and when at last I find you
"Are you... are you crying? Because of a puppy video*?"
"But look at it. It's so cute. And pure. And happy. And cute."
"Yeah. So?"
"Don't you find it cute?!"
"Well--"
"It has the Beatles' 'I Will' playing! How can you resist that?!"
"It's just a dog."
"It's not just a dog. It's the simplicity of happiness in that puppy's face. And the beauty of having a creature just looking at you like that and loving you unconditionally. It's having the Beatles ask you, 'Who knows how long I've loved you?' and without you having to say anything, they answer 'You know I love you still.' It's that certainty. That sudden realization that despite what the world throws at you, despite whatever kind of shit you get yourself into, at the end of the day, this love is simple. Love, in its sincerest, most honest form, is easy. It's the look on a puppy's face when you come home after a long day. It's the honesty of a smile when you ask if you can have the last slice of chocolate cake. It's the way your hand is held after the anesthesia wears off, it's the way your tears are wiped away when the antibiotics kick in. It's when you have someone in your life who finally makes you feel like the entire galaxy is in your chest and all the stars make a constellation of the parts of you that you never thought you will come to lose. It's the way he pauses when Paul McCartney croons 'Will I wait a lonely lifetime?' because in his head, he is building you a house and painting you a fence and giving you the rain showerhead you've always wanted. 'If you want me to I will,' he finally sings. And before the song even ends, he looks at you the way clouds look at the moon, and in that instant, you know it's the life you've always dreamed of, right there in front of you. Like an apparition that makes you believe, like a universe that has come to being and has given you the sun."
__
* This is the link to the puppy video. If you can watch it without feeling anything, your heart is made of stone.
"But look at it. It's so cute. And pure. And happy. And cute."
"Yeah. So?"
"Don't you find it cute?!"
"Well--"
"It has the Beatles' 'I Will' playing! How can you resist that?!"
"It's just a dog."
"It's not just a dog. It's the simplicity of happiness in that puppy's face. And the beauty of having a creature just looking at you like that and loving you unconditionally. It's having the Beatles ask you, 'Who knows how long I've loved you?' and without you having to say anything, they answer 'You know I love you still.' It's that certainty. That sudden realization that despite what the world throws at you, despite whatever kind of shit you get yourself into, at the end of the day, this love is simple. Love, in its sincerest, most honest form, is easy. It's the look on a puppy's face when you come home after a long day. It's the honesty of a smile when you ask if you can have the last slice of chocolate cake. It's the way your hand is held after the anesthesia wears off, it's the way your tears are wiped away when the antibiotics kick in. It's when you have someone in your life who finally makes you feel like the entire galaxy is in your chest and all the stars make a constellation of the parts of you that you never thought you will come to lose. It's the way he pauses when Paul McCartney croons 'Will I wait a lonely lifetime?' because in his head, he is building you a house and painting you a fence and giving you the rain showerhead you've always wanted. 'If you want me to I will,' he finally sings. And before the song even ends, he looks at you the way clouds look at the moon, and in that instant, you know it's the life you've always dreamed of, right there in front of you. Like an apparition that makes you believe, like a universe that has come to being and has given you the sun."
__
* This is the link to the puppy video. If you can watch it without feeling anything, your heart is made of stone.
Labels: fiction, finger exercises
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Torrential
"The human memory is treacherous," the professor said.
That is to say, the mind plays tricks on us, so much so that we cannot always rely on its accuracy, especially for things as important as wills. Notarial wills require the signature of at least three credible witnesses, on each and every page thereof, signed in the presence of the testator and each other.
That much he knew, that much he remembered.
He also remembered how, one night in September, some twelve years ago, he received a call from a girl at 10:23 in the evening. He can still vividly recall the annoyance in his mother's voice when she told him that someone called, that a girl called, that a girl called him at this late hour, that a girl called him at this late hour in the middle of the storm.
"Hello?"
"Hi."
Of course, there were preliminaries that had to be asked. Where she was, why she was out at half past ten, why she didn't stay inside her dorm, what led her to the sari-sari store a few blocks away. He could hear the downpour from her end of the line; he could also hear the chatter of a few inebriated men.
"People are still drinking in the middle of the typhoon?"
"The human spirit is unsinkable. Or rather, the distilled spirits are."
It's been approximately eleven hours since the power went out; miraculously the telephone lines seemed unharmed. She had always been afraid of the dark; and always wary of admitting it too. But it's been three hours of hiding under her blanket, of pretending that huddling beneath the sheets cancels out the darkness outside them. She mustered the courage to crawl her way to the door, and finally out the building. She didn't have time (nor the visual capability) to put on decent clothes; she had only her hoodie on - nothing underneath, not even her bra. Which is information he didn't want her to be sharing at that instant — not because he didn't like it — but because she's a beautiful twenty-one year old girl, all by her lonesome, in a neighborhood that was not exactly known for its safety. And he couldn't be there to protect her.
But of course he couldn't bring himself to say that. At least not yet.
"So did you have anything to eat?" he asked.
"Oh shoot. See, I forgot to have dinner. That's how shit scared I was,"
"Don't you have a stash of Sky Flakes in your room?"
"I ate it all the other day after my mom sent me a jar of strawberry jam from back home."
Before he met her, he didn't think there were people who came from Baguio. He didn't think Baguio could be someone's hometown. Which is so incredibly naive of him, and actually a bit stupid too. "How Manila-centric of you," she'd say. For him, Baguio was just home to three things: the Ifugaos, the Americans who settled there, and the sunflowers. It wasn't a theme park. But he had no idea why it didn't occur to him that regular folk lived there.
Although she was anything but a regular girl.
That much he knew, and that much he eventually kept discovering long after that phone call. They got together, fooled around a lot, exchanged cassettes, held hands while studying. They made it through school, through the bar, through work. They made it to blockmates' weddings and best friend's kid's baptisms. They made it through her father's death, and through his sister's depression. They even made it to Court, before a judge, just she and him, and a few family and friends. It was raining that day too, and he almost didn't make it. But he did. They did.
And it was raining that night he went home and found their condo empty. He found her ring on the dresser. The lipstick his colleague left behind a few weeks ago lay beside it. She found out. She had gone back to Baguio, to her sunflowers, to her home.
"I miss home. All my cassettes are there," she said to him, after telling the sari-sari store owner she's extending for fifteen more minutes.
"I have some you can borrow,"
"But you listen to Boyz II Men. And Ginuwine."
"What's so wrong about that?!"
"It's... cheesy."
"Oh please, don't tell me you don't listen to cheesy music. Goo Goo Dolls? Dave Matthews?"
"Hey---"
"I'd give up forever to touch you? Ginuwine's a better poet than that Rzeznik guy!"
"You take that back. Take that back!"
And it went on for hours. No, actually just a few more minutes. (Or half an hour more? Now this he can't recall. Treacherous, indeed.) She had to go back to the dorm because the rain was starting to pour heavily again, and the ale wanted to close up shop. But he wouldn't let her put the phone down until she admitted that "Differences" was a pretty good song.
So good that, she claimed a few days later, it got stuck in her head all night. It kept her company in the dark. Enough to keep the monsters under her bed from grabbing her foot, or something. He was glad to have helped. He had half the mind to brave the typhoon and go over to her place. Knock on her door, hold her hand, cuddle with her under the sheets. Bring his brother's guitar, learn to play Dave Matthews for her. Tell her that maybe home is not a place, but a person. That Manila could be home, that he could be her home. And home meant having someone to hold, not having a place to hold you.
As if on cue, lightning flashed so brightly, bringing him back to the present.
"Where was I?" he asked his students.
"About the human memory, sir."
"Ah, yes. I remember now."
And he does, he does remember. Every little thing, every freckle, every blister, every song on the radio, every time he forgets his umbrella, every time he signs his name and realizes she was right to not take his after all. The professor still remembers. His head reminds him, the pangs of pain crawling across his chest remind him. The knot on his stomach. It's been years. She is happy now, a mother of one; he has been in and out of quasi-serious relationships since. He has taken girls home, one of them a former student, two of them other co-faculty members, none of them he has asked to be his girlfriend. He is in a better place too; time has been kind, he'd like to think, and he is thankful. But sometimes, on days like today, the clouds decide to connive with the deep recesses of his memory, playing dirty tricks on him again. And before he knows it, before he can even try to resist — cue guitars and violins swelling — it's the opening chords of Satellite he's hearing in his head somehow. Satellite in his eyes, like a diamond in the gray, monsoon sky.
___
(I have Spotify and Typhoon Luis to thank for the choice of songs and the sudden impulse to write.)
Labels: fiction, finger exercises
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Closing time.
A peculiar mix of pour homme and jasmine milk tea lingered in the air while they drove along the streets just outside the university. She had an exam the next day and could use an extra hour or two of sleep, really. But it was a Friday and Fridays always held in it a certain kind of enchantment she couldn't say no to. He texted her if she wanted to eat out and without hesitation, she said yes.
It was her first time riding his car tonight - in fact her first time riding anyone's car. She wasn't comfortable breaking into his space, as she was just as reluctant letting him in hers. There was a teddy bear nudged between the rear window and the car seat, she noticed. She didn't need to ask to figure out it may have been from someone special. So he had a past, she thought. I have too. Only hers was an unrealistic longing for Ryan Gosling. His, meanwhile, was an actual girl. She wasn't jealous, no. There had been a confirmation of their feelings after all, just two weeks ago. But she still felt the awkward silences creeping in between them every now and then, threatening to destroy the little bubble she has created for them.
He was still driving silently, his eyes focused on the tail lights and the road in front of him. Meanwhile, her hands wanted to search for his, in a silent, desperate call for affirmation, that indeed she did not make the wrong decision of agreeing to this sudden milk tea date, and of confessing to him twelve days ago, or rather, at all, after being classmates (and seatmates) for only three months. But she couldn't because they weren't at that point of letting fingers intertwine yet and acknowledge this so-called understanding. The only kind of touching they've had so far was her elbow brushing against his as she took down notes, and the electric rush from that should be enough.
Not long after, a car cut in front of them forcing him to honk in agitation. She stiffened in her seat, her hands holding onto her jasmine tea that threatened to spill all over her and his car. That's the last thing she wanted, not during this first time. Should I say something? What do I say? She isn't well-versed in passenger-seat small talk, let alone any kind of small talk, especially with a guy one particularly liked, so she couldn't be sure if she was supposed to comment on anything. She whispered a feeble Oh my god that asshole under her breath instead, to which he laughed and said, "Wow, you took the words right out of my mouth."
Was that, finally, an affirmation? She couldn't be too sure but she was willing to take it as such. She smiled and looked outside the window again, trying to imagine what other things she now unconsciously knew about him. The way he would shake his head when he hears a corny joke, the side of the handkerchief he wiped his face with (always the one with the monogram), the way he pronounced "comfortable" (komf-tabuhl). There was still a lot she didn't know, like the song currently playing in the background, and there remained a lot of space around his own personal bubble that she needed to get to know, but she was getting there. At least, she hoped so.
"You can change the song, if you want," he quipped. He must have noticed her indifference towards this dude rapping about his sexual exploits. She reached out for the knob in the stereo, trying her best to look like she knew what she was doing, when he cut her suddenly and said, "Why don't you just put your iPod instead?"
"I don't have it with me," she said.
Which was a shame because it was a big deal, God knew it was. She would have happily plugged in hers and played the playlists she's made for him, and he would finally hear the song she was telling him about, the one in that movie she wanted to see, the one that Justin Timberlake got wrong. She would have sung shamelessly along with the chorus, and he would have laughed, maybe regret letting her sing a little bit, but he would have loved it. She would have reached out for his hand again, and this time for real, and he would hold back. He wouldn't let it go even as he switched gears, and she would have been glad.
For now, she would have to find comfort in knowing that he was somehow making her a part of her space already, and acknowledging her song preferences should be symbolic enough. For now, it's just her hand on his knee, but him not putting it away. For now, the iPod inside her head should be content, for the song would be playing in the background nonetheless, plugging itself to the soundtrack of her night.
Closing time, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
--
Can you believe this is post number 500? I can't, either.
Labels: 500th post, fiction
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The spaces you fill.
Last night, I found myself still awake by half past midnight, my thoughts aimlessly drifting to prose then equations then finally, hunger. I went up to the fridge, like I always do, but I was welcomed by a leftover box of chicken I couldn't remember eating. Beside it was a can of diet soda, a beverage I don't allow myself to drink. There was an opened pack of gummy bears, which I eventually reach for and behead one by one, but junk food of this variety I don't buy for my own.
And that was it, that was when it hit me: I couldn't not find you in my room. Not a place where a piece of you wasn't left behind. Not my pillow where our heads rested after a night of watching films on our stomachs. Not my wooden spoon that I used to mix the pancake batter, because we chose to have breakfast for dinner. Not the paper clip that held together your reading "Places & Landscapes for a Changing World" which you will never bother browsing for class. Not my mirror that revealed to you the man who has me wrapped around his finger. Not the shampoo you used that threatened to linger on my hair, my clothes. Not even in the song that played inside my head over and over and over again, the sound of the waves colliding on the ocean of skin that barely separated me from you.
You had no problems littering everyday with traces of you, attaching yourselves to songs I mouth with my eyes closed. My clothes are your clothes, your perfume my own. The pronouns you have permanently replaced, no more "I" or "you," only "us." I try to look for a piece of my space that you haven't yet found, but your fingerprints are everywhere, your heartbeat, always just a whisper away. My blanket holds me in your embrace and the cool blow of the fan scratches my back like your hand spelling out my name.
No, you are everywhere, I realized, and I finally fell asleep, in the comfort of the promise you kept the other night when I said can we stay here a little longer?
--
I wrote this in about twenty minutes, the story having been in my head for the entire day now. There's just a sudden enchantment about this Thursday snuggle-weather that brewed something up inside my head. Consider this my apology for being away for too long: working on my thesis is taking up most of my time, and not having an Internet connection at the dorm is not helping at all. On the contrary, this gives me a legitimate enough excuse to just sleep and hop around from one college library to another. Here's to wishing I can (still) survive the absence of wi-fi.
Labels: fiction, finger exercises
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Progress.
The last time he ever wrote about her was right after their last– was at a friend's– before their fifth– when she was drunk and he wasn't– it was during– or was it after?– he wrote of her cheeks, no, her wrists—
It was a long time since he last wrote about her.
--
Labels: fiction, finger exercises
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Tangential.
He was playing with his phone, twirling it between his index finger and thumb, trying to make it seem like this was what he always did when there were pauses to fill between the how-are-yous and what's-your-next-class, but the quivering of his fingers said otherwise. I should know. I've mastered the skill of phone-swiveling.
"Don't you ever get annoyed that people never call you by your first name?" I asked, finally shattering the cafeteria buzz that disguised itself as awkward silence between us.
I was, after all, curious. I wondered how anyone ever got to calling him anything other than Tan.
"Who would want to be called Genesis anyway? I mean, even I would be annoyed if anyone called me that," he replied without hesitation.
I couldn't even imagine myself calling him Genesis. Even if we become friends, or even just close acquaintances - the kind that had inside jokes about our respective partners, or this as-good-as-rubber baked mac I was trying to eat. I wondered what his mom called him? I assume Sassa would give his real name when she called him at home and his mom picks up the phone. Hi Tita, can I speak with Gen please? Genesis! It's your girlfriend! Or when she would introduce him to her friends. Hi guys, this is Tan. It sounds too impersonal. And odd. This is Gen. It sounds even odder.
I laughed, both at his remark and at the thought inside my head. Gen Tan. I cannot imagine feeling any more glad about being Anne Cruz. Default, but without fault. He laughed too. At me, with me, I cannot be sure. And with that, the lull sneaked its way back between us again, like it always did. We weren't really friends - only connected because as they say in Disneyland (and in this university), it's a small world after all. I suppose after this we're now entitled to an eyebrow-raise or even a small "Uy!" that wouldn't seem too pretentious.
Finally, 5:30. He stood up to leave, carrying with him the Lock-and-Lock water bottle he had refilled a few minutes ago and a giant paper bag (that I'm guessing contained either a really large stuffed toy or a whole lot of shoes), and said goodbye. I wished him luck about his surprise and asked him to greet Sassa a happy birthday for me. I glanced at my phone and wondered if I should be going as well. No new messages.
Wednesday was about to end, quietly lifting the burden of the week from the students as Thursday is slowly ushered in. I could see the sun from behind the trees, as tired from the day as the students inside the cafeteria were. For a group meeting, for a quick snack, for a glass of water - people saying hi, people coming, people walking away faster than you can wave them hello. It was the way things were. The most people can give you is their five minutes, and before you can even crack a joke that would cement familiarity, the bell rings, the professor comes in, your friend texts you, the sun sets, time's up - you're to be somewhere else. I don't complain. Instead, I put the earphones back in my ear, and resumed nodding to Metric's Collect Call.
I tried browsing through my notes about trigonometric functions to while away the time, feeling stupid because I was in a building with people who have likely mastered them in their sleep. I tried to blend in with the crowd, tried to make it look like I don't mind being alone again, because I don't. It's just better to be feeling alone with someone, rather than being alone, period. It's okay to wait when someone else is waiting. No matter that it's almost a stranger whose path I'm unlikely to cross again - at least, for a while, I wasn't the loner girl on the table by the water dispenser.
I glanced at my phone again, hoping that the message, the person I was waiting for had arrived; hoping that the minutes would shatter the waiting. 5:32.
--
Labels: because dreams *are* somewhat fictional right? Right?, fiction
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Growing Sentences.
(1)
So I walked into the room and it reeked of us.
(2)
So I walked into the room and it reeked of pizza and beer, with a little bit of sunshine spying on us.
(3)
So I walked into the room but it reeked of leftover pizza and beer. The sun is creeping through my blinds, like an intruder spying on my sheets that smelled of us.
(4)
So I walked into the room hoping to get some sleep but it reeked of leftover pizza and beer. It's a very humid Tuesday afternoon, and the sun is creeping through my blinds, spying on my sheets that always smelled of us.
(5)
So I walked into the room hoping to get some sleep but it reeked of leftover pizza and beer, like it usually does on a Friday night, except it's a very humid Tuesday afternoon with the sun creeping through my blinds like an intruder spying on us, except there wasn't even that anymore, only your toothbrush and my sheets that would not stop smelling of us.
--
Labels: fiction, finger exercises
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How to Date An Invertebrate
First, get the definitions over with. An invertebrate is an animal without a backbone. Of all the animals in the world, about more than ninety percent of them are invertebrates. It is general knowledge that humans have spinal columns. Some don't, however.
It is easy to secure an invertebrate. She looks like other vertebrates at first glance. But you will easily see signs of the lack of backbone once she starts talking. She is silent. She looks like she has a problem. You feel compelled to ask her what's wrong. She shakes her head and forces a smile. You proceed with your life. You look at her again and it's the same expression. You get worried. She looks at you, then looks away. Your conscience bothers you. You buy her a drink. She smiles.
Let her tell you her name. Allow yourself to listen to her stories: about how she feels alone, how nobody understands her, how stressed she is, how her head's been aching for the last few days. You don't want her to cry, so you put your arm around her. She will say she's okay, she will thank you for being there. She will text you good night before you sleep. There will be a smiley face. You will feel better about making her feel better.
Buy her lunch. Ask her what she wants. She will tell you, Whatever you want. You will feel selfish for deciding for her, so you ask her again what she wants. She throws the question back at you. Finally, you decide on beef steak. She will shake her head and say, Can I have chicken? You will oblige. You will buy chicken for both of you. She will never bring out her wallet. You will never ask. It never becomes an issue. You will eat lunch together for the next few weeks.
She will tell you how irritated she is in this one class. Her professor did not explain the lesson well. Try to understand where she is coming from. Look at your watch. It's only twelve-thirty in the morning. And it's just a long exam. It can wait. She needs you. In between her sobs, she asks you how you are. You tell her you have an exam tomorrow. She remembers something she forgot to tell you. You cannot put down the phone. She will tell you you are the only one who understands. You wonder if she has any other friends.
You will wake up to your phone vibrating, she is calling. She is angry. You didn't say good night. She got worried. She was studying last night. You were supposed to stay up with her. You were her moral support. She will begin to question your sincerity. She will doubt the weight of your promises. If you cannot even stay true to your word of saying good night, how will she believe you really care? You blame your pillow. But you fall asleep again anyway.
She will demand for your time. Your breaks will be spent with her. She needs you to hold her hand and tell her things will be okay. In the hallway, you see a friend. You ask him how he and Anne are doing. He smiles. We're doing great, he says. Anne is in class. They'll see each other later that week after their exams. You wonder why Anne doesn't ask him to fetch her in class. He is not needed, you conclude. You smile. Then you realize you still have that exam. You look at your watch. She comes out of the restroom. You give her back her bag. She raises her eyebrow and asks you, Can't you be a gentleman for me? She walks ahead of you. She makes you feel needed.
Your friends text you about a party. You want to go. Before you even ask permission, you notice a new update from her on a social networking site. It's a lyric about feeling ignored and unappreciated. You ask her what's wrong. She feels alright. You tell her about the party. She does not reply. Your friends start calling. You decide to go. Five hours later, you check on the thread. She will be musing about how men never understand and that they never know when to put their girlfriend's feelings first. All her friends agree with her. You will feel inadequate.
Hold her hand. Carry her things. Buy her food. Give her medicine. Understand her mood swings. Let her take the lead. Tell her everything you're doing. Do not leave her out of the conversation. Do what she says. Follow her when she walks out. Don't point out her mistakes. See beyond her insecurities. Praise her. Let her know you are there. Forget her irrationality. She makes you feel needed. She makes you feel like a man. She needs taking care of. She is fragile. She is special.
You wouldn't even consider dating a vertebrate. Doing so would mean not being required to see each other when you two are loaded with academic works. A vertebrate will let you spend time with your friends without her feeling insecure. You wouldn't want your phone not ringing with "Where are you?" and "Who are you with?" texts. You would definitely hate the opportunity to choose your own lunch for yourself. Your back would miss the weight of her girly-colored bag. Vertebrates are independent; they do not allow their lives to revolve around you. Why would you want that?
An invertebrate will divide her days in two ways: Time with you, time not with you. The latter part will be spent in agony, despair and confusion. She will make you question your priorities. Why would you choose a measly homework when she is feeling down and alone? She will take it against you when she says I'm okay, and you believe her and don't read between her sighs indicating that she really isn't. She will demand you to call her again after she hangs up on you. Twice. She will let you bring her home everyday. She will be incapable of going home without you. In fact, she will be incapable of anything without you. There is no other world existing without the two of you in it. She will find it difficult to decide, to choose, to make a point without you in mind. She will need you. She will hurt you, but you will believe she didn't mean to. She only just wants to feel that you care.
You feel what you have is special; this is truly what you want, and consequently this is truly what you need. You will open your Biology book. You will see the different kingdoms of the animal world. You will study about symbiotic relationships. You will read about parasitism, and how usually they are done by worms, bacteria, and insects. They are all invertebrates.
--
This is something I just randomly felt like doing in response to this article about dating illiterate girls. If a girl cares more about you not saying good night than your exhaustion over the amount of school work you had to do (that she never asked about), I think that's saying several things: (1) She clearly has time on her hands to wait for you, (2) She doesn't spend this time reading a book, or anything else equally productive, and (3) Your friends are already secretly judging her (HAHA KIDDING! Sort of. Maybe.)
Labels: creative nonfiction, fiction, I cannot really decide which is which right now
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Good Biscuit.
“It’s just a dare, Mia,”
I stared at the small piece of bread, round and flat, with the top a little more brown than the rest, the entire surface shiny and glistening, like the ones my dad used to bring home. Hopia has always been Daddy’s signature pasalubong; he said he never believed in chocolates and candies for dessert, and he always got them at a cheaper price anyway because the lady selling them thinks he’s Chinese. We have the same eyes, Daddy and I. The family calls it alkansya – piggy bank eyes, they say. The tiny little slits appear when we smile, when we sneeze, when we take a bite, when I try to remember the names of relatives, when the early six-thirty a.m. sun hits his eye in the morning as he drives us to school.
Melissa is staring aghast at the rows of hopiang monggo atop our cafeteria counter. She said she only tasted it once and never tried it again. It smells like gasoline, she said. Once she decided it was disgusting, the rest of us could not possibly like it anymore. Tricia never ate anything but her mom’s chocolate chip cookies for recess, and Cindy has never tried hopia before. I was the only one who enjoyed eating it for dessert, for merienda, for breakfast – but secretly of course, in the confines of our own living room, with only my parents and my brother as witnesses.
I gave my five-peso coin to the Manang, motioning for the first hopia in the row. How quickly the smell found its way to me, and eventually my friends! I saw them wrinkle their noses in disgust as I started moving the piece of bread closer to my mouth. It looked a little glossier than what my dad usually brought home but smelled like gasoline just the same. An oddly addicting taste and smell. I do not want them to think this is too easy for me – I close my eyes and pretend disgust. I pull it away from my face and I hear Melissa laughing. Tricia and Cindy are cheering for me. At the back of my head, I know this would be easy. I take a bite and feel my eyes squint their way into an alkansya and for that moment I am sitting across dad in our small, dining table, looking Chinese even though our surname sounds more like a telenovela character. I take a bite and I chew; slowly I taste the gasoline and soon I smell it, like I did as I sat on the passenger seat with dad driving me and my brother to school, like I did the time we went to the hospital after Dad never woke up. I let its strangely delicious flavor swirl inside my mouth like a current of emotion. Tricia hugs me and I lean on her shoulder, wetting her sleeve. See, it wasn’t so bad, I hear Melissa say.
I stared at the small piece of bread, round and flat, with the top a little more brown than the rest, the entire surface shiny and glistening, like the ones my dad used to bring home. Hopia has always been Daddy’s signature pasalubong; he said he never believed in chocolates and candies for dessert, and he always got them at a cheaper price anyway because the lady selling them thinks he’s Chinese. We have the same eyes, Daddy and I. The family calls it alkansya – piggy bank eyes, they say. The tiny little slits appear when we smile, when we sneeze, when we take a bite, when I try to remember the names of relatives, when the early six-thirty a.m. sun hits his eye in the morning as he drives us to school.
Melissa is staring aghast at the rows of hopiang monggo atop our cafeteria counter. She said she only tasted it once and never tried it again. It smells like gasoline, she said. Once she decided it was disgusting, the rest of us could not possibly like it anymore. Tricia never ate anything but her mom’s chocolate chip cookies for recess, and Cindy has never tried hopia before. I was the only one who enjoyed eating it for dessert, for merienda, for breakfast – but secretly of course, in the confines of our own living room, with only my parents and my brother as witnesses.
I gave my five-peso coin to the Manang, motioning for the first hopia in the row. How quickly the smell found its way to me, and eventually my friends! I saw them wrinkle their noses in disgust as I started moving the piece of bread closer to my mouth. It looked a little glossier than what my dad usually brought home but smelled like gasoline just the same. An oddly addicting taste and smell. I do not want them to think this is too easy for me – I close my eyes and pretend disgust. I pull it away from my face and I hear Melissa laughing. Tricia and Cindy are cheering for me. At the back of my head, I know this would be easy. I take a bite and feel my eyes squint their way into an alkansya and for that moment I am sitting across dad in our small, dining table, looking Chinese even though our surname sounds more like a telenovela character. I take a bite and I chew; slowly I taste the gasoline and soon I smell it, like I did as I sat on the passenger seat with dad driving me and my brother to school, like I did the time we went to the hospital after Dad never woke up. I let its strangely delicious flavor swirl inside my mouth like a current of emotion. Tricia hugs me and I lean on her shoulder, wetting her sleeve. See, it wasn’t so bad, I hear Melissa say.
--
As an exercise for our CW140 class, we were asked to write down our "secrets" on small pieces of paper and draw them in lots, after. We then had to write a story based on the ones we picked. This was what I came up with with this secret: "I ate hopia in front of my classmates even if it smelled like gasoline because I liked it." It was actually quite a funny, insignificant little detail - which I surprisingly liked a lot, really.
Labels: fiction
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Introductions.
Her fingers grazed his leg as his chest gently and slowly heaved up and down. With his eyes closed he looks different, more calm, like a little boy who resisted siesta time with all his might but eventually ended up falling prey. The curly, wispy strands on his calf enfold her index finger in a longing way that soothes her -- how soft and velvety they are to the feel of her hand. To her it feels better than fingers holding her back but eventually letting go.
She isn't like the others. That, she knows for certain. Sure, she enjoys the unclasping of the buttons, she anticipates the falling away of clothes, she looks forward to hearing the repeated grunting of some higher being, or sometimes even her name. But it's the quiet, little moments she looks forward to the most. That moment when he finally closes his eyes, either by extreme delight or relief, heaves a huge sigh, and trails off to slumber. That moment when she finally hears his heart slow down as she presses her cheek against his damp chest, when she can play with his velvety legs without disturbing him. All the others questioned her; they couldn't understand.
She glances at his bedside table beside him. His wallet is slumped out, almost impossible to close with the amount of cash in it. Or were they just pictures? From where she was lying down she couldn't tell. What was his story? She sighs. She softly rests her head on his chest again, closing her eyes and trying to force away the morning as it slowly creeps back in through the windows.
I could get used to this, she thinks. She could do this for the rest of her life. She could do without the promises of forever, the certainty of an "us." Maybe when he wakes up, she'll ask him. Maybe he'll wince for a while, but give in. Maybe he'll be honest. His leg feels comfortable and warm against the light stroking of her fingers. The silence envelops her, as if she is knowing more and more about him even without the words. Perhaps a little more touching would reveal to her his name.
Labels: fiction
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Burning clues.
She never expected to see him last night, in fact she never expected to see him ever again. She was relieved she was all dressed up and pretty, something that probably surprised him, but at least it fell under the category of a "pleasant surprise." It was the ideal meeting of exes: boy looks surreptitiously miserable, girl is having fun in her red heels. The only problem was it was him who had a five-foot-seven glamazon of a woman whose mile-long legs wrapped themselves possessively around his at they sat in the bar.
It was a bit awkward. But at least they were both mature enough to greet each other and say hi. Oh, you know, with all the pleasantries they can go without but had to say to prove who was more over it. The usual. His date left to get themselves drinks, giving her time to approach him somehow. And then the longest five seconds of silence in her life.
"So, I finally got to see Jeff Buckley live," she says to break the tension.
She remembered how she used to gush about Jeff Buckley back in college, almost always quoting his songs and writing down the lyrics on the margins of her Finance textbooks when she was bored in class. She didn't know exactly why she had to mention it; maybe it was her chance to tell him she's having a grand time without him, or maybe it was her subconscious final attempt at making him remember how much of herself she shared with him during their one-year-and-a-half whirlwind romance. Somehow, she was still justifying what happened -- perhaps it could've gone another way.
Maybe an inside joke would do it. It would cement what it was they had. If there were still numerous little things no one else knew that they could laugh about, then maybe there was still hope at continuing where they left off. Somehow inside her head, it was still him and her, just waiting for something to happen and set the fire burning again. Unfortunately she was under the impression that it was some 90s singer that would do the trick.
"Jeff who?"
She smiled. His date came back and he introduced them to each other. She excused herself and found her way to the other side of the dance floor, looking for her friends. Maybe he didn't hear her. The music was too loud at the bar anyway. But a huge part of her wanted to stop justifying him -- he didn't recognize Jeff Buckley. Even after all the times she loaded her CDs and mixtapes on the stereo, even after she insisted they dance to his songs on her sister's wedding. He never remembered.
She drove home later that night with her CD blaring on her speakers. Sometimes it's the best feeling in the world when a song just perfectly reflects what you're feeling; how its words encapsulate what you cannot say. But sometimes it can be the worst, knowing that the sad soul he's singing of is no one else but you.
Well, maybe it's just because I didn't know you at all.
Labels: fiction
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Ignite.
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep.
Her head leaned on the car window. It was dark and rainy, and she was tired. He was too. It was hard not to let the physical exhaustion translate to their emotions. Words have been said and tears have been shed, but throughout it all their hands never let go of each other. It was their little thing, this secret gesture, as if feeling guilty in advance for all the things that are not to be uttered but are nonetheless put out there. At last the verbal warfare ceased, it began with her. She shut up, as she always did, but not because she had nothing else to say but because she was just tired. Tired, and because she didn't want to fight anymore.
His eyes followed the wipers as they moved from left to right. The rain was pouring hard outside and the sound from his stereo was almost drowned out by the heavy shower. But through it all, the song resonated, making its way into the chorus. He looked at her; eyes closed, lower lip bitten. He didn't like seeing her like this, holding back. He wanted her to cling to him, to need him. She always insisted on being independent, but deep down he knew she wanted to be otherwise.
She looked at the clock. The black numbers on the orange clock screen said 6:57. She must be going. She had a lot of work to do, and so did he. She wanted to hold on to him, never wanting to leave his side. But she didn't have the courage to admit that that was all she ever wanted to do. She couldn't imagine herself dragging him along with her to frustration.
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
She squeezed his hand. His gaze met hers. He squeezed back. And the rain was silenced by the downpour from her eyes.
And I will try to fix you.
Labels: fiction
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