"Fuck you, Saint Valentine."

How many confirmation dialogs are necessary to delete a yearly reminder? No, thank you, I don't need this holiday in my phone's calendar anymore. I'm single as a Pringle; divorced, to be precise. And after the shit Charles, my ex-husband, pulled on me, it will stay my relationship status until I die.

Clicks fill the kitchen as I tap away at my smartphone screen with impatient fingers. I lean against the marble countertops, an impatient foot tapping on the lacquered cabinet door. Once the taunting reminder is erased and ceases chafing my dignity, I exhale with relief. I empty the whole Merlot bottle into the pot. Oh, sh--

The recipe said one cup of wine. I eye the vegetables lazily floating around beef chunks. Meh, it'll be alright. After a quick glance at the cooking time I program the slow cooker to alert me in forty-five minutes. That should leave me half an hour to sit down and chill before I doll up for... myself.

Perfumed bath, make-up, and hair, only to eat alone at home? What I found brave upon waking up seems desperate, knowing that Charles will treat his wife to a fancy restaurant, as he did with me for the six years we were together. Even if I challenged my pathetic cooking skills with a bœuf bourguignon, I cannot compete against a four-star dinner. And my pink unicorn onesie can definitely not compete with the new Mrs. Charles Beaufort's preppy outfits.

I put my onesie's hoodie over my head and make my way out of the open-plan kitchen. The living room remains silent and judgmental as I drag my feet towards a royal blue velvet sofa -- the one piece of colorful furniture my ex allowed into the otherwise aseptic atmosphere.

When I pass the front window, white clouds catch the corner of my eye. I pout. Snow, already? Didn't the weather forecast it for overnight? I press my nose against the pane to get a better look outside.

Centenarian oak trees, their tops stirred from powerful gusts of wind, mark out the estate on three sides. The grass could use a cut, but I haven't managed to start the lawn tractor after the divorce was finalized last summer, and I'm too proud to ring my ex for instructions. A couple of acres surround the house -- not a big property as per the region's standards, but an exciting change from overcrowded suburbs for my Parisian self. When Charles and I had visited the domain, he'd grumbled about how distant it was from any commodities, but stopped complaining the moment we met our nearest neighbor, who happened to be his high school sweetheart. Looking back, that should have set me thinking.

I squint as I spot the origin of white puffs. At the end of the graveled alley leading to my small two-story house, a black sedan gleams under the pale sun, its hood wide open and its driver waving their arms to chase away the smoke. Poor guy -- I assume it's a guy because the driver towers over the fuming engine. And because they're muscular. Very muscular. Yep, those broad shoulders and toned biceps definitely belong to a man. Isn't he cold? He's pacing around the car wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. I don't mind the view, but geez, it's twenty freaking degrees. Snow is coming, dude.

Goosebumps crawl up my forearms as I step away from the fogged window to bask in the fireplace's heat. Once warmed up I shuffle towards the sofa. I gracefully fall face first on its fluffy, yellow pillows and tuck myself under the assorted plaid. On my phone screen, a blinking LED insists I should check my messaging app. I ignore it with a sigh. Since this morning, messages from my parents have trickled in, with thinly veiled concern about how my first post-breakup Valentine's Day is going. Typical Asian behavior. My family won't pronounce the D word, but they'll keep asking if I'm okay no matter how many times I tell them I'm fine.

Opposite our parents' veil of reserve, my little sister, Devi, ordered an extravagant flower bouquet, accompanied by a poetic, moving declaration of love. "Happy Valentine's Day, biatch," the card read. I cannot help but feel for the embarrassed florist who delivered it this morning and obviously hand wrote the message.

Before I dive into oblivion, still grinning from Devi's twisted sense of humor, a surge of sympathy for the stranded driver outside overwhelms me. I smother it and bury my nose further under the plaid. Not my fault his car broke down on a Sunday afternoon, in the middle of nowhere. On his way here, he must've passed the town center, aka. city hall, bakery, and pub. They're, what? Three miles away? If he leaves now, he'll be able to reach the pub before the temperatures drop too much, and wait for a tow truck there, in the warm. He should hurry up, though. Menacing clouds are gathering in the skies. The snowstorm will be upon us soon.

Visions of brawny arms blur together with flames and snowflakes as I fall asleep, rocked by the sound of logs crackling in the hearth.