It was still snowing outside on February fourteenth when I awoke in mid-afternoon. The shower was running in the bathroom and I yelled a curse to whoever was stealing my hot water. I rolled over onto a half empty box of tissues, grumbled a little, and threw them across the room. A morning person, I am not. The coffee maker was on the other side of the room, and I suddenly wished I were rich enough to have a maid. The other side of the room was too far for my wobbly legs to even think of walking. Once I win the lottery, I'll make sure to invest in one.

I lunged the top part of my body off the bed to reach my flannel pants, which were neatly crumpled into a heap on the floor. Once I had them pulled on, I realized they weren't my flannel pants, and for the life of me I could not figure out whose they could be. Then it hit me, and I hit myself. Both mentally and physically. A trembling "oh no" sort of mumble passed my lips just as the water turned off, and my stomach tied itself into about seventy gagillion knots. The knob on the bathroom door began to turn and I sucked in my breath, hoping it wasn't who I thought it was.

Of course it was exactly who I thought it was, simply because I hoped it wasn't who I thought it was, because if it was who I thought it was and who it ultimately turned out to be, things would be bad. So things were bad at this moment. He was standing in the doorway to the bathroom smiling at me in nothing but a thin, wet towel, and I was sitting on my bed with my hands over my mouth in his pants and his girlfriend's baby-t. I punched myself some more. Both mentally and physically, of course.

"Is something wrong, Lisa?" He asked, still grinning like a banshee. Stick an ice cream cone in one hand and balloon in the other and he would've been a poster for the circus.

I looked at him like he was crazy (laughing inside about the circus thing) and tried desperately to remember how this had happened. All I remembered was drinking some scotch� and some beer and a couple shots of vodka. Oh, and a wine cooler or six. I remembered telling him about my views on the conspiracy that is Valentine's Day and the ridiculousness of any person who bought into that conspiracy. I remembered voicing my opinion to the whole bar, and then being asked to leave the bar, and then coming back to my apartment, and that was all. I was drawing a blank in the whole "Lisa had sex with Justin" area of the night.

He obviously wasn't too interested in my reply to his question. Without waiting for an answer he walked around the room, gathering his things while rapping under his breath.

"Justin, if I ask you a question, tell me the truth ok." He nodded in time with the beat of the Tupac song he was still rapping. "Now this may be a blow to the ego, but I don't exactly remember what happened last night."

He looked up at me and laughed a little. "What do you think happened?"

This answer was not pleasing to me, and I felt my eyes begin to water. I was in my best friend's boyfriend's bedroom wearing his pajama bottoms with his ninety percent naked body standing in front of me, and all I could think of at that moment was how much Valentine's Day sucks ass. "I can't believe this happened."

Justin gave me a pitying look, and sauntered towards me. I didn't want to look him in the eyes, so I quick searched for something to focus on. You know, like a pregnant woman? Get through the contractions by averting your attention. The bed, the pants, the pillow in my lap� the towel! So white. So wet. So� tremendously thin! I kicked myself for choosing it. Both mentally and physically, of course. Snapping back to reality, I slowly, almost fearfully, turned my head to Justin. He was towering over me and had a look of pure compassion on his face. He placed his hand on my shoulder.

"You, Lisa, have an incredible imagination."

I kicked myself.