it's been a long time since i posted anything. i don't seem to have much time for online stuff since the uaap season started in july. hay. anyhoo, i was hanging out yesterday sa campus (i know, it's where i work. but there's just something about all that green that relaxes me.) and well, i was able to write some stuff. 3 scenes, if you will. i'm not saying their good. i'm a littly rusty. i haven't written anything even remotely literary in the last five years. gawd. i don't even know if these scenes are part of a story or stories. i just wrote. and it cleared my head. i miss writing.
I.
He gently brushes back stray strands of hair from her face. She looks up at him with misty eyes.
"Don't." Every touch burns. She brushes back the same strands of hair, as if trying to erase some invisible trail his fingers left behind. She unties her hair and ties it back again, tightly. Hoping that it would hold so he wouldn't have to touch her again. But a slight breeze slowly manages to let a few strands loose. She lets it go. She'd remember to wear pins on hair next time.
Next time. Would there be a next time? Would she allow it? Yes, she would. And pain squeezes her heart once more. For how long? How long would she take all the insults, doubts, accusations? For how long would she forgive him his distrust, his constant reminder of her supposed past mistakes?
He always apologizes. He's certainly mastered the art of saying sorry. He is the connoisseur of apologies. And yet, he seems to be the leading expert on taking it all back.
It's a vicious cycle, that's what they all say. It surely is. She dabs at her eyes and looks at him again. Then leans forward to meet his kiss.
II.
Everytime she hears Nat King Cole crooning "When I Fall In Love," it's like she's running out of air. He had sung it for her, to her, before she slept. Every night for the last five years.
And now the damn geriatric cab driver puts a Nat King Cole tape on.
"I hope you don't mind, ma'am. I like to listen to it when i drive. Relaxes me. Not like all that noise they call music nowadays." He gives her a toothless gummy smile then sings along. Badly.
How long before she arrives at the office? She glances at her watch. 7:30. She still had 30 minutes. She won't be late.
She tries to focus on the trees along the avenue. But she can't seem to. She thinks of him and her chest tightens a little. She fights the urge to cry. Crying in front of strangers was not an option. Especially not in front of an old toothless cab driver who thinks he's Nat King Cole.
They pull up in front of a colonnaded building. She looks at the taxi meter and fishes for money from her purse. She hands him a hundred and tells him to keep the change.
"Thank you, ma'am. And my condolences. I noticed you wearing a black pin."
Her hand touches it, pinned on her left collar. She nods and gets out of the cab.
III.
It was a slap so loud, she turned her head. The couple next door were at it again. And this time, they didn't even wait to get inside their apartment. She looked down and fumbled for her keys, embarrassed that they would see her looking at them. She was sure they would notice.
When she was finally inside, she turned on her cd player. Coldplay was blaring through the speakers. Too soft, she thought, and put on her Ministry of Sound cd. Better.
She sat in front of her vanity and started removing her makeup. God, the amount of foundation she had to put on today! She touched the soft purplish flesh of her cheek and shrugged. It'll be gone in a few days anyway.
She turned up the volume and danced, trying to block the screams. In an hour or two, silence will come. She was sure of it. She smiled to herself as she swayed to music. She wondered what her own boyfriend would surprise her with tomorrow.
The last time, when she got out of the hospital with a broken rib, he took her to HongKong. Maybe a new watch, she thought, after all, it was only a bruise this time.
