Monday, January 12, 2009

Things Better Left Unsaid - Part 1

I want to cry. I need to cry. But it seems like my tear ducts have dried up.
They say that some things are better left unsaid. I didn't believe in that.
Until we stopped. Until he stopped.

First Sunday of April 2008. I woke up at around 2 pm. I felt like the world was resting on my head. I couldn't stand up because the world around me was spinning. So I sat on my bed. I was trying to recollect my thoughts and trying to remember how I got home. Nothing. The only thing I could remember was I was with Dave and Caren having a discussion, err, argument about Conrado de Quiros the night before at some bar.

Two days after, I wanted to go out but everyone was busy. I decided to go out all by myself and went to this bar where I was last time. I was getting in the bar, then I thought the car parked near the bar's entrance was familiar. But nothing registered. The place was full. There was one table near the counter though, a table for three that seemed empty. I was about to sit myself when this guy pulled one of the chairs and sat himself too. He was smiling at me. As if struck by lightning, everything came back. That's why the car was familiar. That's why I woke up at 2 pm. It was Steve. He was wearing a white shirt. The print said "Don't even think about it." It was black, the print.

He's working at the City Hall, at the City Treasurer's office. He is 29 years old and about 5 feet 6 inches tall. His hair, well, he has a shaved head. He has quite a nose. It looks very much like Michael Douglas'. He is a tad darker than I am. His eyes, black. And when they look at me, they're like the most sincere pair of eyes that ever locked into mine. His voice, well, like a rock star's.

"Damn! I couldn't believe it. Look who's here?" "I couldn't believe myself either," I replied.

The first Saturday of April 2008. I was with Dave and Caren. We've had just two rounds of beer. We were feasting on these beef strips cooked in coconut milk, butter and shrimp paste. And some nuts. We were arguing about Conrado de Quiros. I was telling them that I started hating the columnist since he started hating PGMA. But I still read him though. Dave was saying that someone had to stand up and simply say bluntly what evil PGMA is. I was saying, more like shouting already, that she isn't all that bad, when this guy from across our table grinned and he was looking at me. I didn't so much mind about it. But he kept doing it, every time I was getting too emotional defending PGMA.

I was calm at that time. I approached him. He was all by himself. He was already there when Dave, Caren and I arrived at the bar. "So, you seem to be enjoying our conversation back there." "Not really," he said. "I mean, you are drinking your beer. Give those guys a break. Just enjoy your beer," he continued. He politely asked me to join him in his table. For a moment there, I hesitated. But heck, how many times do I get invited to join a guy's table!

He was having pizza with his beer. There were six slices left on the platter. He was almost done with his second slice. It was carelessly placed on a saucer, black saucer, (the second slice). He asked Rafa, one of the waiters, for another saucer and a fork. I excused myself for a while. "I'll just go tell my friends I ran into someone, ok?" "Ok," he replied and then sheepishly smiled.

I was back at his table in a jiffy. I sat in front of him. The table had three chairs. "So, you often do this? I mean go out alone?" "Some nights, well most nights actually," he answered without even looking at me. His thoughts seemed to have been wandering someplace else. He called out to Rafa again and asked for a bucket of 5+1. This guy wants to be drunk tonight, I mumbled to myself.

We made this a regular thing. Usually on Sundays and Thursdays. Of course there are weeks that we miss out. I was busy. He had to go out of town. I had to be with my friends. He had to be with his mom. I fought a bout with colds. He had a fight with his Dad. I had to finish some slides. He had to chaperon his kid sis.

(To be continued...)

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Underneath It All

Something I wrote three years ago...

I feel safe around him. I feel appreciated. And, I want to play with the idea that I am loved every time I am with him.


But I really don’t know if he does love me. I just have this crazy feeling, crazy thought, crazy dream that like me, he too has been found by love.


Like a bird who has broken its wings, like a nightingale who has lost its voice, like a cloud pouring hard its all, like them, I have broken my wings, I have lost my voice, I have cried my all.


It is funny how you suddenly realize that you have missed so much of the world because you have made him your all, your world and still would want to miss more of the world just to spend one more day with him, even for just one more.


And I thank him for that. Because I could not imagine moments passing by, life coursing through, without him, without having known him, without having to know that there is one person in this world, this strange world, who could make me believe when there is nothing more to believe in.


If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have realized that even the daisy is also pretty, I wouldn’t have realized that the sun is just as romantic as the moon, that dreams come true and that love is love. I wouldn’t have realized that even I can be loved. I know it’s such a strong word, love, but it is what it is, love is love.


Albeit this same love has made me realize that I can’t have everything, most especially him, it is this same love that has taught me to believe in everything and in forever.


And if this love has finally left him but still lingers on in me, I will love, I will believe. And I will always remember that the daisy is also pretty, that the sun is just as romantic as the moon, that dreams come true and that love is love.