She was the girl next door, petite and pretty, with blue eyes and a golden ponytail that swayed gracefully against her gracefully swaying hips. Even her knees were lovely. When she smiled, everyone was happy. When she cried, everyone was sad. Wherever she was, people wanted to be.

He was brutally big, an old-fashioned steam locomotive, and black as molten sin, but he didn’t have an unkind bone in his body. He didn’t have the IQ of burnt toast or the morals of a fence post, and when he danced, steel turned to sunbeams. When he spoke, people listened. When he was silent, people prayed. Wherever he was, people wanted to be.

They were together. They were in love. They held hands and everyone sighed. They kissed and everyone melted.

Nothing could keep them apart. Not accident or disease. Not too much of this or too little of that. Everything was fine. Everything would always be fine.

Valentine’s Day would be their first time. Our breathing stopped in anticipation.

The fuckers closed the door.

So tight was the seal, we couldn’t even tell if the lights were on. We hadn’t a clue whether they were under the bedcovers or on the floor or floating in each other’s arms. The swell of her nipples, the dance of her clitoris, the profound push of his him into her her might as well have happened in heaven. Oh, how hard we listened, but all we could hear was the beating of our own hearts.

Until we heard a decidedly masculine grunt, a deliciously long, low oh. And then enough ohs for everyone.

Once again the world was okay.