3 p.m. -- Lunchtime.

Well, it's time to settle down for some lunch -- today, an Arby's regular roast beef with Arby's sauce and horsey sauce (because I couldn't make up my mind).

It's Valentine's Day, and I haven't bought a gift for Paul. I suppose I could argue off buying a present at all, saying this is a greeting card company-created holiday in which true love is downgraded to a box of chocolate or some roses. Ephemeral, all of it. Not to say that tokens of affection are lost on me. Because they're not, really. But I want to buy a present that's lasting, something that's reminiscent of where we've been and how far we've come.

Last year, I wrote a love poem, I'm sure long-forgotten. Not that I can blame Paul, for it's only words, and he has plenty to occupy his brain (mostly PhD-type words that go far over my head). Even a love poem isn't worthy of the love I have for him -- especially because words fail me at the most critical moments, the moments in which being outspoken and poignant would be a huge boon. Sometimes it's difficult being an editor, one tied so closely to the written word. My verbal skills languish and dim until I sound like a stuttering fool. A stuttering, love-stricken fool, longing to find those secret words that have only been murmured by gods once upon a time when, they, too, were in love.

Now I understand the cliched poetic phrase "to give one the moon and the stars." Sometimes I feel like that they are the only gifts that truly express the expansiveness of my affection.

Happy V-day, Paul.