Local View: Celebrities don’t own romance — not even on Valentine’s Day

Sometimes I become absorbed in a film to the extent I project myself onto the screen as, say, Bradley Cooper, falling in love with Carey Mulligan in “Maestro” (Mulligan, of course, is standing in for my wife Marianne).

Recently, my cinematic inspiration was Adam Driver romancing Penelope Cruz in “Ferrari.” And then Shailene Woodley. Both within the same quarter hour.

I am not delusional. I know that with my age and follicular challenges, I more resemble a Paul Giamatti than a Ryan Gosling. Not that there’s anything wrong with Giamatti, who is a brilliant actor and delightful man. But I think you know what I mean.

And what Valentine’s Day means, as well. That the hearts, flowers, and chocolates filling the shelves and the greeting cards dripping with purple prose are meant to grant us an escape from winter’s harsh reality into fantasies of romance. Or remembrances of our own amorous entanglements in younger days.

Like that night she wore black velvet.

It was at a basement party on a Saturday evening long ago, one of countless similar affairs held every weekend in the 60s and 70s whose essential ingredients were a loud hi-fi, colored lights hanging from the ceiling joists, and whatever libations you brought (BYO).

The hosts were the brothers Zeke and Mickey Michau, who, when they weren’t tinkering with the engines of their twin Chevy convertibles in the driveway, were cracking wise to the entire neighborhood over a low-wattage radio transmitter that Zeke had built in a basement backroom.

The duo’s popularity meant there were plenty of girls at the party to talk to, dance with, or ask on a date.

Unfortunately, though, not for me. Even when they were kind, you could see in pretty girls’ eyes how they judged your black-framed eyeglasses, the short haircut your mother gave you, and the spots on your complexion “under repair.”

Resigned to my fate, I staked out a spot in the corner behind the washtub that was filled with bottles of Ripple and ice and cans of Old Style, where I could smoke my Luckies and sway to “Hey Jude” and “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” and could give a thumbs up to Mickey when he walked over, his arm around a “Carol” — who could have been a fashion model — and said, “How’s it goin’?”

And that was when I noticed a girl staring at me from across the room. Girls did not do that, or I assumed they never did for very long, since I would quickly relieve them of the burden by averting my own eyes. Especially girls like her.

A beauty, but not flashy, not a bombshell. But large soft brown eyes set in a classically sculpted face. Soft, shining, long brown hair. A black velvet dress and sparkly golden earrings.

I thought maybe she was nearsighted, because why else would she be looking interestedly in my direction, unless she had trouble with her vision.

Not until she came close, the washtub between us, and began talking — her ironic smile and those deep, searching eyes that I nearly got lost in, so that I had to ask her to repeat her words — did I recognize her from the Jewel store where I worked as a stock boy and where she was one of a dozen cashiers, whom I had previously only seen in the buttoned-up regulation uniform, like what lunchroom ladies wear.

Tonight she was angelically transformed: glittering jewelry, make-up, skin all tan and snuggled in velvet. But the most sexually alluring attribute was her curiosity. Away from Jewel and our supervisor and workplace protocols, she wanted to know about me.

Me?

My school. My sister. My major. My hangouts. My friends. My car (none, yet). My middle name. My music.

People ask questions to make conversation. Or to probe for faults.

Eyes fastened on mine, she cared about knowing who I was.

In turn, I wanted to ask if she were Italian for her animated hand gestures. Or if anyone ever told her she looked like the actress Lee Remick. Or if the lavender scent she wore was a magic potion, for I was falling fast.

Under her spell, I revealed my secret dream of being a writer, aspiring to make others experience the feelings that F. Scott Fitzgerald triggered in me.

She glanced about the room conspiratorially, and I realized I had forgotten we were here among others: “I’ve been to a million of these basement parties,” she said, “and I was not going to come tonight.”

She looked down at the plastic glass she was holding, and a strand of hair fell loose, dangling over her eye. A slim gold earring glinted from within her tresses, brushing against black velvet and her lovely neck. Leaning in, she touched my shoulder, and I felt her lips against my ear as she whispered:

“I’m glad I did.”

Marianne (the woman in black velvet) and David McGrath are living happily ever after. Formerly of Hayward, he is a frequent contributor to the New Tribune Opinion page and author of the newly released “

Far Enough Away

,” a collection of essays and stories. He can be reached at mcgrathd@dupage.edu.