It's All Relative by Wade Rouse

Atlantic.
    Gary furiously untied my bow.
    â€œThe box is
sooo
beautiful!” he gushed.
    Gary unwrapped the tissue paper—dotted with hearts.
    â€œIt’s so pretty!” he gushed.
    And then he pulled out a three-pack of Hanes underwear.
    Gary stared at me.
    The waiter stared at me.
    And then laughed, thinking it was a joke.
    â€œGood one,” the waiter said. “Keep looking, sweetie,” he promptedGary, who began sifting through the box, gingerly at first and then furiously, like a dog in the trash. His actions said it all: There’s got to be something better in here somewhere.
    There wasn’t.
    No matter how hard he searched, Gary didn’t find any bling.
    â€œHanes?” Gary finally gasped, fuming, very loudly. “Hanes
Her Ways
? Are you
kidding
me? You got me … 
underwear
? From
Penney’s
?”
    He yanked a sticker off the plastic bag.
    I had forgotten to remove the price tag.
    â€œThey’re boxer briefs,” I purred, trying to sound turned on. “In black. Your favorites. And they’re very sexy.”
    â€œHanes ARE NOT SEXY!” he began yelling.
    The entire restaurant was staring, as though we were a strolling mariachi band.
    â€œWhat this says to me,” Gary continued, standing up, knocking his chair over, “is that you are the type of man who will buy me a vacuum for Christmas and a robe on my birthday. You are the type of man who will microwave anniversary dinners and buy used cars that smell like other people.”
    â€œAnd travel to Mexico in July,” the waiter whispered.
    â€œShut up,” I said.
    â€œYou are not romantic!” Gary screamed, throwing his pack of underwear into my lap. “No, I take that back! You are not even … 
human
!”
    And then he left.
    To a smattering of applause.
    And I don’t know if I was more humiliated by the fact that everyone in the restaurant knew I had just bought my lover Hanes for Valentine’s, or by the fact that he had summed me up perfectly.
    When I got to the car, Gary was waiting. We drove home, not a single word exchanged.
    When we walked in the front door, our silence was oddly amplified: Our new puppy, Marge—only a few months old—did notcharge the front door as usual, barking and whining, to greet us. Instead we found her passed out on the bed, literally in a coma, tinfoil spread all around her on our candy-inspired sheets.
    â€œOh, my God! What’s wrong?” Gary said. “She’s dead!”
    â€œNo, she’s breathing!” I screamed. “Are you okay, baby? Margie, wake up.”
    â€œWhat did she eat?” Gary said, studying what looked like dried poop all over her mouth.
    Marge had eaten the two-pound chocolate bunny I had hidden for Gary.
    We rushed her to the emergency room at the animal hospital, where we waited an hour to see if our baby was going to survive.
    Finally, the vet emerged. “She’s going to be fine. Give her two or three slices of bread tonight, more tomorrow, and then watch for uncontrollable diarrhea.”
    And then, as if things could not get any bleaker for me on this Valentine’s, the vet went ahead and added, “Marge is a very lucky girl. Just be glad it was cheap chocolate. If she’d eaten two pounds of the good, dark stuff, she’d be dead.”
    On the drive home, Gary, tenderly nuzzling our moaning puppy, finally looked over at me and said: “I guess it pays to be an unromantic cheapskate every now and then.”
    I opened my gifts from him late that night—cologne and clothes and concert tickets—and realized that the importance of Valentine’s Day—any day, mind you—was not only heightened when you were a gay man but also when you realized you were finally, blessedly, in love.
    The next year on Valentine’s, I did two things: I bought a pair of kiddie valentines featuring kissing cupids and sent them to what I believed were