98 degree true to your heart

6:47 p.m.

I've just finished brewing fresh pots of hazelnut and house blend and arranging pecan-praline bars on doilies for display on the counter. I plop onto the tall stool behind the cash register. Common Grounds is currently a ghost town, but the after-dinner crew will soon be filtering in, so I'm relaxing for a moment before facing hordes of nausea-inducing couples sharing slices of Death By Chocolate. James is scurrying around the cafe, unscrewing zillion-watt lightbulbs and replacing them with hazy red ones.

"You're making this place look like a seedy bar!" I shout to him as I grind a pen cap between my molars. James owns Common Grounds, but he's young and laid-back, so I can say basically anything to him. He's more like an older brother than a boss.

"I'm trying to set the mood," James says. "Do you have a better idea?"

I shrug. "How about passing a law that permanently removes February 14th from the calendar?"

James flicks on a small lamp, casting a rosy halo over the couch tucked in the back corner. I hate that couch. I recently saw a couple making out on it--tongues and all. It was enough to make me want to hurl.

"Mara, you're too young to be cynical about love," James says. "especially with your last name."

I snarl at James. He knows howl feel about my last name. I swivel in the stool so I'm facing the shelf of herbal teas, snatch up some blank receipt tape and scribble all my reasons for hating V-day.

Go ahead. Call me the Ebenezer Scrooge of Valentine's Day. I mean, I'm all for holidays where people exchange presents, eat mashed potatoes or wave the American flag, but celebrating girlfriends and boyfriends?

Couples flaunt their Noah's Ark status every day of the year--smooching at lockers, swapping class rings, engraving "TLF" on desktops. Why give them holiday to boot? It's all a big joke anyway. Last year, Royal Scumbag snarfed down his Subway Club and told me I'm the only girl for him, that my eyes are like a cloudless sky (true!), how he'd like to take me to the Spring Fling. I gobbled it up along with my Cold Cut Trio--visions of sequined dresses and rhinestones dancing before my eyes.

Back then, I didn't realize I was eating more bologna than just what was in my sub.

Five days later, Royal Scumbag broke up with me over IM. Something about how we shouldn't hang out so much, he needs his space, he'll always rember me. Yes, rember. That was the most painful part -- he didn't even take the extra second to make sure he'd spelled "remember" correctly.

Ba-freaking-humbug.

7:33 p.m.

I've got to shape up if I still want to be employed on February 15th. It's only a half-hour into Couplemania and James has already kicked my shin three times. The first two kicks were unwarranted -- all I did was make long, troubled sighs within customer earshot -- but I probably deserved this last one.

I was waiting on an oozingly adorable guy and girl who were all, "We'll share the blueberry cheesecake! We'll share the cappuccino! We'll share a fork!"

When I handed them two napkins, she gave one back to me and chirped, "That's OK, we can share a napkin!"

"Share a brain, too?" I mumbled.

That's when James wacked my leg. "She meant to say that it's really good of you to conserve paper," he said. "The environment thanks you."

As soon as they're gone, James gives me a reprimanding look.

"OK, OK," I mumble.

He looks unconvinced, so I poke dimples into my cheeks with my fingers and sing, "Long live Valentine's Day!"

I coast through five orders -- steaming milk, slicing carrot cake and pouring mugs of coffee -- without grimacing, not even at the college girl hugging a bouquet of red roses.

I've just wiped a coffee puddle off the counter when I spot them -- the notorious couch kissers.

I take a yoga-deep breath. "What can I get for you this evening?"

They order two separate lattes. Two separate desserts. Two separate eating utensils. So far so good.

James dollops whipped cream onto their pies, and I make two espressos.

But then IT happens.

Mr. Couch Kisser digs through the bowl of candy hearts, selects a pink one and hands it to her. Ms. Couch Kisser clutches it like she's just been given the Hope Diamond.

"E-mail my heart," she purrs, reading the message on the candy.

I consider telling them what Royal Scumbag did to my heart over the Internet when she asks him, "Will you always e-mail my heart?"

"Always and forever," he says, gazing into her eyes.

I snort. My parents pledged to be together forever and, now, in all their post-divorce proclamations, they're saying they never really loved each other. They're saying they just got married because it was the obvious next step, what all their friends were doing. Never mind the past 19 years or bringing three children into the world.

Even James snorts.

How am I going to survive until closing time?

8:18 p.m.

It's gone from bad to worse. It turns out the Couch Kissers and Fork Sharers are best buddies (go figure!), so they've all squeezed into a table together and are having a grand ol' double date.

Justin called my cell from a pay phone at the middle-school gym to report that all the seventh-grade girls, Britney included, have spent the evening in the girls' locker room having a guy-bashing session. He sounded miserable when he moaned that his new MP3 player is much more fun than a school dance.

And now, a vanload of senior citizens from Green Willows -- the old folks home near the Erie Canal -- is hobbling into Common Grounds. The women are all spruced up -- blush on their sunken cheeks, ribbons tied in their wispy hair and a cloud of perfume stinky enough to scare a skunk. There's only one man. His back is bent into a 90-degree angle, and his mouth is moving, but no sound comes out.

This is so depressing. Is this what life comes to? You go on dates (or not, in my case). Maybe you get married. Have children. In any event, you wind up in a cafe on a blustery Valentine's Day evening, surrounded by people who can't hear a word you say unless they jack up the volume on their hearing aids.

I signal to James that I'm heading outside. I need to dear my head. Standing on the sidewalk, I rub my hands along my bare arms to generate heat. The temperature is plummeting, a frigid wind is blowing off Lake Ontario.

Across Main Street is the Strand Theater where Therese and Spencer are at the movies. I wish I hadn't snapped at my sister when she asked to borrow my new glittery top for her date tonight. It's not Therese's fault I have to spend Valentine's Day in a coffee-splotched Common Grounds T-shirt.

When I get back inside, James has put "Wonderful Tonight" on the sound system. I consider blasting, "Who Let The Dogs Out," but decide I need my paycheck more than a good laugh.

9:21 p.m.

An Arctic wind sweeps into Common Grounds. I glance at the doorway, surprised to see Therese standing there by herself. She doesn't have her license yet, so Spencer was supposed to drive her home after the movies.

I wave her over to the counter. "Where's your hot date?" I ask.

"It was awful," Therese says, shaking her head. "Spencer spent the entire movie throwing popcorn into the air and catching it with his mouth."

"No way."

She nods. "And then, in the heat of the love scene, a kernel got lodged in his throat. I almost had to give him the Heimlich maneuver."

I scrunch up my nose. Maybe working at Common Grounds isn't such a pathetic option after all. Even so, I feel bad that my brother's dance tanked and my sister's movie bombed. I can't believe I'm admitting this, but I hope my mom's evening with Mr. I've-Never-Surfed-the-Web is going better than that of the rest of the Valentine clans.

"I'll give you a ride," I say. "as long as you don't mind waiting until I'm done."

"Thanks, Mara."

"Therese?" I ask.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about wearing my shirt," I say. "I guess I was a little..."

Therese cuts me off. "Don't mention it. I shouldn't have made such a big deal about having a date. I mean, hanging out with you would have been much more fun than an evening with..."

"The human vacuum!" I say, giggling.

Therese pitches in, bussing tables, since the Couch Kissers, Fork Sharers and all the other lovebirds are too busy smooching to clean up after themselves. In exchange for Therese's free labor, James lets us tune in to 98 PXY, so we groove around the cafe, dancing with our dishrags.

The Green Willows crew limps out of Common Grounds.

I appreciate that they carried their mugs to the counter, even though it took them 100,000 years.

9:44 p.m.

The senior citizens are back. The subzero temperature killed the battery on the Green Willows van, so the driver has to wait around for a jumpstarr. The octogenarians look exhausted. James offers to give them a lift back to Green Willows. His car only seats five, so it will require two trips.

"Therese can watch the cafe for a few minutes," James says, "if you'd like to chauffeur the rest of the pack."