Today is April 20, 2005. I am waiting in a mall. It is a Saturday, there're a lot of people milling about. I am fidgety, as if this is the first time I'll be doing this.
This is the first time that I'll be doing this.
You are not here yet and I am waiting by the bookstore. I decide to go to the restroom to freshen up. I hope you won't arrive yet, I need some minutes to myself. I reach the restroom and check how I look in the mirror. There are circles and fine, thin lines around my eyes. My mother just died five days ago. I am unsure about how I look.
You are not here yet and I am waiting by the bookstore. I decide to go to the restroom to freshen up. I hope you won't arrive yet, I need some minutes to myself. I reach the restroom and check how I look in the mirror. There are circles and fine, thin lines around my eyes. My mother just died five days ago. I am unsure about how I look.
I shouldn't have worn this black top. It drains the color from my face. Now, I look pale and my cleavage is showing. I wore it exactly for that purpose but now, I am not so sure about my decision. (decisions.)
I remember asking someone restroom directions. I realize that I need someone to guide me to places.
I enter the bookstore only because you say that you're coming, that you're almost here. I imagine that I could smell you in this place. This is true. In the insanity of these passing minutes, I pretend that I know what scent you wear. When you asked where we'd be meeting, I said The Fiction Section, please. I thought I was being smart, that there was something decidedly poetic about strangers meeting in a section where only the surreal survive.
Someone in the Fiction Section knows me. He was a college classmate of mine. He speaks to me as if we are intimate friends. It always strikes me as funny how people who are on nodding terms get chummy when they meet in strange and new places. I try to look out for you but I don't know exactly what kind of face I am looking for.
Then you appear. The details blur into each other. I remember coming home for the first time.
*******
It is September 20, 2005. I am breaking up with you. I had one beer too many and other drinks besides. I have plans to go to Singapore. I am sitting on the mattress when I open the topic. You came in and out of the room afterwards, occasionally texting some anonymous person and smiling.
I remember asking someone restroom directions. I realize that I need someone to guide me to places.
I enter the bookstore only because you say that you're coming, that you're almost here. I imagine that I could smell you in this place. This is true. In the insanity of these passing minutes, I pretend that I know what scent you wear. When you asked where we'd be meeting, I said The Fiction Section, please. I thought I was being smart, that there was something decidedly poetic about strangers meeting in a section where only the surreal survive.
Someone in the Fiction Section knows me. He was a college classmate of mine. He speaks to me as if we are intimate friends. It always strikes me as funny how people who are on nodding terms get chummy when they meet in strange and new places. I try to look out for you but I don't know exactly what kind of face I am looking for.
Then you appear. The details blur into each other. I remember coming home for the first time.
*******
It is September 20, 2005. I am breaking up with you. I had one beer too many and other drinks besides. I have plans to go to Singapore. I am sitting on the mattress when I open the topic. You came in and out of the room afterwards, occasionally texting some anonymous person and smiling.
I think it's going to end tonight. That was fast, I whisper to myself. But who expected it to last, really?
Tomorrow, I have an interview downtown. I have to sleep, have to get some rest.
*******
Tomorrow, I have an interview downtown. I have to sleep, have to get some rest.
*******
Today is September 21, 2005. I am on a bus. I am going back to my real home. I look out the window; I can't stand this sudden space. I leap out of the bus like a woman who stars in a romantic movie would. The bottom line of everything is romance and how much you can squeeze out of it. This is what I really believe.
It only takes me thirty minutes to get here. I wait for you. You make me wait for you. I sit silently, disbelieving this, how I can't stand to be alone even for a day.
*******
Today is November 14, 2005. I look her up, research stuff about her with the same detached feeling that I used to exert in dissecting frogs for Biology class. I ask my officemate to walk me to the terminal because my legs feel wobbly. Truth is, I feel like collapsing.
When my officemate is gone and I am safely inside the rental van, I cry slow, silent tears. Once, I sobbed out loud. I hope the driver didn't hear me.
*******
It is April 2006. I give a quick glance at the room that I'll be sharing indefinitely with my officemate. This is her family's house. I get the top bunk. I strongly suspect this is because I am not a real part of the family. My officemate and her sister shares the bottom bunk.
I eat with her Chinese/ Japanese family. Her mother gives me an orange bathing suit. She hands it to me after our first meal. I accept it, I am at a loss for words. I am at a loss, period.
*******
It is May 2006. We meet at another mall. We were supposed to watch a movie but decided to veto it at the last minute.
Today is November 14, 2005. I look her up, research stuff about her with the same detached feeling that I used to exert in dissecting frogs for Biology class. I ask my officemate to walk me to the terminal because my legs feel wobbly. Truth is, I feel like collapsing.
When my officemate is gone and I am safely inside the rental van, I cry slow, silent tears. Once, I sobbed out loud. I hope the driver didn't hear me.
*******
It is April 2006. I give a quick glance at the room that I'll be sharing indefinitely with my officemate. This is her family's house. I get the top bunk. I strongly suspect this is because I am not a real part of the family. My officemate and her sister shares the bottom bunk.
I eat with her Chinese/ Japanese family. Her mother gives me an orange bathing suit. She hands it to me after our first meal. I accept it, I am at a loss for words. I am at a loss, period.
*******
It is May 2006. We meet at another mall. We were supposed to watch a movie but decided to veto it at the last minute.
We take a jeepney ride home. You've curled your hair a month ago and now it looks unmanageable, is being blown raucously by the wind. It is a windy day. Your hand has reached out, has cupped mine. The lady sitting across us dismisses us, as if we are long-time lovers, something she's already seen before.
*******
It is October 2006. I've brought you fruit and am staying the night. Almost everyone is here. They are visiting you. Your platelet count has gone down the day before and everyone wants to see you, to know how you are. I like acting as hostess; I do it seldom.
By 10pm, everyone has vacated the area. Only I am left and your cousin, who also got inflicted with Dengue. His mother is accompanying him at the other area; we assume that they are sleeping. I am sitting on a small stool. You look at me and say, You are my hero. You feel a bit emotional because a lot of people dropped by today. I smile softly and do not look at you. It is nothing, I say. Don't mention it, it is nothing.
*******
It is May 7, 2007. It is my birthday and we are on our way home. You aren't in the van; we dropped you off somewhere because you had to go to work. I feel down and am not talking much. Besides, I am nursing a hangover. The hotel was beautiful. I wish I were rich enough to be able to spend every summer there.
I arrive home and take a nap. I wake up after some time, I hear you come in the room. You sigh and seem tired. Turns out that your student wasn't at school. You seem so heavy, like a lot of weight is on your shoulders. You hug me half-heartedly. I have a present for you, you say, handing me a plastic bag. In it is a book. It is a book of short stories by an author I do not know. I stare at it, trying to find some meaning in it. Sadly, it had none.
*******
Today is October 16, 2007. I am looking for scissors to cut out the tags from the clothes I just bought. I have draped them all over the mattress. I know that I shouldn't but I look in your drawers. I know that I shouldn't but here it is, something else. Not what I was looking for.
*******
Today is May 7, 2008. It is my birthday. You are home; you kiss me and tell me you love me. I believe you.
******
Today is June 6, 2008. I am trying to remember everything. I won't pretend that I've always understood you. I have to admit that there are some days when I don't even try.
*******
It is October 2006. I've brought you fruit and am staying the night. Almost everyone is here. They are visiting you. Your platelet count has gone down the day before and everyone wants to see you, to know how you are. I like acting as hostess; I do it seldom.
By 10pm, everyone has vacated the area. Only I am left and your cousin, who also got inflicted with Dengue. His mother is accompanying him at the other area; we assume that they are sleeping. I am sitting on a small stool. You look at me and say, You are my hero. You feel a bit emotional because a lot of people dropped by today. I smile softly and do not look at you. It is nothing, I say. Don't mention it, it is nothing.
*******
It is May 7, 2007. It is my birthday and we are on our way home. You aren't in the van; we dropped you off somewhere because you had to go to work. I feel down and am not talking much. Besides, I am nursing a hangover. The hotel was beautiful. I wish I were rich enough to be able to spend every summer there.
I arrive home and take a nap. I wake up after some time, I hear you come in the room. You sigh and seem tired. Turns out that your student wasn't at school. You seem so heavy, like a lot of weight is on your shoulders. You hug me half-heartedly. I have a present for you, you say, handing me a plastic bag. In it is a book. It is a book of short stories by an author I do not know. I stare at it, trying to find some meaning in it. Sadly, it had none.
*******
Today is October 16, 2007. I am looking for scissors to cut out the tags from the clothes I just bought. I have draped them all over the mattress. I know that I shouldn't but I look in your drawers. I know that I shouldn't but here it is, something else. Not what I was looking for.
*******
Today is May 7, 2008. It is my birthday. You are home; you kiss me and tell me you love me. I believe you.
******
Today is June 6, 2008. I am trying to remember everything. I won't pretend that I've always understood you. I have to admit that there are some days when I don't even try.
I do not know how you'll react when you read this. I don't think I'll ever know, since you never seem to visit this site, anyway. Which is not a bad thing, really. Odd, but not something that can be completely categorized as bad.
I want to relive you and these years. I want to feel like someone who has reached the top of a mountain and say Hah! I've come this far. There's no turning back, not now. I realize that there are a lot of parts that I've left out, parts when, if relayed, may give a fairer depiction of our circumstances. Forgive the rags of my memory; they can only absorb what has been understood.
Remembering is good. Remembering makes me realize how much I have changed. How much we'll continue changing in the coming years. Here is something true: I am not less afraid now. I am not stronger. There are even days when I wish that our relationship consisted wholly of days reliving that first day, the day we met. Imagine, twenty-six months of going to the mall, meeting in the Fiction Section, then coming home. There are many things that I still feel ambivalent toward, many questions that I do not ask. I want to say, I need to touch you. But I do not. I don't know why.
Remembering is good. Remembering makes me realize how much I have changed. How much we'll continue changing in the coming years. Here is something true: I am not less afraid now. I am not stronger. There are even days when I wish that our relationship consisted wholly of days reliving that first day, the day we met. Imagine, twenty-six months of going to the mall, meeting in the Fiction Section, then coming home. There are many things that I still feel ambivalent toward, many questions that I do not ask. I want to say, I need to touch you. But I do not. I don't know why.
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