Chapter 7

I am looking at a tall glass. I am not going to say if it's half-full or half-empty because I hate that witticism. I look at the time. He is late.

I tap the edge of the spoon on the glass. Tink tink. I am bored and do not have time to waste.  

Last year was different. Last year was rainy. Like the day we met, for instance. I was almost soaked to my skin because the place where he said he'd meet me was so far, I had to take three trips from where I was then staying. When I got off the taxi, he wasn't there. I hesitated going up because 1) I did not have a ticket on me 2) there were a lot of his artsy fartsy friends lounging on chairs, smoking cigarettes in the rain. They looked frightfully ridiculous so I decided to disassociate myself lest I run into someone I knew (which I highly doubted).

I was disappointed at first because he looked so normal. But then he took me upstairs and literally shook me dry. IN front of all the raindrenched smoking farts (all of whom apparently decided to come up and make use of their common sense). I have never received such open affection from a complete stranger.

Then afterwards, the dance. I've never seen so many dancing poets before. But the Beatles were on and strangely, he said, here's your song. I hear the first lines of 'do you want to know a secret?' Dwarfed as I was under his thick coat, I could hear him humming along.

And it did not seem real at that point but I told myself, I will not knock this. I will not overanalyze this and shred it to pieces until there is nothing left.

But because we were then products of desertion, we could not hurt the other. No one voiced out what the end might be like, unlike many of my former lovers. We went to this gallery and that, with him trying his best to disentangle himself from every situation that may involve long discourses on subjects unknown to me while I tried my best to stay in the shadows. But most days, we preferred being alone. Behind a library. Under a tree. Reading books while crossing bridges (something that no one has ever done with me). Sometimes, I would catch him humming You'll never know how much I really love you… You'll never know how much I really care…

Those were perfect days. We were A MURAKAMI NOVEL!!!! I was A MUSE!!!!! Minutes filled with concocting lovelorn poetry in my name or bits and pieces of songs written in bright pink post its- stuck in the corners of gnarly bus seats, left on chairs, thrown in the wind. And nobody knows that they were all about me.

But I run away from things I am afraid of. Perhaps he knew this about me, perhaps not. But my mind told me that these things happened in novels and we were just another one of those stories I hate where everything is distorted and hopless and everyone ends up running into themselves.

One night,  when we were having a "It's your movie. No, it's mine!" (his idea, of course) night, we decided to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's.  When it came to the part where Holly Golightly ran after Paul under the rain, he turned to me and lay his head on my shoulder. His head felt heavy, thick with curls. Minutes after, I hear him snoring.

Next morning, I ran away. Ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Mamang Pandesal, the bread vendor looked at me with horror as I plummeted towards him but I did manage to miss him at the last minute. My eyes were blurry from sleep. Where to go? I do not remember what I did after that.

A year passes. Sometimes, he would remember to say hello and the call would end abruptly, like all our other endings did. There were days when he was especially happy and say:

Did you receive my poem?

What poem?

I sent it. Express mail. And this time, I put your name on it. I specifically said that it was meant for you.

What poem?

I could almost imagine him smiling. You will get it because it is yours. All those words, for once, yours.

And I would cry silently in my open hand.

———–

But it is April again. I am waiting for him, like I said earlier, in a now almost empty restaurant.  Everything seems dimmer because it is the afternoon and the blinds are drawn.  When I pick up the phone, I hear his voice.

I'm sorry. I can't make it. Are you there already?

Yep. Just got in.

That's a lie.

What does it matter? Why aren't you coming anyway?

Because.

Okay. Have it your way, then. So when?

I dunno. Maybe next summer?

You can bet your rat's ass I won't be available for that one.

I have some things to attend to.

You know that I do, too. But where am I now?

Silence.

Please come.

It is seconds before I realize that he is not longer there. I stare at my phone for a while, put it in my bag and leave.

——————–

Two days after, I buy a newspaper on the way home from the market. It is Sunday, after all. I feel thirsty and hungry and think about what to cook for later. I smooth out the paper as best as I can. On the front page, beneath an article about an expose on a senatoriable, I see his face. I see the words:

 Writer missing!

I feel disembodied for a while, as if my soul has run off ahead of me. I reel a little and  decide to read on before I panic.The newsbeat says that he has been missing for three days now. Everything is being done to track him down but there is no sign of him anywhere. His family does not know where he is. His friends are all shaking their heads. His current girlfriend was crying during their interview with her.

After all these accounts, they run a short backgrounder on him. Simple kid who got good reviews, all of which eventually persuaded some hotshot organization to nominate him for an international award. No political leanings. No organizations. Clean, smooth record.

I feel my knees wobble a little. I am alarmed by the heat. My shoulders feel hurt, as if I've just been sunbathing.I hear a strange humming and then nothing at all.

________

Did you thank her?

Of course I did. What do you take me for? I even paid her 5 pesos.

So are you saying that I'm worth 5 pesos?

Oh shut up. Be grateful for something, for once. Here's a cuppa.

Thanks.

I walk past my brother and prop the pillows up on the sofa with my free hand. I put the cup of coffee down on the table I lie down with my eyes open.

He shuffles towards me. I close my eyes a bit, remembering what I tell him about shuffling. He never listens.

Are you okay?

I guess.

What happened out there?

Nothing.

He stares me full in the face. Should I worry about you?

No.

Okay.

He goes to his room and I hear his light switch click. I listen to him preparing for bed. I stare at the light and think about him, about me, about nothing really.

I go to my room and take my books off the shelves. I first arrange them alphabetically, then rearraange them into no particular order. Next, I smooth their jackets out and take care to fix the dogearred corners. I stare and stare at them until my eyes feel tired and heavy. Then I open each one, trying to find favorite passages and leaving them that way. So many words. All useless now, it seems. Even if I scream these words aloud, it won't make him come and sit with me. And stay.

I whisper, I won't run. I am tired. Please come back. I say these phrases over and over again to make them true for him, to make them summon him out of the void where I cannot follow.