaped canapés by now dead on the plate. He looks at you dazed. He undoes his tie with a broken air, “happy birthday, darling”, he exclaims. Head down, you hand him the card you’ve been puzzling over all morning. He picks it up, weighs it, then puts it down, exhausted. “I’ll read it tomorrow,” he tells you. He unbuttons his shirt, takes off his pants and, in his underwear, scrolls through the sports page, while you fret in the kitchen, very, very tempted to offer oysters to the cat.

9.05 pm. With his eyes glued to the tv screen, he absently bites into a slice of chili and howls in pain.

10 pm. You are both on the sofa. You got off your heels and took off your dress. You wear your slippers and your old, comforting, robe. Underneath you still have Nicole Kidman’s leotard, with authentic whalebones. It is really the ideal outfit, you think, to do what you are, in fact, doing.

That is, watching a documentary about pandas on TV.