For the third time that night, I brushed my teeth. The past 2 or so hours have been devoted to removing the taste of beer from my mouth. It’s pathetic; the mouthwash bottle is almost empty, and I haven’t had any sleep. I can’t exactly remember the last time I had beer. I know it was in college, and I did the exact same thing -- throwing up almost every 30 minutes and brushing my teeth every time.
The morning that followed was hell. As usual, I was curled up in a seat at the smoking area of McDonald’s, letting the sun glare pleasantly at my sunglasses and the Ayn Rand book I was reading. It’s the same thing I do everyday, a routine, except for that pounding headache I had to deal with. How many times have I read that book? Three times? Five times? It’s pointless reading a book again when you know exactly how it’s going to end. I’m still finding out why I keep on doing that.
You were right; the character Kira in Ayn Rand’s book is so like me. The first time you emailed me about it, I had left my gold fish unfed in the office and went straight to Powerbooks to get myself a copy. Someday, I’ll reply to one of your emails.
In the meantime, I am discovering that Janis Joplin on my earphones is a pretty distraction from the headache; loud and powerful, I didn’t notice my partner arriving and talking to me.
I looked up, the sun directly in contact with my sunglasses and piercing my head like a tomato under a rake. “I said you’re early,” he smiled.
“Oh,” was all I managed to say, putting the paperback down. I smiled back. That big smile I am known for. I don’t just smile when I do. I smile my biggest and look happy each time. It’s sort of like a reflex reaction. It’s something that comes out involuntarily.
Of course, I was early. I rarely come on time since I usually wake up late. Today, I’m early because I didn’t have to wake up.
He got pancakes and coffee for us both. He knows I could pretty much live with pancakes for the rest of my life. I was concentrating on putting extra syrup on my pancakes when he asked if I wanna marry him. Taking my earphones off, I asked if he was saying something. Then, very slowly this time, he repeated the exact same thing he said earlier that I thought I was just imagining. He asked me to marry him. No kidding.
“Wait, wait,” I said, breathing deeply with my other hand finding his. “You’re asking me to marry you,” I repeated, slowly, and with emphasis on each word, quite dumbly for confirmation.
He nodded; relaxed, confident and pleasant.
It took me time to let it all sink in that I had to close my eyes. This isn’t hallucination because of too much alcohol, is it? Did he really just ask me to marry him? I waited for the chirping of the birds in the background, an old love song playing, or anything that came in slow motion.
Nothing.
All I got was the pounding in my temples, the feeling of wanting to throw up again and everything else started choking me up inside.
Suddenly, all the syrup on my pancakes didn’t matter. I did what I was best at- I walked away. Thank goodness he didn’t follow me out and started calling my name in public just like they always do in star cinema films. Lord, thank you.
What on earth was he thinking? Was that some kind of a practical joke I was not getting that he was expecting me to respond smartly at?
So. I walked. To where, I don’t know. I could walk until only God knows when. My havs survive me, and I love them.
It was a pretty dumb reaction. It’s not everyday that I get marriage proposals, you know. Isn’t there supposed to be a violin playing in the background, a moon and a red wine to go along with it? Mine was over pancakes- so very 21st century, so very fastfood, and urban. The spontaneity would have impressed me, except that the announcement arrived like a blank space, I had to decide for a reaction to fill it in given only a little time. And it came out badly.
I overreacted. That’s given.
We first talked 4 months ago when he saw this Pink Floyd shirt I was wearing. He asked if it’s my favorite perfume. I began to laugh; mainly to compensate for the awkward silence that was forming while I was deciding if he was serious or not. Later on, I found out that it was supposed to be a serious question, and I had to apologize at least 5 times during the whole conversation because of embarrassment that he had to stop me from saying sorry.
As you can see, it is part of my human nature to overdo everything; I overreact, I over apologize, I over analyze the situations given.
We had coffee the morning after the day of that awkward first conversation. No, I explained. Pink Floyd is not a name of a perfume. And so, I began telling him exactly what Pink Floyd is, eventually giving him his basic rock music education.
The coffee sessions before work had sort of become like an unwritten law. He is okey, really. I mean, he reads, which is nice. He actually reads an actual book and not just something out of the internet. That is something.
He likes his coffee just like yours; no sugar and he stirs it forever.
Finally, I stopped at a satellite airline ticket outlet. Several hours later, I was aboard a plane going to Bacolod.
My best friend used to tell me I’m an escapist. In more ways than one, I would have to agree. I walk and let my mind wander aimlessly when everything gets too much for me to handle, hoping in time I could arrive with something sensible as a decision. Most of the time though, I don’t go back.
How many months ago have I last seen you? Nine months? Was it nine months already?
Imagine now. Nine months. Nine whole months of running away from you.
Why did you let me leave just like that? Why wasn’t I even stopped?
Remember how you talked about Coheed and Cambria all day? Their music doesn’t seem to make sense at all. I just don’t get it. You hated new bands much more than I do. What’s with all the screaming when Bob Dylan could make way better rock music minus all the noise? And there you were, talking about them like they had been the only band in the last 10 years. You like them, and part of that is maybe because you know I hate them and you love arguing with me.
Sigh.
I thought I could survive. I almost did, you know. But just yesterday, when I was scanning through the racks of baby tees in Artwork, I heard Coheed and Cambria again. Like, suddenly, they’re there when absolutely not needed. I picked up a baby tee in random and rushed to the fitting room to cry.
Haven’t I cried enough already? It wasn’t fair. Like, what right were you given to come and intrude my loneliness just like that? I was close to doing fine, you know.
I felt like the world was closing in on me. It all came so abruptly that I was caught totally off-guard; the emotions I thought were long forgotten suddenly came pouring out in an avalanche. Things were haunting me in a way that’s starting to become scary, I find myself wanting to scream in random just to let it all out.
So, that night, I did my usual walking. I stopped at this lonely bar and drowned myself in beer. Hence, the hangover, and the lousy response of walking away when I could have acted more intelligently.
How could I possibly explain this to him? This is just way too childish. He waits for me after work and gets ahead at Mcdonald’s to get me pancakes every morning and this is what he gets in exchange? What has he ever done wrong except being too right in all the right places? Things just seem way too right, they all feel completely fake.
Still, it’s your memories that make me squeeze my eyes shut for hours in the darkness before I go to sleep. God, why can he not make me feel something like that? Why do I feel confused now when I was supposed to be happy?
Now, looking at the clouds outside the plane, I realized I’m running away just to run back to where the ugly part actually started.
When I was younger, I hated flying. I have been an acrophobic ever since the world began. I hated looking down from high buildings, and I limit the escalators that I take to those which only bridge 2 floors. Before air trips I had to drink some vodka so I’d sleep during the whole flight, which is a bit embarrassing since I had to be waken up each time the plane lands.
Then, when I started working, plane trips became a must. I realized there are things that I had to take not because I always want to but because I simply have to. The choices are not always fair.
Now. This.
So, to Bacolod I arrived. While everyone got their selves busy pulling and pushing their baggage, I picked my only one, the Ayn Rand book I was reading, and quietly headed towards the exit.
There I was- looking ahead at the busy street outside and for the first time, thought about where I was to go.
“Lost?” a voice asked. It belonged to a guy who is probably about my age. I am not sure. Guessing a person’s age has always been something I’m lousy at. He was wearing these really thick eyeglasses that covered half of his face.
Well what do you know, a concerned stranger. My partner started just like this guy, a stranger, asking me something nonsensical. Who knows, this could be someone I’d end up marrying instead. Ha-ha…
“Yes,” I answered, “have been for the last nine months.” I smiled. That big smile I am known for.
Confused, he offered a sheepish smile. He seemed proper enough to be entertained. He was wearing a shirt that suggested he just woke up, and a cap that was probably just a last minute, unsuccessful resort to hide the uncombed hair.
“What are you here in the airport for?” I asked.
He grinned. “I was sleeping when I happened to glance at the clock and saw it was 4pm. My parents’ flight is at 4:30 pm. When all the passengers from the last flight boarded out, I realized that today’s only Tuesday. Their flight is tomorrow.”
I laughed.
There I was, harmlessly laughing with a complete stranger, while I got someone back home wanting to marry me wondering where I probably was at that time.
“Do you need directions somewhere? You seem totally lost. Where are you staying?”
Now that he asked, I realized the vastness of the uncertainty I was facing. “I don’t know,” I finally replied.
“Do you need help with anything?”
“Nah,” I replied. “I will be fine. Thank you.”
With that, I walked away. I myself wasn’t convinced with that last thing I said.
Where, exactly am I staying? I haven’t really stayed in one place, have I? In fact, I haven’t belonged anywhere all this time. But with all the freedom and the wandering and the getting lost, at the end of the day, you would want to stay. Like, owned or something. Kept.
Then again, I started walking. Anywhere and far, I don’t know. I realized I haven’t really finished my coffee when I went so I headed to my default place in Bacolod- that old coffee shop where we used to meet.
It was still there. Everything was comforting; the old chandelier that makes a sound when the wind blows, the creaky wooden floor, everything. Maybe there are just things that are not supposed to change even through time.
I took the table that used to be our favorite spot; the one just beside the window that faces the old ballet studio I used to go to when I was kid. I could not help but wonder if you still go here. Who do you share your coffee with now after I left?
Even the music was nostalgic. They still played Astrud Gilberto when everywhere else played trance. I remember your music- Jimi Hendrix, Cat Stevens, Bjork. I could marry you just for the kind of music that you listen to, you know.
You came just when my coffee arrived. You always seem to know when to catch me. Always unguarded and lost.
You took the seat in front of me, and all at once, visions of you came flooding- loud enough and stirring, the coffee cup I’m holding shook for a second.
I knew exactly what you were going to order. A macchiato. Without milk. Without sugar. Your strong, usual plain coffee. Yes, maybe there are just things that are not supposed to change even through time.
That big smile I’m known for. I gave you that when our eyes met. I smiled. You didn’t.
You know exactly how I smile when I’m about to lose control over something.
You held me with your eyes- certain and knowing they were. Like, all this time, you were somehow expecting me to be back there. You win. I came back.
Slowly, you sip on your coffee, your matrimonial ring mocking me as it glistened against the afternoon sunshine when you lifted your cup. You don’t like drinking your coffee fast. You said, coffee is meant to be enjoyed, just like everything else.
I remember that first day I walked into your classroom. I was late, and you asked me if I’m sure I entered the right classroom.
“Yes,” I replied, walking across the classroom to get to the vacant seat.
“But the class here started 30 minutes ago.”
“Then that means I have another 30 minutes left.”
Months after that, we were stuck in that café. It was overwhelming. I was the silent spectator of the life you live with passion. I was your disciple, and I have let all my guards down and loved you.
Earlier on, I have always known that I had to get away from you while I still could. All of my attempts to run away were lame, because all walls just come tumbling down everytime you come knocking by my kitchen door at 3am and tell me you miss me. Blindly, I succumb to you like a huge shadow at nighttime with absolutely no defense.
Then I would be back. Like nothing happened. To that café, watching you sip on your coffee. I was yours for the longest time, and I didn’t mind. It was pleasant being yours, really.
Kira in that Ayn Rand book escaped too, didn’t she? Did that make you think that I’m her? Her escaping and all? I did too, right? I did escape, just like her. And I did so successfully for 9 months.
Now, I left and escaped everything again. Leaving and escaping everything just so I could sit again in that old café to have coffee with you.
I am just starting to realize how big of a hole I was trying to fill in. My god, how could anyone stay this close to you and not be totally drawn to you? Where do I even start asking you all these things?
I miss you.
There’s just no escaping you, is there? You wouldn’t let me. Kira and I may have the same fate. When she escaped at the latter part of the book, she got killed. I know I would be too. Eventually.
In the meantime, I sit there, sipping on my coffee silently, breaking slowly into a thousand different pieces, when all I really want in the world, is for you to ask me to stay this time.
