semi-colon cancer;

[semicoloncancer]

Of pandesal fame;

The corner of Chico and Anonas has always been the busiest part of this quiet neighborhood. There wasn’t much to boast about this place but the one bakery that most people believe to have the best pandesal in the world. That’s an exaggeration but you wouldn’t want to hear other people say it themselves. One other bakery in competition has dimmer lights and its metal gate closed all the time seemingly uninviting or at most exclusive to its patrons. I have no way of knowing. I have lived my life in these streets for three decades before I had to move away.

All my childhood friends have moved away earlier than I have. To where, they never told me. Half of them moved to the province. The computation of my friends moving away is easy because the actual half are siblings of 5 boys alphabetically named making it easier to remember their name. For some reason, I can’t even remember any one of them. The other half are two more sets of brothers. A twin and another 3-sibling set all of which I remember the names of. It’s not important to this story. There are at least two important things why I mentioned this: one, is that I’m the only person in the friend group that doesn’t have any sibling (I do, but we’ll get there); and two, that for every about five years, my number of friends decline (from ten, to five, to two, to one, to none).

I do have siblings, though. One 10 years older and another 2 years younger. The relationship dynamics have always been weird and it was never discussed by our parents why it’s such the case. How could they have waited for 9 years before me and just waited one after. This made it harder for me to drag my brothers into the circle of friends I had growing up. One that my older brother is too old for us to hang out with. Another I felt has robbed the attention from me right away from when he was born. Given our age gaps, there’s no order to our names unlike my other friends. My older brother’s name is Denver, like the city in Colorado; the younger one is Neil. My name is John Paul. As boring as it sounds. In my years of growing up, I have thought of so many theories about our names as to exclude myself from the three of us, one of which: is that both of them are named after famous musicians, John Denver and Neil Young. But that includes one of my names, so it’s not as satisfying as what I aim it to be. These are just small instances of my urge to leave everything. The only problem is that everyone has left before I have, even if I have already been gone for four years. Denver left first, given his age and his readiness to start his family. (Was he actually ready?) Neil and his genius of a brain moved to Germany as an exchange student and has roamed Europe to his heart’s content only coming back home every couple of years or so. My parents are dead.

My father died when Neil was only 12 years old. I mention this first because I was 13 and I have associated this to my unlucky age number to have been the reason my father had to die. My mother has garnered a total of 3 step-parents in the span of another 13 years, another unlucky number that I have thought I have already accepted and let go of to not blame myself for my fatherlessness. Two of my early step-parents are men born out of poor choices until my mother discovered a never-thought-fork-in-the-road path of lesbian romance. Of course the men left. But my step-mother stayed for a couple more years until we decided to leave the house my mother died in. The adults will never be named in this story (I know their names unlike the childhood friends I lost way earlier in my life).

To where I left my hometown, a Chico street exists but not an Anonas. The pandesal is clearly not as good. I remember growing up having run the streets a million times playing games with the sibling-ful friend group I have with the lack of children in the streets of another fruit tree. It took me about 2 more years since my step-mother left the house even if I promised her I would leave when she does so we can finally complete the process of grieving from my mother’s death. It wasn’t a complete break of a promise, though. I have packed a lot of the things I wanted to bring along from this now empty house. Boxes of plates that I know I will never use. Different styles of pants from my younger years that I said I will get to the size but may never will. Notebooks my family and friends have given but still had no pen ink in them because I was too lazy to journal. My yearbook. My old family pictures. My father’s favorite fedora. My mother’s favorite shawl. Neilleft me a few things. Denver took everything he could. In the two more years that I extended my stay, I have continued to be alone. I had no complaints but I have never thought that the people that I got too busy for have now moved on, from my life and from this world. I have no obligations anymore but those obligations have always been part of who I am as much as this loneliness is.

I bring up the bakery at the corner of Chico and Anonas because since I have left where I grew up from, I haven’t been back until today, about 11 years since I left. About 13 years since my mother died, I just realized. I had no idea why because the son of the owner of the house carefully asked me not to ask about it until I came back. I respect his entire family a lot and I know they won’t ask for a favor if they could help it. A little sacrifice of restraint will not pain me so much in the 3 days that I had to wait. Having lived in an archipelago all my life, I never had the urge to aboard a plane to where I have spent a lot of time in, and spending more energy in the new place I uprooted my (inexistent) life made much more sense since I have nothing to go back to anyway. The family paid for my two-way plane ticket from their estate, I suppose. For my trip, I only assumed that he would just like to talk about the recent passing of his only remaining parent and that there have been some items left to my name. In a sense, I am not completely wrong. No matter what happened, they said, they would do anything to talk to any remaining members of their favorite tenant and family they have ever come to know. Long story short, the house I grew up, is not up for rent anymore but is now for sale. I missed the big sign on the gate, I told them. Might it be fortunate or not for me that the reason they flew back home was to offer me the house. I am not in any way heir to the home. Just, the heir to the first offer to be sold the house to. It is their parent’s dying wish. I got an offer price exclusive to me. All I had to do was agree to them. It turns out, I have enough savings to do so with just the right amount left to live comfortably in the next 5 years. As if they have asked my bank without my permission to know if their minimum was achievable by the offer heir.

I said I’ll think about it. I have a roundtrip ticket. Had they thought to just get me a one-way ticket (to which I would’ve said no, or have booked a return flight right away) I might have said yes after a few more hours of reminiscing about the very same living room I knew growing up. They gave me a couple of weeks to think about it which they scrapped and extended to a month. Much like me, they have no reason to rush any more. So I will think about it. I promised them again, much like my restraint. This time, I am needed to let go of it.

The corner of Chico and Anonas has always been the busiest part of this quiet neighborhood. There wasn’t much to boast about this place but the one bakery that most people believe to have the best pandesal in the world. I didn’t buy.

[semicoloncancer]

History of Condiments;

The first time that I met him, the first thing he ever told me was how proud he is about his best achievement. He says it’s his claim to fame. An invention that will revolutionize everything. He said “everything”. He meant everything. Like I should care about it. I didn’t. But that’s the very first thing he told me. I couldn’t remember his name until very recently but I remember this interaction vividly.

He was smiling when I walked into the pub. He claimed that he’s a regular there but it’s the first and the last time that I saw him there. I go there thrice a week: Tuesdays when they open the week, Fridays to cap my weekday, and Saturday with Friends. Usually, I add Sunday when I have a date with my on-again, off-again girlfriend. She’s married but separated. Her parents passed away shortly after their separation and she had to sometimes live in his ex-husband’s house. Other times she’s with me. 3 days, sometimes 4, out of 6 days the pub is open from Tuesday to Sunday and I never once saw this person before. Does he go here Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays? What an odd choice of days to drink, not unless he does it to avoid the crowd. But he didn’t answer me when I asked him when he goes to the pub. Instead, he continued blabbering about his self-proclaimed claim to fame.

Exactly when I sat down, he lifted his bottle of San Mig Light, the label’s peeled off but he didn’t look stressed, must be out of habit, the bottle is almost empty. I ordered rum coke with an off-menu rum choice, with just two pieces of ice. The music in the background is as usual alternative rock on a Friday night. It was Incubus, I think, when he said his first words to me: “I still can’t believe I made it.” I smiled at him politely; I thought he was talking to himself. “Have you made something so wonderful that you wish the whole world knew about it?” I told him, not really, I’m pretty plain myself and I have no creative ambitions aside from my career aspirations. He seems to not have heard me or that he has very little concern to what anyone responds to his boastful ramblings.

“Okay so picture this: a world where all condiments are as what you just know. Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, hummus, heck even aioli! They exist in this world far too long now without any question or innovation.  Let me get this straight first, I don’t have a burning hate for condiments. I do love them, I can eat mayonnaise off a spoon. Although I won’t do that with mustard, I guess. And there are a lot of condiments in this world from different cultures and stuff. But they have all been unchanged, unchallenged, un—I don’t know, uninspired for so long.

“I thought, maybe I was born to change the course of things. I was sitting here in this very chair some time ago and I decided I will do it. Do you come here often? I don’t think I have seen you ever here. But you know the bartender so I figured you have been here before that’s why I talked to you. I am a regular, by the way.”

At this point I am reeled in. I tried my best to hide my annoyance of his unending boasting of something he doesn’t give any details to. But I think that’s his charm. Maybe his humor, too. Is he about to tell me a punch line after this long tirade about the history of condiments? Who knows! So I answered him yes, I am a regular here, basically since the dawn of time. He shrugged and continued.

He talked more about the history of condiments as if it’s the only thing he cared about in the world. And I won’t even question him on the validity of his claims and the extent of his condimental knowledge. Maybe he majored Bachelor of Science in Condiments from a respective university, I don’t know! He didnt seem to like answering questions anyway. Ironically, after the fact that he rambles endlessly about things he isn’t being asked about.

And there, at the very end of what seemingly took forever to finish, he told me the gist of his story. He created a new dip. One the world has never seen, smelt, or tasted before. He claimed no one ever dreamt of this new dip forever. He has posted it in his blog and expects the world to follow through his brilliance. The magnificence of his creation. The symphony. The marvelousness…  My rum coke is warmer and on the last gulp, the color lighter with melted ice. I have held the glass far too long with my unusually warm hands, I was thinking if I’m getting another one after hearing him talk.

I never saw him again until last week. About 4 years after we met.

I was told by one of the bartenders that he passed away. He told me the name but I told him I couldn’t recall. Timothy something. He told me Timothy knew me and talked about our encounter plenty of times. He said it was an affirmation of his passion. For one and a half years he battled with colon cancer until he succumbed. Before that I was told he continuously went to the pub apparently without me ever encountering him ever again.

The bartenders decided to go to Timothy’s wake on a Monday when the bar was closed and I came along with them. I was introduced to his wife of just 3 years and she immediately exclaimed “so you’re the one he was talking about! It’s great to finally meet you!” I have never been more confused. I am not a religious person and I never knew what to do in viewing coffins. I did the sign of the cross way too early before everyone else did. He looked older than what I remember the first time we met. He’s way quieter now, too.

I recalled the night in my head but I never talked to anyone about it in the wake. I tried remembering if I ever ordered food that night. I know I had three glasses of rum coke but I don’t think I ate. It would either be food just for myself but that might be too rude. I don’t think I ordered fries because I was scared he might pull out a sample of his dip from his bag and compel me to taste his creation. The next day after the wake, the first day the bar opens for the week, the condiment is on special along with skin-on fries. I sat where he sat when we first met and I ordered a bottle of San Mig Light in memory of him. I peeled off the label as he did while thinking of what I should eat or if I should just order the special. I finished the bottle and ordered another one. I ended up ordering beef stew for dinner instead.

[semicoloncancer]

The Botanist;

I heard someone shouting out the driveway. I live in a small compound designed to look Italian or Greek. European. Let’s keep it safe at that. Colored white and blue but the verandas resembled more the Italian homes you see in movies. The walls ran drip stains on the sides. The lack of care from the old landlord was apparent. I have lived here for a year now and became friends with almost every neighbor but the one at the far end, left side of the 8-apartment compound. 4 houses on either side facing directly each other. All noise from any of them audible even from the depths of the lonely bedroom I occupy.

Instinctively, I went out. The kids from the house at the right side end have glued their eyes already in their dirty feet, their hands fidgeted on their tail end. I was watching a movie that Sunday afternoon. It was boring and I wanted something to distract me and that moment felt perfect even if the glum look on the kids’ faces made me frown too. Two plant pots scattered its contents on the floor. Some exotic looking plant laid flat looking more lifeless than it usually does. The other plant stood still yet as lifeless as the other. The man shouted shifting his stare from the kids to the plants. His right index finger stiffened. I couldn’t see his left hand from the angle but I imagined it tighten bit by bit on the adjacent hip.

He was screaming about how precious the plants were.

He was screaming. He was red. The kids were gray.

One of the kids, Angelo, shifted his eyes to me almost teary eyed almost pleading for salvation. By this time more and more people were coming out of their houses as he raised his voice saying “don’t you look at him asking for help.” I got the taste of the stiff index finger he had been brandishing about. “Look at me and apologize,” he said repeatedly. With all the meager force Angelo could muster, he said sorry. Rafael (or Raf-Raf as I call usually call him) looked at his brother either in dismay or in envy for having such strength to speak. Rafael remained speechless the entire time. Two small basketballs stopped rolling from the other end, the ones they played with to break the two pots.

They were being (poorly) babysat by an unfamiliar teenager. She was the last person to go out. She wiped her still wet hands on the back of her faded red shirt. It resembled the words high school but I couldn’t figure out which one it was. Probably from a city far from here.

Her face was stretched into a shock, she too was stunned at the very same area the kids stood. The screaming went on for another minute and I still haven’t said anything being the first person to witness the scolding. I occupied the second door on the left which is the same side as the man’s. I stood my half a square meter of a veranda almost leaning on the wall avoiding to look comfortable. Beside me walked a tall woman from the house beside me. The daughter of the old landlord. She shook her head slightly, “hello, what’s going on?”

“They broke my pots!” the man said struggling not to stutter. He said the same things in a calmer sort of anger as what he said to the kids before. I asked myself: why do older people talk to each other differently than to kids? The two kids finally moved two steps back with the help of their babysitter. Even the old landlord’s daughter was puzzled when she saw her face.

The situation hushed down but the intensity of the man’s exclaims still lingered in the air. Half of the remaining doors closed, the occupant of the unit in front of me smiled uncomfortably before doing so. I stayed there making myself more comfortable against the wall. The movie inside my living room kept playing through. I wished it would already end when I come back.

Rafael and Angelo were the only kids in this compound. The other apartments housed two more babies from two newlyweds. The kids have no one else to play with at home but each other. The daughter motioned the babysitter that she can already walk the kids in. Usually when they do we can still hear them play except for today. Within the same minute, everyone else has gone in but me. The two adults weren’t even aware I was still standing there. I hoped for any information why the plants were so special.

A few minutes more, the daughter walked my way again, slowed down, smiled, and shook her head. She mustn’t have understood the sentiments of the man why the plants were so special. The babysitter ran out once more to tell the man she will clean the mess herself. The man, already crouching to pick up the lifeless plant, waved his hand, “it’s okay, just go in.”

From the angry man the he was not 15 minutes ago he became the most careful person I have seen. His movements even seemed calculated. Like fixing a bed in the morning. Like a devoted encoffiner. He was suddenly distracted by my presence but continued in what seemed a crucial activity for something he hoped wouldn’t happen. He suddenly spoke as if in monologue.

“I have seen you there since earlier. You haven’t moved much and it’s weird.” He paused but he didn’t want me to answer. “Why you’re there, I’m pretty sure because you’re wondering why I was so angry earlier. I’m not angry anymore, don’t worry. I won’t blare at you. The kids were just having fun and I can’t be angry about that. I might buy the kids some candies later today or a cake. What do you think?” but even in an actual question, it still seemed he didn’t want me to answer. “You know,”

“I’m a botanist. I have been studying science almost my entire life. Even when I was young I especially dreamed of becoming a plant scientist. It’s not just because I think they’re pretty. Or they’re harmless and fragile. I mainly relied on herbal medications growing up. And yes, you guessed it right, at least one of my parents must be a botanist as well.

“I’m pretty sure you haven’t heard of my mother’s name but she’s a pretty big deal in the field of botany. She homeschooled me mainly because she usually went on trips. My father died when I was young so no one else would be there if I didn’t go with my mother on her trips. Funny thing, even in science, a lot of shagging happens. A huge part of my life was spent in hotel rooms and I was used to hearing my mother sneak out although not very carefully.”

Slowly and carefully, he continued fixing the mess. There is now some degree of grace in his movements. I still took his pause as a dramatic punctuation and not a chance for me to speak. I won’t even have any input in the topic he chose to share.

“That’s where I met Sarah. I know, yeah, a very typical name for a daughter of a scientist. There were a lot of tropical plants at that time. And one of them was this plant. It can live a long time if given sufficient care. I wanted to keep it in to be safe but it really needs to be out for air and sun. Sarah and I were the only kids in that seminar so we kinda had no choice but to be with each other. Besides, our parents were good friends and teammates.” He chuckled, I finally sat. “I’m not sure if our parents slept with each other that night, though.

“This is a cycad that my mother’s team crossbred. This one, I tried this on my own after my mother died. I saw Sarah once more during the burial but she couldn’t remember me that well until she extended her condolences. Her father sat in front of her on a wheelchair. She still looked beautiful as then when we were kids. She was the one who threw the same plant into my mother’s grave.” He looked at me and smiled trying to know if I’m still interested in the story. For the first time, I said something: go on.

“All right. This won’t last long anymore, I’m about done fixing this anyway. So yeah, I asked her out and we went out thrice. We weren’t the best pair together but she was the woman of my dreams. Until this happened. I kept this plant alive because it kept the image and the memory of her. More of her than of my mother. She’s been married for 10 years now. My mother died 11 years ago. I don’t even see the point of keeping this plant anymore and I needed a reason to let it go.”

He paused. I didn’t answer. He carried the remnants of what was a lifeless-looking cycad. I sat there and stared at the clouds. I heard shouting in the living room and I realized the movie was still on.

[semicoloncancer]

About You;

In hindsight, there is not much of anything we can build a foundation from. There are quiet moments composed of sighs and stares that won’t amount to anything from anyone but me. From your perspective, that I’m not sure of. Do you still remember those nights? Or are there nothing in them that can make you remember? Are the streets we walked in tirelessly the same as we had the previous night? Did we not fulfill the potential that loomed over us? The potential that I still cling onto even years after.

I have tried replacing everything in my life that is you. Your smell, the films we saw and those you would want to see, books we loved and hated, TV shows that we spent nights distracting us from knowing each other better (scared of the fact that some information may make or break what we already have then however meagrely), long drives, driving in general, the bands we want to watch, the bands we watched as I fell in love with you, the bands you love that I hated, the music that I like that you never said you can’t enjoy, the beer bottles we never emptied, the beer bottles I emptied because of you, bus rides, everything. I have tried forgetting all of the parts: the bests, the worsts, and the in-betweens. However, they all still lead to you.

When you said you don’t want this anymore: “I don’t want this anymore.” You meant it. I asked why: “Why? What do you mean?” I have more words to ask out of puzzlement. It was almost my birthday and you said “I don’t want this anymore” which you never answered the questions “Why? What do you mean?” You just said: I just don’t want it anymore. And the vagueness resonated like the vagueness of the relationship that we had. Answering a question posed so much difficulty.

Will you still remember the nights that never needed answers?

Will you still remember the mornings we wake up after those nights?

Will I be in any of your remembrances?

The people that came after you gave me so much hope that it can blur out what’s screaming right at my face. They muffled the noise of your memory in my head repeating over and over again. But still remain persistent like a bee.

They are people I have looked right into. Their eyes are not as brown as yours but they are in some way calm enough to make me believe that I am seen differently. They are people that are not you. They are people that will never be you. Sometimes they ask me: “Tell me about your past?” How I became who I am, who I offered pagmamahal to, who broke my heart, what mistakes I have committed, things I am proud of, all that was before them.

I answer them in vivid detail: of past lovers and lovers past; of journeys, the stories behind them, and the people I shared them with; my family, my friends, my enemies; my kinks; my regrets. All of them in vivid detail. I guess this is to tell them that these are all the details I can give you about things I can let go. Are stories a way of wearing things out? Repeatedly marking them over and over and over, highlighting them as if they haven’t been before, making them tombstones filled with melted candles yet to be scraped? And you: you’re the only one I can never detail vividly.

Is it because I don’t remember the nights spent together and their details?

Is it because I don’t care for the mornings I wake up after those nights?

Is it because you’re not in any of my remembrances?

If you (can) still remember (and cherish) the past that is us please enclose it tightly in a box and treasure it for me. I won’t remember them for you anymore. Please don’t remember them for me. I may not need constant reminder of the past that is us so please enclose it tightly in a box and treasure it for me. The same tired stories of everything and anything that is not you is on display accumulating dust. I keep your stories somewhere. I may not find it easily but I know they’re there. I have images of its contents before I closed it up, sealed. I don’t need constant reminder. Of the past that is us. So please enclose it tightly in a box. And treasure it for me.

I will still look for you in everything. I will still search for parts of you in everyone. I will still feel the same longing for things that I do that could’ve been with you. I will still itch for every possibility. I will still and will always know the disappointment in not finding the whole of you in any of it all.

[semicoloncancer]

The Great Manila Traffic of 2018;

April 25th was the worst day of 2018 and the couple of days after that were just as bad. There were too many theories about how the worst traffic in Metro Manila occurred. For three days, EDSA has been paralyzed as well as the adjacent roads to it. It was an intercity parking lot covering all cities in the metro stretching out to regions III and IV-A. How people traveled from their homes to work and back has been inconvenient if they went back home at all. Or if they went to work for that matter. Hotels were fully-booked and even strangers shared rooms just to get by. It was worse than storms because traveling has been made impossible except on foot.

I live near from where I work so it wasn’t too much of a hassle for me. I live with my best friend. It’s a three-bedroom apartment even though it was just the two of us living there. At first, our parents were kind of hesitant that we wanted to live together. After all, there were a couple of things that were taken into consideration: a, that our parents are traditional and strict; and, b, that she’s a female. We’ve been friends for a long time now and have retained our friendship throughout the years. Honestly, we both have thought we have fallen in love with each other but never did it materialize and it has been a joke ever since.

We were both from Quezon City and we decided to move three cities away to Makati when we both landed our first jobs. It was terrible at first especially when I lost my previous job and she was the only one who spent for our food and utilities and rent. All I could take responsibility for were the bills that weren’t expensive at all because we don’t stay at home long enough. Even with just the cheaper bills, I maxed out my savings because I’m a terrible spender–and a worse saver at that. I received higher pay than her before but she managed to spend a lot when I lost my first job and not empty her bank account still. What a responsible adult she is.

Not too long after, which was exactly a month, I landed my next (and current) job. I now work for a PR firm and we specialize in hotels. The company I now work for were the ones who made self-inflicted fun out of an infamous hotel chain which worked quite well. Imagine a hotel chain (known for non-stop casual sex, scattered every city with at least 5 hotels each) having social media accounts that post things like “Fear God and be thankful” when people think of their name as obscene and decadent. The funniest one for me was the one about love and patience while their patrons always look impatient and hungry for something. This infamous hotel chain tripled their earnings in the last 5 years in just a year which has still been confusing and funny to the board members. I never thought such hotel chain would even have such a fancy group as board members. I have been assigned to their lesser projects like processed food dealers.

The pay hasn’t been as well as my first job, which was for an advertising firm tied with the third top architectural firm in the country. But thankfully, I didn’t get the chance to stay in that company because a few weeks after my departure, my evilest ex went in. We were college lovers and were seatmates for four years but only on our last year did we decide to take things seriously. Two and a half years of just taking things as they were—unsure of what we actually were together—but we broke up just 4 months after we officially got together. It was pretty messy, ask you anyone.

During that three-day period of non-moving metropolitan traffic, we have gathered enough funds which got us through the remainder of the year as per bills alone. I still remember this because we still enjoy just a few more of the funds that we got from that my best friend and I. At that time, the apartment was cramped even though the building management specifically instructed us when we moved in that a large number of visitors will be prohibited for peace and security purposes. However, they have lifted that for the occasion. There were some few units that have been robbed, about 5 or 6, but luckily one is not ours. Half of the occupants that we entertained are from both our offices. The other half people we never knew the names of. All we know is that they’re in need of somewhere to crash for the time being. There were a lot of women that availed our place. The few men took half the living room, while most took the spare room. The people from her office slept in her room and from mine, well, in mine.

My best friend and I took one person each day and fucked them before going to work. None of them complained about it or knew that we fucked someone else the next day. We compared each other’s partners per day, we never disgusted about each other’s stories of sexual explorations so we were pretty much comfortable just telling each other these things. We can even hear each other’s exploits most nights since our bed is adjacent to the other (but she decided to move to the other room so we couldn’t hear each other because she couldn’t sleep the night I had a threesome with two of the women I slept with during the traffic situation but it turned out another reason is that she kept her day-2 partner as a secret because they were both into BDSM).

The only thing that she didn’t know is that the third person, neither of the two that I had a threesome with, was my ex. Yes, the one that I was talking about earlier. I told her about the last day, I told her in detail what we did but I had her guessing which of the occupants that last one was. I told her everything from the passionate kissing (which I don’t usually tell her much about) to the intensity of how we looked each other in the eye (which I don’t feel comfortable discussing because it’s too cheesy) up to the vivid description of how our bodies tangled into one (which she knows I only talk about when I talked about this certain ex). Yet she never mentioned her name. She was astounded by how I described everything yet she never guessed.

-o-

Okay, so this is how it happened:

Unlike the traffic, no one actually thought of too many theories about how we hooked up again. To burst the bubble, it happened just once but I have more to that later. Each of us has a couple of theories about it. Hers: that the traffic was too terrible, we forgot how terrible we were to each other and fucked the brains out of each other that one time or that there was nothing better to do than just watch the parked cars outside the window. Mine: that we just wanted to figure out if we still despise each other or that she secretly actually intensely still into me. She laughed sarcastically at that one.

None of those have been proven true. None of those have been proven false as well. All we know is that the sex was fantastic. We were best at it but we were the worst in keeping relationships. This is why when we argue back then we just lay in bed and put our anger into use and blur out our arguments into mist and sweat. It wasn’t part of our theories but maybe it’s the only thing we’re good at so did it again when we met.

She was staying at a neighbor’s unit, five doors down. We never saw each other on the hallways but we saw each other on the rooftop pool. Practically everyone’s schedule was made flexible so I spent the morning swimming and planned to go in an hour after my usual shift. She was just getting out of the water when I saw her, I was setting my things on a chair. She saw me as well and from there on we talked. The conversation lasted about 10 minutes and it included the unit I rent and the unit she stayed for the traffic. It included the traffic itself as well. And our past relationships. And how we should just walk each other to our doors. And then it happened. I kissed her and she stopped and slapped me and she kissed me back and we went in her unit and found there are people still and went to my unit and slammed the door behind us and I slammed her on the wall a few seconds after. You know what happened next. Luckily, my best friend stuck to her schedule (that’s just the way she is) and we’re almost all alone except for the last transient person spending far long a time in the shower.

After we’re done we didn’t speak at all. We were just there two inches apart from each other, the distance remained perceivable but our emotional gap has been monumental enough to set us apart. She stood by the side of the bed saying nothing, her body bare. By then, no one is in the unit but us. I still have 13 minutes to leave and 4 more minutes to walk quickly to my building. I have no more time to shower and prepare. She was fixing herself, step by step she walks towards the door with every article of clothing she puts on. The distance grew. 9 minutes. I stood from my lying down as well and when she got out, I didn’t say anything. Neither did I try to peep to say goodbye. She knew her way out and showed herself to it.

-o-

Years later, my best friend found out. The reason to this is that I got back together with my ex and we lived together for quite some time. The way my best friend knew was quite harsher than I imagined. It went better in my head, as clichéd as it sounds. I asked if she’d be okay if I moved out because of something that she didn’t know happened some time ago. I, then, told her about the worst traffic in Philippine history. How she didn’t know I slept with this certain ex and started talking to her a couple of months after. How she told me I wasn’t worth the years of friendship anymore. How I told her I did it want to ruin our friendship so I kept it a secret. How she told me otherwise happened, and ruined it harder. How we cried. How we hugged. How we parted. How we never saw each other since then.

Tomorrow would be my wedding with certain ex. We never really got back together. We just decided to just marry each other and start a family. We don’t really care anymore how messed up things are and how messy things will get. Truth be told, she’s not even pregnant. We just told each other why not marry if we’re going to grow old alone.  A good idea, we agreed. One thing we didn’t agree on, though, was to invite my then best friend. We ended up sending her an invitation for which we never got a reply.

I hope she won’t make heavy traffic an excuse why should couldn’t go.

[semicoloncancer]

Summer and Rain;

When I started dating my current girlfriend, I have been having trouble with my job. I worked as a writer for a spreadsheet and I kind of made a mistake in one of our news. This is not something that’s happened for the first time. To be honest, I’ve always been the worst writer in our department and I wasn’t sure exactly sure why I stayed there for as long as I did. Just five months into our relationship, my girlfriend and I took a very serious step forward: we moved in together. About the same time, she told me I should quit my job already. I’m not sure how but all I know is that it was a very quick decision for us in just a week’s span. We moved in one weekend, and by the next Friday I handed in my resignation letter.

 There are a few things that are worth of knowing about me. I’m not really an interesting person and I keep my personality to a low. One of these things is that I’m passionate about writing. Another is that I was born on Christmas day 1987. And lastly, my stepfather kicked me out of our family for no reason at all. My passion for writing came from my mother. She was a journalist until she decided to settle on being a businesswoman. We never were close because she had to be away most of my childhood until my father died and she requested to be stationed within the metro. My first memory of her was when I tried hugging her and massaging her head but she threw me off because of her annoyance. She said her head hurt one sunny Sunday afternoon and she smelled the moist of the rain when it poured all of a sudden. It was a funny way to speak the word in our native tongue and I didn’t know then a foreign substitute for it. My girlfriend was a writer herself but for a magazine for men. I told her that story and how, within our family, I feel detached. She didn’t listen and I perceived it as her not judging my past. She just said “it’s petrichor.”

 From then on, I hated the word not even because it sounds pretentious but because of the memory prior to my knowledge of the word. Five or six times my mother visited me and my girlfriend on our current home. This apartment is our third after moving after just a couple of months on the first two. We’ve been here for two years now and we’re almost into our third anniversary. The owners of the apartment offered us a non-raising rental fee that didn’t hurt much since her salary went up when she became the magazine’s editor-in-chief. I found another job shortly after I handed my resignation on my previous job. I was shortlisted on the batch of the applicants and they were all very good writers unlike me. We were six in the batch and I got the job plus another two. I’ve been told they got me because I’m trustworthy and they liked my low-key attitude with the passion much higher than the rest. From day one they never stopped guiding me on what to do in the line of job I chose to be in. From then on, I became one of the top in the writing staff and have a high-paying salary myself.

Only recently that my mother learned about that and she tried visiting but she never caught me in time. My girlfriend never knew when I’d come home because I either go home early or go home late, there’s no way in telling. Of all people I know, my mother should be the first person to know that. A couple of months have passed and she still haven’t gotten in touch with me. I’m not sure if it was fate that hindered us from meeting each other but I’m glad it took that long. Every time she visited after they kicked me out of my family (and she never said a word), I promised I’d never go my way into meeting any of them. She tried and had the chance to meet me those few times but I never tried connecting at all.

A month before our third anniversary, I was assigned to a story in the mountains of Benguet. It was something about the forest fire two weeks into the proclamation of summer which hasn’t stopped for five days and it’s nearing the dam and the nearby barangays. I was assigned to interview the vacationists how hard it was to deal with such danger and even the problem with the water supply. Nonetheless, she went with me there. We stayed there for three weeks and we kept a close watch of each other. When I wasn’t doing my interviews and writing and reporting my work, we were roaming around the city and by the outskirts. We didn’t spend a centavo of our anniversary fund because the news company I work for gave more than enough for us to get by.

When we went back to the city, the scorching heat suddenly became new to us again. She became sick for four days and I took care of her carefully. Just a few days before our anniversary, she was fine again. For about a month, we spent the closest we’ve ever had and I knew everything she did and she knew everything I did. What I didn’t know was that before our trip to the mountains, she has already talked to my mother. She planned to include her in our anniversary dinner so we could already mend what’s been broken between us. And so I didn’t know.

On the same day of our anniversary, we went to a very simple restaurant which served Filipino food. There was no air-conditioning but the garden area was pretty spacious and it invited a lot of air in which felt really comfortable. I was surprised when we were ordering food, my mother suddenly stepped in and my girlfriend explained to me how she wanted to fix everything because it’s been hurting her for years. Just at the same time, the rain suddenly fell despite the summer heat and it produced such strong smell as my girlfriend called petrichor, which a word I really hate. I think my mother’s head ached again but I didn’t offer to help her with a massage on her head like I used to do when I was a child. What I did was I left the restaurant. A couple of weeks later, I got in touch with my current girlfriend and she apologized for what she did. I went back in with her and we never talked about my mother again. There’s no other connection between me and my mother except for my chosen profession which I only chose because I wanted to be a better person of herself when she neglected me when I needed her most.

[semicoloncancer]

body parts and inanimate objects;

a. i swallowed a bitter lump of something... something newtonian. i can taste it with my tongue as if hasn't gone down yet and i can't taste it with my tongue as if there's nothing there at all. it's down my throat, stuck with its viscosity. it's here, just there: stuck as if reminding me that things are not easy as i'd like to think they are... or should be. the lump of something newtonian stays here making it hard to breathe. and in every swallow it passes through the body without barging a millimeter like dry cough but the slime is no more than a natural phlegm. what if i called he lump reality? b. you tie my stomach a tight knot like how it always is with my earphones in my pockets. the difference is it's not just a tangle, like the reality of us: entangled and helpless. i always try to remove the loops and he knots and the helplessness but always comes back all. c. you clenched your fist into a tight ball. in between your fingers are my arteries, under it is my heart. your clench does not prove anything at all. neither in anger nor in frustration; not happy and not excited; and never conscious, instinctive, or intended. you held it like a bell and no one knows exacly what to do with bells. d. my lungs tighten and i can’t breathe properly. i tried to take in a huge gasp of air to save my life out of desperation. i tried really hard but all i got was a bit of air enough to create a whimpering sound of dismay. the right one hurts like two needles were in there fighting to get out and not be found. the left one feels warm as if a coal burns there to roast the whole thing every dry air i take in, oxydizing the fire that’s always been there.

[semicoloncancer]

Weird Family pt. 1;

I had a hard time mastering the correct spelling of weird when I was younger. A couple of years ago, it took its toll when I met someone who is, in its fullest sense, weird. Nothing and everything about her is normal and there’s nothing I could say that could make you believe. Quite ironic but she has all normal aspects in her combined to make one weird person. She likes art. She likes music. She reads books. She likes her family. She is passionate with her work. She is many normal things rolled into one piece of absurdity and, well, obscurity. I can’t even imagine how that could happen but that’s who she is. No matter, it was kind of lucky to have acquainted with her. This is a story of how I met her. It was a May afternoon when we met. It was on a street fair in the city. I was looking for things to buy since there were mostly food and arts and crafts in the vicinity. I was also lucky to have found two stalls of rolling bookstores which I bought two brand-new books from each, all at a cheaper price even going more than half of its regular counterparts. I thought: damn these major bookstores and their mark-ups. More than anything, I never got the chance to see the rolling bookstores again. I was too stoked on buying the books that I forgot to ask their names and contacts, or just where to see them regularly. Nonetheless, I know I was happy walking away from their stalls with two Umberto Eco books from the first, and from the other: Erich Fromm’s The Art of Loving, and Chuck Palahniuk’s Rant. I can’t remember which Umberto Eco books I got. I never got to finish them at all because they were too heavy a read. A friend borrowed it. I think. I forgot which friend or if they were even borrowed. A quick side story: she was pissed at me when she found out I was there, too, at the stall where I bought the books. She said she eyed the Erich Fromm book but was still thinking if she’d buy it but she wasn’t sure so she looked around some more. When she came back, she was told the book was bought already just a quarter an hour before. I asked her if she likes Fromm, she said not actually. This was exactly 5 months after we met that May afternoon. That same day, we broke up. The street fair went over 3 kilometers and occupied both sides of the streets. It will take you two full hours to go from one end to the other considering the length, the foot traffic, and the amount of things you could see and buy. Two weeks prior to the event, the city council already gave notice of closure for vehicles in the area. The adjacent streets were full of parked cars. The adjacent streets to the adjacent streets were full of parked cars. Even two barangays away, streets are also full of parked cars; and that’s where I live. She said she lived the same distance away from the fair but on a different direction, my house was south the event, hers…I can’t remember…northeast? Nonetheless, we were far but not that much. She was walking alone, same as I, on that day. The May afternoon was scorching and I didn’t have anyone to sit with in a café or somewhere. Plus the tables are full in most places. She was on the same half as I was. I lazily went from one end to another without looking too eagerly on all stalls. This way I, as planned, could maximize the whole day. I didn’t want to finish early and I wanted to walk the whole day. I was coming back from the far end to where I came from and she was coming from another end, opposite from where I started. Her family set up their own stall just by the end of the fair. It was either cheaper or they are too obscure. The stall was filled with toys and collectibles and above their heads were frames and frames of watercolor art. I didn’t see their stall on my first round of walking but I did eventually. On my way back to my starting point, I felt like the sun would have tired me easily and I might not have enough energy to go around three or four times. By the way, I went around five times back and forth. So there, I stopped by a milk tea shop to check if there are seats but to no avail. I bought two cookies to bring with me while walking. Halfway from the midpoint to the other end, I saw a breakfast restaurant just around the corner. I suddenly became hungry for eggs and their tarpaulin proudly advertised their specialty in it. Luckily, there was one table for 3 left beside the wall. I sat down and ordered a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs. The waitress gave me a lovely smile, enough for me to swear I’d marry her if I knew her name. Good for her smile, I didn’t want to leave early because their eggs aren’t as good as advertised. Another reason why I stayed is that while I was grudgingly eating halfway through my eggs, the other two seats on my table still unoccupied and unborrowed—every other seat was full—she went in looking tired. It was apparent with her shoulders slouched forward and her hands passed her handkerchief frequently while mopping the sweat on her face in between. She walked slowly surveying the place frowning then she found my table. My plate of eggs was pushed forward so I think she figured I was about to leave. I thought if she asked me anything I’m pretty sure my answer wouldn’t be that I’m still here because I’m stealing glances at the waitress’ smile. She didn’t blow me away, the waitress did, but eventually, she slowly led my back towards the wall, helpless. She wasn’t especially gorgeous, the scorching heat didn’t help that she was a heavy sweater. Her eyebrows were unkempt and her dress, though colorful and fashionable, was lousy; kind of looks like homemade. I found out, eventually, that it was her style. She wore an unfitting round glasses, which she actually needs to see. Her hair tied neatly but didn’t fit the shape of her face. Her shoes are a pair of New Balance in a colorful variety with mid-high white socks. Even her earphones, the simplest variety, made her look like she wasn’t put together quite well. She’s not an eyesore at all, she’s cute and charming, but there’s this oddness in her that makes her, well, her. Are you leaving, are you waiting for someone, or is this seat taken are what I was expecting to hear the fifteen seconds she spent walking slowly towards my table. She didn’t take too long to say any word but instead sat down in front of me. The table was adjacent to the wall so there’s one side of our shoulders touching the glass window. Waves of creases were evident in my face as I looked at her in confusion. I think that was the first time I saw her laugh. She laughed so much when we were together. It was weird, I laughed, too, at that time and then I knew I had to talk to her. I instantly said “no, it’s okay the seat’s not taken.” She shyly laughed which, for the record, aren’t like how she actually laughed the five months we spent. She said she’s sorry and that she’s super tired—sooooper—and she’s hungry. She looked like the quiet one, hell her voice were so soft that time but she didn’t stop talking: I was walking around because I got bored in our stall since the massive number of people wouldn’t come yet for 2 hours. “You have a stall here? Cool!” She said yes and she told me everything about it. That her father was a huge collector of 50s and 60s toys and novelty items that they crowded their whole house however spacious so they decided to sell them. She said: initially, that was the plan but my mom insisted that I take down my paintings and sell them and I said yes, I sold one earlier but that’s about it as of yet. She told me some more: that a friend of hers asked her if she can sell a few shirts and CDs of her friend’s band and that she’s been eating too much from the fair for a couple of hours now and that she thinks I’m cute and luckily there’s a seat she wasn’t willing to let anyone sit on but her. I didn’t know how to respond so I asked about her family. Her parents met at a rehabilitation facility in the US 10 years before she was born. Basically, her parents were the kinds of hippie yuppies, high on drugs and overusing the word peace. High on acid and their choice of freedom, they skidded off track and were forced to enter rehab. Her mother went in voluntary and her father was kind of surprised he was there. He went in a week earlier than the mother. There’s not much story about it but they went out the same afternoon and had the chance to meet again. They told each other stories about their hometowns which are near to each other. And how they are being forced to go back to the Philippines a few weeks apart. They met here again and became friends. They weren’t always high but they still were. They spent too many times reading non-fiction together while walking in the city. The militants tried to recruit them but they were too busy with things they wished they didn’t put much focus on, like education. Towards the end of the Martial Law Era, her mother had a miscarriage. They weren’t married at that time but they conceived a child. She, on the other hand, was conceived two years after they married. Prior to their marriage, her parents swore to not have intercourse on more than once a month per year to not have the dangers of miscarriage again pre-marriage. After their wedding, they tried regaining the used-to-be healthy and frequent sex life they had. She knew this because her parents told her this when she was 10. I knew this because she told me this on our first date. Date? Was that our first date? For some unknown reason, I had no idea why I didn’t find it off that she told me things so private in so soon an instance. All I know is that when she told me about her parents more than just the miscarriage and their once-a-month pact, I swore to myself I had to meet them. So after an hour of sitting there in the breakfast café, I asked her where their stall is. I told her I want to look at her father’s toys. She was excited so we went out and walked, we found out there was already a build-up of people on the streets so it took us a while to go from where we were to the end where their stall is. Ten minutes in on our walking, she stopped and looked angry—and cute. “You don’t want to see my paintings?!” I laughed. She did, too. I forgot about the waitress’ smile.

[semicoloncancer]

Slow Line Phenomenon;

I was there standing. There’s sweat on the tip of my nose and my hands are very cold. I’m constantly looking behind me as the light in front of me and the backs of the head of the people in front of me sometimes take my mind. I need that. Something clouds my mind, rains on it, and floods it like hell. You were there standing in front of us: a 300-pound man, a mother with 2 toddlers (one on her arms, the other holding the hem of her shirt), two pairs of two friends (one both female, the other both sexes; I knew they weren’t in a relationship because even if there’s two more people in front of me, I can hear them talking about the guy’s girlfriend), an irritated twenty-something call center agent obviously rushing this late night to reach his schedule, an old woman holding the hand of her grandson who seem to have been having tantrums, me, and a few others behind me. You were there, trying your best to speed up the line. You were there with your smokey eye shadow, plain lip gloss covering your pale lips (hinting that you’re already tired from your shift), your neat bun for a hairdo with a sun visor around your head (which I don’t get because it’s late at night and we’re indoors), your obviously worn out uniform that you always overwash. I’m trying to process everything in my head but the line moves too slowly. Or is it just all in my head? There’s a battlefield of words in there and I’m talking too much that I don’t even know if I’m still thinking straight. I remember a time when I rode the train from my ex-girlfriend’s. I was on my way home and you were with your boyfriend. Or was he an ex-boyfriend? I don’t see the same ring you kept on twisting around your finger while listening to his unappealing rant about your tardiness. You must have fucked the whole night before and slept the whole afternoon. Your shift might still be the same: the afternoon until the midnight. Maybe that’s why you’re rushing? Because you’re tired and you’re already wishing you’re on your bed and not because the line is already long and people are rushing. I’m not. I’m fine here. What is it about this night that makes people order too long in a fastfood chain? The name doesn’t really apply aptly at all. The only person who took the littlest time on the counter was the rushing call center agent. He rushed out and while waiting for the last person in front of me, I looked out and saw he jumped in the first taxi, probably going to where he works. Or where his girlfriend works to bring lunch, as how they call it. Or maybe a boyfriend. Or either of his parents, he may still have both or just one or none, I have no way of knowing. The person in front of me, like the others, took too long to order. He was with a group of 8 on a nearby table and they’re shouting their reminders and teasing him with the cashier person, you. Which reminds me, I thought again of another time I saw you but I’m sure you don’t know me or have seen me. I remember a time I was walking around the neighbourhood late at night and it was about to rain. The fastfood chain was near my home and the route I walked from led to where you work. You were with someone else. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the guy you were with on the train. Maybe you broke up and this new friend of yours has been eyeing you for a long time. Because I’m pretty sure you're someone many guys would want to be with. I’d want to. I’m pretty sure you have this amazing personality. But such a personality may be subject to a weakness: submission. Many weeks have passed since the train incident but there you were again in an argument with another person, no ring to twirl this time but your clenched fist same as your boyfriend’s showed the similar kind of tension. Their faces: yours, frowned; his, smug. Your shift might still be the same because there’s still an hour before the same time you were there under the clouds of impending rain. The line was long enough for me to think of what I should order but what I thought of were the lives of the people in front of me, the probable reason of tonight’s slow-line phenomenon, and the times that I saw you—you and your boyfriends and how I think they treated you badly and how I could’ve treated you better if we knew each other or if you’re not with someone abusive right now, and I’d be happy if you’re currently in a healthy relationship. You don’t know me but if you want, I’d want to be the one to actually treat you right. I’d want to know you. I’d want to ask you about your life and listen to you carefully, you can either let a teardrop or two roll on your cheeks or you can smile and let your eyes glow and glitter… I’d want that. Those. The person in front of me was almost done ordering. I’m panicking. My wrist watch ticked on my left ear as I slowly scratched my head. I’m up. I stood there looking at you and you smiled. You greeted me and said “what’s your order, sir?” Your smile, as if permanent, hide your fatigue from your work, or from you relationships, or life in general. I smiled nervously. “To be honest I really don’t know what I want.” You laughed.

[semicoloncancer]

The Night I Asked You Your Favorite Foo Fighters Song;

I was in a pub with a friend, a female, waiting for another friend, gay. We were out of things to say and then out of nowhere, I asked her, “what’s your favorite Foo Fighters song?” We’re the kind of friends who don’t usually hang out but know some few important and random facts about each other. From a couple of years back, I knew that her favorite band is Foo Fighters but there’s not much instances we’re together to ask which song is her favorite. When either of us feels like missing the other, we’re the type to say it instantly. As always, it ends up by the other saying “no kidding, I wanted to tell you that, too!” We’ll meet, drink a few, and spend a night at a love hotel somewhere, snuggling but not taking our clothes off. This is almost the same night sa the others, but not quite. We’re the kind of friends who are platonic but not quite. In the few times we were together just the two of us and fewer times we’re with our friends, more than half of those involved her just grabbing my hand while walking. Even the first time didn’t feel weird. She just took my hand and it felt natural. Nothing about it felt romantic. Nobody even asked us if we’re more than what we say we are: friends. Only once did we talk about the possibility of it but we ended up laughing because she said ‘I’m too pretty to be with someone like you” and I answered I’d have the worst time with her bitchiness and her spoiled brat attitude. It was on the bed of a 3-star love hotel, the bed was a sea of white sheets, the pillows are rock hard, but the bed itself was bearable; the embrace shared in our clothed presence was warm and comfortable; our shirts wrinkled but our faces aren’t. It took her 5 minutes to think about her favorite Foo Fighters song. I was starting to feel uncomfortable with her lengthy pause while looking at me and back at the corner of the white ceiling and walls, smiling from time to time. Her teeth have braces to correct her used-to-be beautiful crooked teeth that showed her sincerest smiles. Smiling at almost every little thing, you’d never want to blink when she does. “The Pretender,” she said. It is an angst-filled Foo Fighters song yet her lovely smiles don’t seem to show anything near angst. She curses a lot with her sweet voice but she’s never made any enemy that I know of. She’s nice to everyone and is very patient. My eyebrows almost crashed onto each other the moment she answered and my voice shook in laughter asking her why that. When she said that it’s the first thing that came to her mind, I kind of doubted that because it took her 5 minutes to answer. She said it really was the first title she thought of and she sang the whole song in her head while remembering every word, hit of the drum, riff of the guitars, and dum of the bass. She even told me how long the track is: four minutes, twenty-something seconds. “No particular reason,” she thought it’s just something that really hit her hard. “You know they all pretend,” she sang and paused and cleared her throat starting to sing the first lines and then stopped. She proceeded after the pause with the chorus singing What if I say I’m not like the others… What if I say I’m not just another one of your plays… You’re the pretender… What if I say I’ll never surrender? ... She stopped and laughed. I said I only know a few lines, she said poor you. “So who are you? Yeah, who are you?” We were laughing for over a minute and both our guts hurt as well as our jaws and cheeks. This kind of pain that we feel when we laugh gives further confirmation that it’s all real. That we’re not faking it; no awkwardness, not forcing anything. Like how she held my hands abruptly everytime, that’s how natural our laughter always sounds. We stopped and stayed quiet for a while. Sipping our drinks, my then-lukewarm beer and your then-half-melted margarita, we smiled without facing each other, not sure what the other’s thoughts were except what clouded our own minds. I never told her what I thought but I thought of us actually being together and it's not funny like how we first laughed about it that one and only time we talked about it. She never told me about hers either, my guess is that she thought the same. She ended the comfortable silence by saying “I don’t think he’s coming.” No texts, no calls, no anything. The gay one’s the type to actually call or reply early if there’s somewhere he needs to be and he won’t be able to come. We stayed for another hour talking about several things like bands other than Foo Fighters, about life in Mindanao when she stayed there for half a year—the longest she’s been away when we knew each other and the longest we didn’t meet, about my on-and-off relationships with two of my exes that ended for real, at long last, just last month. Shortly into the next hour, our friend called and said he just woke up. It was past 10 and he asked if he can still make it if he leaves in an hour and arrive half an hour after. We thought it for a minute and said we’ll just leave and see each other tomorrow or another day so we can already catch up. He agreed and apologized telling us it’d be on him the next day. Having no idea what to do next, we agreed to leave early. As often as the times we meet, we shared the same bed the same night and talked about more random things. We indulged the pointless and directionless conversations we had while it suddenly went to the conversation about the impossibility of us being together. We laughed and looked into each other’s eyes, glued. The same night was the first time we undressed in the same room. The same night I witnessed her small perky breasts much like a high schooler’s but healthily built as a grown woman’s—more like her personality, her thick thighs that has always been hidden by her faded gray jeans under the hem of her floral dresses, her thin pubic hair that smelled like fresh rainforest and tasted like youth, her smiles that seemed more loose and comfortable than it already is when she’s clothed. The same night we shared the bed without our wrinkled clothes on. Only the thin white sheets went between and over us, wrinkled and aptly used. It was the first time but it felt like there’s nothing else we could’ve done that night. It felt the right time. It couldn’t have been in the times we’ve slept together on the same beds with our clothes on. Not even when we could’ve planned it. We didn’t take a shower until the morning. We stayed there steadily in each other’s arms our faces near each other but facing opposite degrees in the Cartesian plane that is the bed. Our hearts are in their right axes, our faces in different directions, our minds parallel. Her eyes are closed, she sang softly, “keep you in the dark, you know they all pretend…” We slept instantly right after that, woke up at the same time, too. Our bodies stayed still and so is our friendship, unshaken. So who are you? Yeah, who are you? Yeah, who are you?

[semicoloncancer]

Sidewalks;

The city that I live in has the worst sidewalks ever. You know sidewalks when you talk about it: basically, a sidewalk is means for people to walk on. It is necessary for sidewalks to be walkable. That’s at least one criterion that you have to look for. But if you live in a city and you immerse yourself in all its components, you really have no choice. Back where I live, that’s not entirely possible. Well, I have to give it at some places where they actually put effort on where their people walk on. From where I was, I repeat, it’s entirely impossible. Sidewalks aren’t meant for walking; it, maybe, is meant for tripping. Or, maybe, falling in and out of love. People walk on roads as if they are sidewalks. I, myself, just dodge cars that pass me by to save my life. And I don’t think other people are any different. It’s not that living in this city is dangerous. Fact of the matter is that you can easily cope with it. And if that doesn’t sound easy for you, maybe I should just say that you can put up with it. At least. And your levels of tolerance of patience may be tested. As for myself, I stopped caring about the sidewalks’ inaccessibility if that even fits as a description. There’s nothing I can do about it. I have nowhere else to walk on other than the road and the gutter. If I moved to another city, it won’t ever be the same. Once I had my regular nightly walk around some random area within the city. I know that at the size of the city, there is a large amount of areas I can choose from. That night, I chose a busy area. No particular reason at all. I parked my car where it felt comfortable and then I started walking. Whether it’s heavily lit or there’s no light at all, I’ll turn towards every street as long as I’m still not tired or it’s not too late. In this case, I started early. My workload didn’t take too long to finish earlier that day. I have nothing else to do at home and walking is just too compelling. For me, at least. It was too early I can still see traces of orange from the just-ended sunset. I have no choice; so, whatever. If I look back, I can say I’d have no regrets at all. I got tired too early and I had to pay for three coffees. I had to wait while walking on the same streets, twice, and I almost got held up. Nonetheless, it was one of the most memorable walks I’ve ever had. I didn’t mean to walk on every side-walk in the city but I may have, and apparently this is one of those. I fell in love on a sidewalk. It wasn’t the romantic story you’d want to hear (or wouldn’t want, to be fair). She tripped on an uneven part of the sidewalk. I told you. There may be only a fifth of all the sidewalks in this city that you can walk on and I’m not exaggerating. It may still be an understatement, I have no way to tell. I walked on all of it, anyway. It’s a hundred percent for me… So there I was, thirty minutes in on my walking when, diagonally across the road, I saw a lady fell hard. Instinctively, I went to help her get up (I didn’t get to her, she was quick to get up herself) and help her with her things. She bled and I had to sit her down. She was cooperative so it wasn’t too much of a bother. In exchange, she asked if I wanted to have coffee and she’s paying. I said sure, I’m tired of walking anyway…and where I’m parked, there’s a decent coffee shop near. She had to do some studying. I said I’ll be quiet but at times, we talked. Never had I started a conversation. I kept up to my promised and I’m not the talkative type anyway. She ordered a small size basic Café Americano. I decided to just have a slice of blueberry cheesecake and a bottle of water. Kind of instinctively, I reached for my wallet and paid for everything. She insisted but it seemed off to let her pay this instantly. The coffee shop was actually more of a cake shop and I had to try what they’re up about. She asked a lot of things. I can’t remember them all but I remember her asking a lot of things. I don’t even think she got to study at all. She didn’t tell me, I didn’t bother asking. So there we were sitting in front of each other, sipping coffee and eating cake, talking occasionally; she, reading her notes from school (she said she’s about to graduate), I, stealing glances and staring at her. She caught me a couple of times but she just smiled. Seemed a little bit flattered but she didn’t mind at all. What was I doing walking in their neighborhood, she asked. She hasn’t seen me even and it was kind of weird for her seeing other people walking alone in such a dangerous place. I didn’t know, I said. I should’ve believed her. I told her the story why I always walk on random places within the city. She couldn’t believe one of my reasons: that I am in love with this place. She shook her head in disgust, crumpled her face. I know there’s nothing to fall in love with this city. The streets are dangerous, the people are rowdy and rude, the air is dirty, and the sidewalks are unwalkable. The last part, she said with conviction. I almost shouted. I stopped myself. I said true. Because it is. For a while, we talked about sidewalks. I found out that she and her family have been moving around the city since she was a kid. At some point, we both lived in the same neighborhood, maybe even walked past by each other. We don’t know for sure. Neither of us can tell; in fact, no one at all. She had to leave. She told me she was going out with her friends. Just around the area. A club near the coffee shop. Although the city is too familiar for me, where she went I was unsure of. Explains why my social life is close to zero. I rarely go out and I don’t party at all. I saw her out and walked her home. She gave me her number. I didn’t ask. She stopped at the corner of the street just near her parents’ house. She put her palm up signalling me to give her something and she said phone. I squinted my eyes and she giggled. So I just took my phone and gave her what she’s asking for. “You don’t have to ask. I know you’re shy.” I went back to the car. Her voice echoed in my head as I walk. She asked: see you again soon? With enough hope to keeping me hoping twice or thrice. That’s the only thing I thought of as I walk. I sat for a few minutes clearing my head of my false hope but who can blame me? She gave me her number for fuck’s sake. Once I couldn’t very well clear my head of the thoughts, I decided to go back to the coffee shop. Another coffee. One is too much for a caffeine intolerant. I could’ve died that night if I got another coffee. I didn’t even finish my second one. It was like a neverending storm surge. The one that never stops for days, the cold and the gloom haunting me throughout the night. It was near half an hour past eight and I couldn’t bear that she had to leave too early. When I couldn’t take another sip of the coffee I bought, I decided to take a walk again on the sidewalks I walked earlier, the same path that led me to her. I wanted to sweat the caffeine off so I bought half a liter of bottled water to carry while I walk. There wasn’t much on the road and aside from the badly constructed sidewalks, the streets were poorly lit but I decided to take the same way I as I did. Little did I know is that it’s going to be a bad idea. Halfway along the way, I felt like the caffeine kicked in more than it should’ve had. I thought what I felt earlier was the end of it and I just had to sweat it off. I stop every corner to catch my breath and steady my heart. It was brutal, plus I couldn’t stop thinking of her. On one of the final corners before I reach her place, I passed two men a couple of meters away from each other. They were on the same side as I was but they crossed to the other side. They looked suspicious so I adjusted my pace and moved faster than I’m used to. I had a terrible amount of caffeine in me so I was panicking while maintaining a steady pace so as to not look like I was running from them. Badly lit the streets I found it hard to know the distance from the shadows so I unplugged my earphones from my ears and took it to the sounds of the footsteps which is audible from the lack of anything in the streets. Just a couple dozen meters away I see a store with a bright white light which I couldn’t by then see what the sign said. The footsteps drew nearer and the bright white light became more than just light but a sign that says noodle house. By another few meters I felt one of the men brush his arm on my back on its way to my shoulder and spoke very indistinctively telling me to stop. Caffeine didn’t help. My heart felt like it was jumping out of its cavity and so I jumped and almost got hit by a taxi as I fled from the man. He continued walking casually and hid behind a parked car just across the noodle house. The aroma of the chicken soup was inviting but I wanted to get out of the place. Just past nine and I couldn’t bare walking anymore. The man from the noodle soup asked what happened and I told him exactly what happened just 5 minutes ago. He said these things happen a lot along their area but I’m just the third one to find an escape to his place. He gave me a large glass of cold water and asked if I’d order anything. The soup was just ready and I’d have the freshest batch for the night until dawn comes. I said I couldn’t eat but I’ll order anyway so he set me up what he said was his favorite mix which is not on the menu. I sipped a few scoops of the soup but I barely ate any of what’s in it. Visibly near was a subdivision and I caught sight of a taxi coming out of it. I paid my soup, thanked the noodle house person, and left. I was trying not to text her too early but as I reached the coffee shop, I got in my car, took my phone out and typed in “I’m not at any parties but I’m having a crazy night.” Are you still in the coffee shop she replied almost instantly and I said yes. “Okay!” I was sitting in my car staring at the nothingness of the night trying to calm down and get over what happened in the past hour. It was pure calm just a few minutes… honestly I didn’t know how much minutes have passed… and then a knock on the window. It was her. I rolled my windows down halfway and she signalled me to stop and pointed at the passenger seat. She went around the car and I unlocked the door which by then she hurriedly opened and hit her head as she bumped her head. “Ow! But thank God, I got out of that bore! The minute I went in there, I was finding a reason to leave but I had nowhere to go. I was kind of waiting for you to message me.” I was pale but I was smiling but she noticed I’m not okay so she stopped what she was trying to say and said “oh my god, what happened to you” or something like that. I told her what happened to me but halfway, I decided the car isn’t a nice place for us to sit. She insisted we stayed but I said we could go back to the coffee shop, my treat. She seemed disappointed but she went with it anyway. I told her about what happened and she thought it’s cute. I paid for her coffee and I just had chocolate shake. She told me all about the time she had after we parted. She said maybe it’s still too early, maybe I thought; she joke maybe she just wanted to see me again and she couldn’t wait, maybe not I thought. So the night went on and another half an hour passed and I sensed she’s bored already so I asked if she wanted me to drive her home and she smiled. Yes, she said. Exactly a year has passed and I’m still thinking about it. About the minor mistakes I’ve made that night that led me feeling the loneliest today. Just an hour after I dropped her home, she texted me, “you could’ve just kissed me. I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s you.” The way she looked utterly disappointed when I said we should just go back to the coffee shop for another coffee was the cue. I should’ve just kissed her after I told the story. We could’ve drove to either of our homes and made love that night. Or later that night when I said I’d drive her home, I could’ve got out of the car, walked her to her gate and she could’ve asked me, “wanna stay the night” and I’d say yes because I’d be dumb to say no. But I was dumber than saying no to that because with the little mistakes I made that night, I’m still here wishing I’d done otherwise. I deleted her number and lost my phone a week after. I have no idea how to contact her except I know where she lives. But I’m still too scared to face the fact that, as she said, she doesn’t think it’s me.

[semicoloncancer]

Snippet 557

"i like it when our calls end at the twelfth minute not because i don't want to talk to you anymore and believe me i do. it's not because i want to pause to think about what to say next or that i can't stand your voice; believe you me: the silence is comfortable and your voice soothes me the way i see you smile even through the phone along with your laugh that doesn't fail to sound so sincere. i like it when our calls end at the twelfth minute not because i want to take a minute not talking to you; i'd like to know you more and you can take every second of my time sharing who you were, are, and want to be. but truth is i'm excited seeing i can call you again after every twelve minutes as the register shows your face, the glowing smile as ever, looking at it before you answer in haste, reliving every moment spent with you while we're still far apart waiting for the next time we see each other again--hoping for the next time we see each other again."

[semicoloncancer]

I have a small bed but there's enough space if I give enough way for you to lie down beside me close enough to not let either of us fall

[semicoloncancer]

FUN FACT!!! did you know that your eyebrows are there to protect your eyes from sweat coming from your forehead just like when i first met you when i walked along the street you're also on and i was so nervous my sweat ran like i ran miles and it continued when i met you and the awkward conversation ran along with the awkward silences and the awkward goodbye and still i continued to sweat but my eyebrows protected my eyes from the salt but my tears were developing around my eyes under my eyelids and a few drops rolled on my cheeks that formed round from the smile that you gave me at least my eyebrows worked properly

[semicoloncancer]

a Cold October Night, Two Years Ago

How does one carry the guilt of death for a long time even if one’s hands weren’t used for the offing of another? I haven’t slept for 2 days after that night and it wore me down greatly, until today. My shoulders were weaker than ever. I was a city boy living with my parent’s friends. I am more than a slave than an orphan. My foster parents are a married couple both of whom are busy with each of their businesses and another business for their only son when he’s old enough. For their other son, their foster son—me—, all I have is to work for all their businesses. Two of which required hard labor, while the other one only required me to deliver mail any way I want. I like bicycles and walking. I can’t learn how to ride a motorcycle lest drive a car. My foster parents knew about what I saw the night I was pedaling my way back home after a delivery. I was stuttering and shivering and pale and blacking out. Even though they exploit my youth, they let me rest until I can function well again. For some reason they are blatant about their use of me as their worker more than me being their foster child. My parents might be dead now, I can never know for sure. Before I left my old home, they told me to obey whatever their friends—my foster parents—ask me to do. I was raised in a farm, homeschooled, and kept from interacting with other people. Even so, my foster parents still gave me a room like what they would actually give to their real child if they could’ve produced another one. It was a very dark night. The cold air ran on my face and my skin as I rode my bike from a chore to home. I didn’t see it clearly but I heard screaming. My comprehension is bad and I couldn’t pick up what they were saying. All I can remember (even after the trauma) was loud screaming and repeated cry for help. My comprehension did not help me at all. All I was taught were basic and essential mathematics and colloquial communication. As for the sciences, my mother, who wasn’t that bright either, just gave me a bunch of books from biology to the solar system, animals to physics. I ran through the pages but none of the books made sense to me except for a few chapters where I learned about levers, bones, the sun, and that our skin has different layers. My bike dropped to the gutter and so did I. I was at a dark corner of another street. Two corners away were the people whom I am scared of even until now. 2 years have passed by and I still cannot forget how they looked like even in the dark. How they took wealth from the one begging for help, even for mercy as it seemed; how they heartlessly stabbed a knife on his side; how they stared at him as he fell down with his last cry for help—then choked and died. My bike dropped to the gutter and so did I. But before my bike and I, the person fell down first. I could’ve ran to help him and save his life but the work I’ve been asked to do makes me tired and by the end of the day, all I could do is just lie down. The only enjoyment I get is the cold breeze in most October nights while I ride my bike. But from then on, even if I can function well now, the guilt of death still haunts me. And from that chilly October night onwards, whether it is a scorching summer day, I still feel the coldness of death and fear crawling on my skin.

[semicoloncancer]

Snippet 496

And so you slowly closed the door on your way out. What point does it prove when you run away from things you’re responsible of. A forest fire. You are capable of a forest fire. Not by the humidity and the dryness of leaves but by the coldness and the lack of depth in your heart which I can’t bear. I stood at the stairs watching you walk away. There’s no point in running to where you are headed. I’m caught in the forest fire that you ignited. I’m ashen and alone.

[semicoloncancer]

The wall was once clean;

Where my youth will go after this night, I don’t know. For now, I’m a lonely man sitting on a barstool with cheap beer in front of me. In this bar, though, I am never alone. It’s called Fred’s. Here in this U-shaped compound, I have spent over half a decade. None of those times I’ve wasted. Before Fred’s, there’s this bar called Mogwai. Green walls and itchy couches propelled me to more than just maturity. I never thought I’d spend years with people older than me and the fact that I’d actually fit in. Well, they’re not that much older but the last time I was with them, they were shocked how young I was. Where were we that night? At Fred’s. A few years back, Mogwai closed. The now-Fred’s was a coffee shop twenty steps away from the then-Mogwai; which is now half-bar-half-another-bar. After Mogwai stopped operations, we pretty much lost track. Some friends still get together, some others weren’t able to catch up—I was one of the latter. From time to time, we see each other; most of the time, they. It’s not that they don’t invite me anymore; it’s just that, it’s not the same as before. We used go to Mogwai regularly, every Saturday to be precise. Now, we see each other on holidays, and that would be like thrice a year. To cut the long story short, it’s not the same as before. After Mogwai closed, I still went to the compound from time to time just to visit the place. A small specialty bookstore opened, I worked for the owner, and it closed eventually, too. While I was at it, Fred’s has begun its operation. White walls and designs that say: revolution. I was a communist so it appealed. For all I know, the pub’s name actually is Fred’s Revolucion. For me, then, there’d be no other place for me that’ll be like Mogwai. Meeting new people, making friends, being accepted on an age group that you don’t totally belong in, and many other things that I can’t even begin to count. There has been this huge hole that nothing can fill in when Mogwai has been gone in our lives. Someone got engaged in that place, how can we ever move on? And everytime I walked and saw the metal shutters stay put for weeks was just heartbreaking. But not as heartbreaking as when I walked and saw it was open and there was nothing in it but the green walls, the old chalk board, and the rusty metal stairs. I can’t remember how but it started with food. Almost every day I ordered a plate of those incredible chicken wings. I used to have a job to compensate for my gluttony. Then the pork strips that unbelievably are better than bacon even if they look almost the same. Then back to the wings. Food was it, I conclude. One of the bar owners (and also the chef) always makes it sure that I enjoy my food and I usually do up until now. How it followed through, that I cannot remember. If you asked me about Mogwai stories, I can remember how things built up but Fred’s had it magic. One day I’m at the bar sitting alone, just like today, and the following days I’m sitting by other people whom I don’t even know why I even became friends with (in a good way, of course). It’s just that they are these successful people. Interesting people whom I don’t think would have to do with anyone as mediocre as me. But I did become their friend. It came to the point where I even felt like I’m family. The chef-slash-owner instantly became a father to me. There he’ll be making fun of me, then as the night ends, he’ll drive me home. One time he also told everyone how I reminded him of his younger self. Like how I am today is how he exactly was when he was young. I remember these things because they are one of the few moments that I feel like I really matter. Like when his partner-slash-co-owner called me, “hey, sad person”, and when she said things like “it’s because I trust him,” “because you get it,” and many other things that I don’t even think I can tell myself but people see in me; and it’s the people who I don’t think I’d ever be around with. Once, the walls are white and there are just a few bills and paper coasters pinned on them. A few frames, flags, and bobble heads; those and a few more were just the decors. Now, tens of bills added, beer bottles from different countries, napkins, ID pictures, maybe some blood, and maybe a few earwax ‘cause if this wall in front of me has ears the dried ones would’ve fallen off from the music and laughter and stories and more laughter and memories. What’s left would be unshaken with the peaceful nights just like tonight. And if this sole wall could speak, it would speak with the other once-clean walls, it would thank us “we were once clean, but we are now filled with memories that everyone will cherish when the time comes.” Just like how I’d like to thank this place, from this barstool, that I was once cleaned off with the lack of place to create memories in, and now here I am sitting, a bottle of cheap beer in front of me, and a piece of paper to write these down; the memories that I’d never ever forget. May it never end; not like the others that did.