Do you love Valentine and running? This one is for you!

Running Strong for Valentine

by Michèle Laframboise  

That idiot groundhog had gotten it all wrong, Lenny Strong thought as he ran, his Brooks Launch 89 plopping in a slush that was the color of Demerara sugar but less inviting. Each step made a moist sucking sound that would have fitted well in a space monster movie, but that promised misery to his toes farther on the race route.

At least, the cold tampered down the municipal dump’s signature smells of burnt plastic and ash, carried several kilometers over by an ill-meaning wind. He had gotten a whiff of plastic burnt as soon as he had opened the door of his Volkswagen in the parking lot of the arena.

Winter was not, definitely not, retreating, despite what the groundhog had said (not in so many words; reporters did the talking).

Wiarton Willy, the Ontario winter specialist, had gotten half his round body out of his lair, sniffed at the cold Owen Sound air, and retreated before the TV crew could get a good look at the mammal to confirm if it was the same groundhog as last year and, more to the point, if Willy had seen his shadow.

Whatever: this winter was like Lenny’s nephews, endlessly changing their mind about what he should buy his girlfriend. As if a pair of six- and eight-year-old boys knew anything about a right gift for a Valentine Day, a gift that would not scream “Made in China along with ten billion others” when his sweet Alice opened the package.

Maybe it would be the last time he could buy something nice for a girl. He felt by reflex the flat cell stuck in his front pocket, a lifeline or a leash. His current employment was about to stop, not that anyone had told him yet. But there were undercurrents of unease among his colleagues, and he knew the updated management program he was helping set in place would render his task obsolete.

He had deposited his final assessment report this Friday. A hovering cloud of unemployment shadowed his every move and eroded his carefully built self-confidence.

That race, at least, helped him escape the pressure that had been slowly building up in his mind. Running had always been his escape from the worries. His baby sister suspected he was an undiagnosed autistic spectrum adult, because he had been a shy and silent child, then a socially awkward, long-limbed teen. His russet hair and long arms had inspired his classmates to call him orang-outang.

His right sole slid on an icy patch that left no purchase for the clever design of his shoe’s outsole ridges. Lenny stomped his left foot, hard, to regain his balance. He heard the papery sound of water-engorged ice breaking, and suddenly lost three inches of altitude.

A chill enveloped his toes; he saw too late that his left foot had sunk in a muddy puddle of melted snow. Lenny had been thinking too much, not watching how the other tracks had sidestepped this too-smooth patch of trail.

He made an awkward dance to get off the earth-tinted puddle, more papery ice cracking and mud sloshing up his other foot, sending gobs of mud around. He must have looked like a fool. 

Fortunately, there were not many people standing by to cheer up the runners or post funny pics to Instagram. Races held in the cold of February had their advantages.

At least, the lady in her sixties or her seventies plodding behind him had slowed down and circled around the puddle. She had been running a few paces behind him, her short silver hair held in earmuffs, as lime green as her nylon vest. Her apparel was sober and efficient, and he surmised she drank from the liter-and-half bottle tilted at the back of her belt. Her lined face was set in a determined configuration; Lenny guessed she would probably finish in the first tier of her age group.

He hurried forward, his feet sloshing in icy water. Winter races had their disadvantages, too.

#

A sizeable crowd had been packed at the auditorium as the five hundred runners of the Valentine Day Half filed out in a tight pack of pink or red bibs to get close to the START banner. The six-foot high boom boxes had been projecting an orchestral rendition of Chariots of Fire, the kind of movie everyone had heard, because of the score, but that no one had actually watched (to the lasting regret of his sister Merril, who was a movie buff and, yes, had been loosely named after actress Meryl Streep).

The mother of two unruly boys who gave the term ‘perpetual movement’ its sharpest sense, Merril had been swamped in last-minute book-keeping contracts, by clients worrying about the upcoming tax season, unable to attend his feat. And as the “perpetual movement (and noises)” prevented Merril to keep her focus on their spreadsheets, she has nicely asked her brother if he and his girlfriend would be willing to bring the boys out to watch the race.

She had emitted reserves about her big bro running in sub-zero temperatures, but Lenny had the best running apparel his modest salary could get, the latest technology in fabrics and breathable nylon and polar lining from neck to feet.

Wrapping shades transformed his eyes into mirrors, but protected his eyes against UV rays, imprinting the landscape around him in warm hues of yellows and honeys. He was wearing the race’s signature hat, a candy-red knit cap with a white heart over his brow, also made in China with in wonderful polluting polyester.

Well, he wasn’t the one managing the race kits and finisher’s medals, nor seeing to the provenance of the cheap goods in the “looting bags”.

When the horn signaled the start, he had stolen a glance of Alice Windham behind the movable barrier. She was minding the rumbling pair of nephews, in their bright black and gold and red Transformers winter outfits. Her parka was a mud-challenging ivory-cream tone that contrasted sharply with her springing ebony hair and soft brown skin tone.

Alice Wyndham was one of those women who did not need to put layers of foundations and makeup to go out. A grove of stitched Nordic pines on her parka composed a winter landscape that fell naturally on her ample bosom. Even if she wore size sixteen, Alice carried herself with a quiet pride, an aspect that had drawn shy and restless Lenny to her.

Alice ran short to middle-long distances, despite a bulky frame that did not seem to agree with exercise. She ignored the occasional taunt coming from the sides (not from other runners. Long-distance runners knew the training and respected the efforts put into it). Her weight made Alice slower than her age group, but it had never deterred her from taking part in races. That strong will was one thing that Lenny had liked about her.

Today, however, she had taken custody of his racer’s bag with a change of clothes, after helping pin the red half-marathon bib on his left thigh, a place his swaying long arms would not brush off. Many runners had taken this habit, what with the camel-back water reserves, or the ‘munition belt’ of plastic flasks he was currently using. There were four water stations along the way, less than in a summer race, but he preferred to control when to hydrate himself.

There had been too many runners packed tight for him to wave at her. Alice was smiling, her big eyes searching the crowd of colored runners… had she seen him?

#

A stab of pain, like a needle piercing his left talon through the outsole, forced Lenny to slow down. He hobbled to the sidewalk, stretching his left ankle, this and that way.

Ah, but of course, when he felt himself slid, he had put more weight on his left foot. The preventive bandage Alice had wound around his lower leg was holding fast, but the water was seeping up, an icy hand grabbing the ankle he had injured in last fall’s Halloween race.

At least, something unexpected had come out of that accident.

#

His foot slid forward on the soggy leaves, the full weight of his body bearing on it. (Note to self: a Batman hood mask does impair peripheral vision. And soggy autumn leaves in the evening were as treacherous as black ice.)

An excruciating pain had shot up his twisted ankle, annihilating his performance. He had been in fairly good shape and never expected to fall this fast and feel so much, as if some mad man had fired a bullet on his Achilles’ tendon, severing it. His calf was in fire.

Lenny had landed in a sorry heap of dark tights and cape, the false utility belt containing his water flasks opening. He rocked on, hands cupping his knee, his face contorted under the mask, his mind reeling with panic, only conscious of the ball of agony on his foot.

A soft voice over his head drew his attention from his pain to a pair of chocolate-brown eyes that shone with kindness. The woman had been bouncing along in the race, filling an extra-large Cat Woman suit.

She had stopped beside him, gloved hands resting on her knees, to inquire about his ankle; her quiet voice, despite sounding winded, had a warm quality that calmed him. She had asked pointed questions about his ankle, that told him she had some experience as a health worker.

Then she had waited with him for the medic team, throwing her own race time in the basket. As he kept holding his knee up, the pain abated a little, enough to let him appreciate the fluffy cloud of hair erupting from the cap-and mask, and her smile full of bright teeth.

The chance encounter would have stayed a chance encounter, had he not seen the Cat Woman (minus her mask) again at the medical tent where two volunteers in black Tees marked All-Hallow-Race had half-carried him. He found out he hadn’t been to the sole casualty of the slippery road. There was one teary-eyed zombie moaning on a stretcher, his or her wrist twisted, one thin lady with a bad knee, and two who just sat, a cardboard glass of water in hand.

A tall and dark medic with thick-rimmed glasses had given him a tablet of Ibuprofen and, cautiously, unlaced his shoe. When he pulled it, Lenny’s ankle swelled into a ball. It looked so bad he couldn’t help to gasp, which, in a Batman outfit, was not a great idea. At least, he doffed the bat-eared hood.

“Is it bad?” he asked, keeping his voice steady as the deft hands of the medic wrapped a band over his leg.

Lenny had never been injured in a race before. Would he be able to run again?

“Treat it well, and it will heal.”

Then he had raised those thick bottle bottom glasses to the tent entrance.

“Oh, hi Alice! Looking wonderful.”

It was the looking wonderful comment that hit Lenny.

He turned his neck to look… and here she was: the large Catwoman, minus the mask. The latex hood had been pushed behind.

She was of middle height, but her curly hair almost brushed the flap when she dipped under. In the better light, her soft-angled face had the symmetry of a diva, and her curvaceous body suggested generous surprises. Then, his eyes fastened on a lime green and violet medal dangling from her neck, held by a inch wide ribbon.

Of course, she had finished and harvested her finisher’s shiny medal.

“Hey,” she said. “I bet this is a sprain, André?”

Lenny’s reflection bobbed up and down as the medic nodded.

“It’s just a sprained ankle, the soft voice of the medic said. That swelling is normal.”

“It’s no big deal,” Alice said.

She smiled regally.

“You’ll be back in your bat-cave in no time!”

That’s when he noticed the lime-green ribbon in her hand, with a similar medal hanging under.

“For, for me?” he asked, knowing he had not completed the course.

She drew closed to the exam table, and, as if he had been royalty, lowered the ribbon on his shoulders. She smelled of lavender, sweaty nylon, and latex.

“Sure. While you rest the foot, want me to get you some food at the table?”

And that was it.

#

Wary of another mishap, Lenny gradually increased his stride back to his former pace, feeling satisfaction as he passed other runners. He observed their gait, their posture, their ages, or putative ages because the winter layers hid most of the body, even the face. Serious runners tended to get slim, and in winter, it was difficult to spot the difference between men and women, except, of course, for the occasional pastel pinks or lilac.

At this stage of the race, organic resistance and training had separated the runners, putting more space between them like a loose knitting. So he was surprised to see the bird-like woman still going strong.

He did not run with a negative attitude, like some of the younger men, considering all others as rivals. Lenny had fun running, and he told others he was racing against himself first. Was it true? While he was favoring his fragile ankle, he had been passed by the bird-like woman and several participants clearly belonging to the 70+ age group. He had felt a mental pinch as her green silhouette receded, along with the sloshing water in her half-empty bottle.

Alice did not have a single competitive bone in her sporting self.

She had told him once how she never was annoyed when seeing a white-haired, matchstick-limbed woman passing her. On the contrary, Alice felt a cheer echoing in her, a relief to see those elder people having fun and keeping healthy. At the hospital where she worked, she saw too many patients in bed shape.

A gust of chill wind slapped his lower face. The route was curving East, which was a good thing because the afternoon sun would be in his back.

Not that there would be much sun, as clouds piled over the horizon like rainy cushions, tinted violet-gray through his visor. He hoped they held snow in reserve, not rain.

Consistency was not this winter’s middle name. A succession of thaws and refreezing had transformed the sidewalks into danger zones with treacherous black ice and solidified mud. The coming spring would be a morass of storms and frosty mornings that would convince the wild fruits and bushes to wait longer before greening up.

Lenny had expected puddles along this day, and the cold, but not stepping right in the bottom of one. The muddy, icy water did not reach to the ankle, but the flexible mesh of his running shoes was impermeable. Cold water seeped through the mesh, absorbed by his technical socks. The fabric was supposed to keep the cold at bay, but his feet did not agree.

He wriggled his toes. If the pricey socks worked, he should be able to finish the nine or so kilometers of this race. He just had to let his natural muscle heat warm the fabric.

A good pair of warm socks, he thought.

That would be the ticket to Alice’s heart, better than some heart-shaped box of chocolates. Or some candies wrapped in unrecyclable plastic.

Yes, Lenny thought, as he heeded the signals of the volunteers in red sleeveless vests, and as the marker for km 8 passed by his side.

After the race, he would shower and hit the stores. Exercise socks were the bread and butter of most sport shops, their price range low compared to the technical vests and pants, but the profit margin high. He would get Alice a thick pair of socks with cushioned soles that would accompany her in her shifts.

The pain in his sole had morphed into a dull ache. Maybe the cold water helped to tone down the feeling. But Lenny was a runner and used to demanding conditions.

Running had been a lifeline for him at school. Even after leaving school and the bullies, running had been a solace that carried his job worries away.

He would endure the pain like he had endured a string of abusive bosses. Some half-marathons were more demanding that others. Lenny knew that he was today in better shape than most of his former bullies. That simple fact gave him an immense gratification.

He checked the Garmin GPS watch at his wrist, pulling down the edge of the sleeve.

He winced. Of course, he had lost some precious minutes dealing with the aftermath of the puddle. If this kept on, Lenny would finish in the last third of his age group. He was still happy for the other runners but, deep inside him, there lay a kernel of pride.

Contrary to Alice’s let go attitude, Lenny felt that he should cross the finish line before, say, the venerable 80-year-old gramps in startling sky blue outfit with the matching sneakers that had just scissored past him. The sneakers soles were almost flat, like basketball shoes, so each step noisily smacked the ground.

He checked himself.

Heart, pounding, okay. Breath, not too hurried, but his throat was itching. He pulled the flask at his ‘munition’ belt and sipped a few drops. He could stop later at the table for an energy drink.  

In the next two kilometers, Lenny managed to regain his stride. He passed several runners that were searching for their second breath. After seven years of steady running, he had learned to recognize the obvious beginners. Their clothes often gave them off: ill-fitted pants, too many layers, a ungainly scarf. Or they wore a heavy parka without layers, which would make the person freeze in his or her sweat.

Even with the nec plus ultra apparel, the body position betrayed the inexperienced. He passed a red-haired teen in glossy silver suit who ran with his shoulders hunched and head bowed, neck strained as if he wanted to see farther up the road. The head averaged fifteen pounds, which made a painful torque when held off-centre.

Hello, neck and back pain, Lenny thought. The teen’s spine would curve more, take too much effort. The young man had gradually dropped his pace, so that even the sky-blue grandfather had passed him.

The start of a race was always exhilarating, when everyone was in good cheer and the body seems to have an endless reserve of energy. But Lenny was now at a point where only regularity would keep him safe. No mad dash forward.

He had stopped enjoying the décor. He barely glanced at the nicely packed two- and three-story brick houses, the apartments balconies filled with plastic chairs and tables waiting for summer. There was a drag in the winter races, because those balconies would have been populated with cheering people in summer, and the sidewalks and front lawns would also be occupied, older parents reclining in lawn chairs, children bouncing around holding carboards with written encouragement for a family member in the race.

An intersection was coming up, attended by the fresh-faced police students in black vests directing traffic. After this turn, the race route would plunge in the downtown, then a wide waterfront park, and finish in the arena where friends and family waited.

Lenny hoped Alice would still be waiting with the nephews. She had a lot to do, and if the departure hour was clear, she knew he would take a couple of hours to complete the race. He would love to go under two hours, but his ankle would make it difficult.

The arena had put up a children’s pen with inflatable structures to help the waiting, but she might have to drive back and drop the kids for lunch at Merril’s place.

Whatever the case, Lenny never stayed for the announcements of the categories’ winners. He would consult his race time on his phone, while combing the shops this afternoon. And the prizes’ draws were still mostly unsustainable plastic gadgets that would end up in the landfill or somewhere in a waste-covered coast in Africa.

And it warmed his heart that Alice appreciated his concern.

As he neared the intersection, his breath had become labored. He felt the moist air scraping against the lining of his lungs.

At least, the menacing violet-gray clouds had fled, and the sun had dried the road ahead. His toes were still bathing in sluggish fabric of the socks, but the movement had warmed them. The route was clear, patted by many feet before him, without black ice or invisible puddle.

Lenny could risk ramping up his speed without risking an humiliating fall.

It had been such a long time since he won anything… So many guys and gals in his age group took up running, that getting even a third spot in the “masters” category had become impossible. And, as for qualifying for the Boston Marathon, that dream had taken flight as son as he had seen the qualifying times. He would have to be 80 years old with his current time to take the trip to Boston.

And those qual times were dropping, year after year, because more people took to running. It should have been good news, like for Alice: more people acting for their health, doing sports.

#

He had been in his twenties the last time he had won a prize. And he craved the gratification like, years ago, he had craved respect.

Respect he didn’t get. He remembered the slurs, freak show, orang-outang, he got when his autistic condition had become known. High-school had nothing on the seventh circle of hell for a shy, awkward bird-loving computer geek.

Except, maybe, for tubby girls like Alice, in a period when stick super-models were considered the quintessential women.

They did not hail from the same town, he from Orangeville and she from North York, so he had never known Alice as a teenager. He admired the adult she had grown into, though. When his colleagues had dropped passive-aggressive commentaries about his girlfriend’s weight, he had just smiled, thinking, their loss.

A blast of powerful truck engine revving pulled him from his dismal thoughts. A strong smell of Diesel exhaust blew past him.

The road had been separated to allow some circulation, and a eighteen-wheeler was idling on the opposite lane, its long box stamped with a desk-sized tub of vanilla ice cream. All drivers in that lane had to wait until their loose cloud of runners completed the turn, before the pony-tailed blond police student allowed them to go on.

The truck’s raised exhaust vent sent a dark plume behind, meaning, in front of him. But no, the truck’s hot exhaust rose higher.

As he completed his own turn, Lenny noticed the line of cars behind, a round-edged Toyota, a whiter that white mid-sized Subaru, a Ford-150 with three rusted doorless fridges chained on its platform, a Hummer H3 SUVs with enormous wheels that would have been called for in the rocky mountainous trails, but not on the well-maintained streets of the city. At least, the Ford had somewhere to go.  

The SUV driver lowered his window, ignoring the cold. Lenny heard him spout a searing sucker! at the blue gramps, who, probably used to insults or listening to the music streaming by his earbuds, smacked the asphalt on his way.

As Lenny passed the SUV, he couldn’t help glancing at the open window. It had been his reflex, to check for any danger at school. The face he saw was the omnipresent kind of entitled white guy, spots of anger coloring his cheeks at the obstruction. Wherever he was going on a Sunday, it certainly wasn’t Church service. He cast a very un-Church-like curse, followed by words that Lenny had heard often enough.

Health nuts!

Another voice piped up on Lenny’s right.

“Hey, running’s not a sin, ya know!”

Lenny beheld the bird-like woman he had barely passed while cranking up his speed. He sent her a grateful smile. If only he wasn’t so shy!

“Well, let them try to do twenty-one kilometers, for starters!” she said, in the chirping tone of one who had seen and heard a lot.

The column of cars was ambling away now, the runners in the back of their group having turned, and it was an art for the young policemen and women to judge when to let the cars pass, while not imposing an undue delay to the upcoming runners.

He cast a glance over his shoulder. Four or five runners were waiting, clearly older, arms thin as matchsticks, or out of shape.

Two elderly ladies in matching red windbreakers and scandal-pink leggings who had elected to walk to the intersection. They did not look stressed out or annoyed at the waiting and he envied them. One leaned to whisper something in her companion’s ear, whose face creased into a half-foot wide smile. The ladies, either friends or more (it had long stopped being a sin in most people’s eyes), looked satisfied.

Lenny, himself, was he satisfied as his days as a programmer were counted?

His phone pinged as he passed the km 10 marker.

Alice knew not to call him in race, but his sister did not have the same reserves. He unzipped his front pocket and pulled the flat cell. He recognized the number. Not Merril. His overhead manager’s phone. Couldn’t they leave him have his Sundays off?

It was a text, short and to the point.

Lenny, we’re sorry. We’re pulling the plug on your project.

He felt his muscles cramp, and his gait wobbled. He had expected this outcome. He had fully expected to be given his pink slip next week.

And after?

Programmers were an ever-renewable resource, like water or sun electricity. He had to kept current or die, like the publish or die of the science researchers, and it had been more than five years than he was toiling at this monster code. He had become obsolete, like a 1978 golden-flanked fridge.

How could he think of learning a new language, that would offer no guarantee of employment? IT technologies were fickle things, and the best were not always the winners, as the Beta and VHS struggle had demonstrated. History was replete with those treacheries, with business gurus sprouting up overnight selling the fool-proof, flawless new thing, collecting students and their money, before disappearing.

And he was too old now to compete with the bright young brains of either sex sprouting from the specialty colleges, their fingers dripping with code. Savage coders, one boss had dubbed them, like colts eager to spring into action.

Alice was a nurse, and had worked diligently in the pandemic years, cutting off her training. What could he offer to her? Once out of a job, he would have to leave his apartment. In this new economy, it could take months, years before he could climb back the ladder of, if not success, at least a stable position of moderate prosperity. Lenny wished they could live together, but he balked at being a weight for her.

The Lakeshore drive alternatively wound its way between rows of restaurants and boutiques, never far from the rocky shore.

The street, in summer, thronged with tourists come for festivals, or for an unimpeded view of Lake Ontario. In the deep mid-February, few people dared to wait outside, and only the gaudy hearts banners strung over the streetlights by the city were left to encourage the runners.

When the path ran close to the ice-covered Lake Ontario, the fierce winds buffeted Lenny, carrying whispers to his covered ears. The ice floes were pushing against the shore, with dark water between them, a sign of the degenerate climate crisis.

Lenny felt the sting of being a dead weight, his future closing. For a moment, as he sloshed by on his icy feet, he had this idea of letting himself pitch sideways, and fall in the cracks between the icefloes, where he would not be a dead weight anymore, just a dead body.

#

He was barely aware of having slowed down, again, but through the blur, he spotted the bright blue eyes of the bird-like lady passing him (again).

“Hey, are you OK?” she said, her voice even, not winded.

Lenny became aware of the cold runnels on his cheeks. He lifted his nylon gloves to brush at his cheeks, ashamed.

He had been crying, crying over his life, his lack of future. Thinking about killing himself, for Peta’s sake!

“S, sorry,” he said.

A stupid response.

“Don’t be,” she said. “There will be other races. My first marathon was a total disaster, and I was younger and way more fit than today.”

 He felt the sting, again, but he covered it.

“I just… lost my job.”

He blinked, because more tears were accumulating like a line of candidates for employment.

A flash of blue eyes, then.

“Keep left!” she said.

He sidestepped a glossy patch of asphalt on the trail that would have been the end of his poor ankle. The bird lady had been looking where she was going. He had just been sorry for himself.

“T-thanks,” he said, through his teeth.

She harrumphed.

“Lost tons of jobs, too. Don’t fret too much, just keep going. It will even out at the end.”

Then, she picked up speed, and he mulled over her words as he looked at the sole of her gel-padded Saucony shoes.

#

He remembered the old books, the 70s and 80s Hollywood movies Merril talked about, where women actresses were considered old past their early forties. Unless they kept in shape or used cosmetic surgery. He remembered as a teen, how he found that many movie female stars had the same face and lips and cheekbones, only the hair and tone differing, while the guys came in an unending diversity.

In his great-grandma’s time, this dynamic woman would have been relegated to a rocking chair, her feet constricted inside hard black shoes. His grandmother had been scorned by neighbors because she kept gardening well into her 80s. His mother had worked, then been laid off, then endured a string of ill-paying jobs, a descending social mobility until her retirement.

As the thin green silhouette veered out of the municipal park to the tourist part of the lakeshore, Lenny felt a new, gentle pride swelling inside him.

Not for him.

For her, this unnamed granny.

And that’s when Lenny Strong truly, understood how his dear Alice felt. His sorrow ripped apart like a plastic bag left too long in the wild.

His feet were still hurting, but he took it in stride. He stretched his arms, high over his head, as if he just came off his bed. He did not look at the white markers on the side of the road.

He even cast a grateful smile at the young police students directing the circulation. They would soon lead a professional life filled with the worst that human nature could offer (and few satisfactions, considering how the legal system worked). So how expensive was it to offer them a smile, even if he resented getting a contravention?

He and stopped looking at his Garmin. He would let his body decide and walk if he needed to walk. He would not put undue pressure on his left ankle.

For the rest of the race, Lenny floated on his new insight, welcoming each runner who passed him, not gloating inside if he ran past a tired teen cursing his bad luck. He didn’t see the green bird woman again, but he gave a toothy smile to the volunteers giving water at the turning point back toward the arena.

Launching a heartfelt thanks to the freezing volunteers waiting for the last runners to enter the arena.

And, yes, yes!

Somehow, Lenny had made it: the finish banner getting close and closer, the race MC calling out his name over the speakers, and the crowd cheering him, was it the green granny there, with those young men clapping her bony shoulders? Cheering, even if he was in the last tier of his age group.

And there, past the banner.

He had forgotten to glance at the electronic counter panel, so surprised he was to be already finished.

Lenny was flushed with an incredible bliss as he ran toward the volunteers. And then, the most beautiful woman in the world was suddenly there, a pair of nephews bouncing behind her, holding in her hands the red and pink heart-shaped medal.

Alice!

As the silky ribbon fell softly on his shoulders, like a knight, Lenny knew he would live the best Valentine Day ever.

THE END