Stop complaining about Valentine's Day!

Read this instead, from Alessandro Baricco's Ocean Sea.

Bartleboom is thirty-eight. He thinks that somewhere in the world he will meet a woman who has always been his woman. Every now and again he regrets that destiny has been so stubbornly determined to make him wait with such indelicate tenacity, but with time he has learned to consider the matter with great serenity. Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes; but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place a mahogany box full of letters on her lap and say to her, "I was waiting for you."

She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, she will read the letters one by one, and as she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the years - the days, the moments - that that her man, before he even met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps, more simply, she will overturn the box and, astonished at the comical snowstorm of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, "You are mad."

And she will love him forever.