David's Sling

First it was Emily, then came Janice. They didn't know but they did hurt me. Not directly though. The way they did it was through David.

Now it's Kate. And the pain has become so unbearable that I hope to God I can still save some face when I have the gut to save my heart first.

I know it's not David's fault. He's been an angel since Day 1. That was when he moved in to my apartment--as a co-tenant, of course. He has done his share, even in choosing the rainbow tafetta-like curtains. And oh, how he can cook with the Curtis Stone skill and charm!

Charm? How can I think of his charm when right now, he's been talking about Kate! And that hurts. A lot.

Emily and Janice were David's first and second heart-breakers whom I know. There may have been others, but as David puts it, they're his pasts. Now his heart is for Kate and he'll be proposing soon.

I can't help but wonder if the proposal would be no different when he proposed to Emily and Jane.

I could only wonder.

I could only breath, sigh and cry.

(To be continued...)

Friday not the 13th

I don’t know what it is about last Friday. What I’m sure though was that everyone I spoke to complained only of one thing–-turtle-fast traffic!

I shared the same sentiment. It was madness. The streets were jammed. My usual 30-minute ride to work became an hour and a half. Not to mention that a quarter of which was spent waiting for an empty cab.

It was one hot Friday. It wasn’t the 13th though but as I gazed out the cab window, each face wore a kind of gloom. Maybe they’re thinking the same thought I was thinking–I wish I were someplace else but here.

The only good thing about that day was the paycheck. I’d be compensated for the first half of the month that I toiled. The bad thing (again?), it was almost spent out even before I get it. Life, and all the bills that went with it, is a total sacrifice.

The day went on. I screamed frantically at my computer hoping to beat my deadlines–or I’m dead. And I lived. I even managed a few hearty laughs, a few good bottles of beer and a lot of insights. You see, when I took a cab to finally head home, Manong Cab Driver, to ward off any sleep spell, tried to manage a conversation with me not at all minding if my answers were as dull as grey.

“Where do you work?”

“Somewhere in Ortigas.”

“Call Center?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Uhm, I write…”

“Really? That’s wow!”

Wow? I thought to myself. Why wow? Hmm.

“Maybe you can write about my life story. I hope to submit it to Charo Santos, you know, win P10k in the process and help my eldest son finish college.”

And so he went on to tell me how he came from a poor town in Quezon. Left his wife, only to come back with her all cold and lifeless. He has a son who wants to come here to Manila and be the one to drive the cab so he could retire. Of course, Manong Cab Driver has all good intentions. He wants his son to have a good education. He wants him to be a nurse. Nurses these days are the next millionaires, he said. They bring home the dollars.

“And what does your son want?” At last, I asked.

Manong Cab Driver went all silent. Then he said, "I think he wants to sing. He can sing, you know. But he’s no Christian or Mark Bautista. Are they siblings? Anyway, he has no future in singing. Nurses have. And he can then take care of me when I’m all callous and old. So, will you write my story?"

I blinked. For one moment there, I had the urge to explain that I’m into technical documentation. But that would be like bursting his balloon. He already had shared with me half his life.

“I’ll see. Maybe your story will be my next project.”

Stupid, I forgot to ask his name.

With all due apology to Manong Cab Driver. If only his life is an application program, I could have documented it.

The Virus

How many times has he dreamed of being alone with her? In his fantasy, he has been her rescuer, her clown, her prince, her one true love...

But now that he is actually ALONE with HER, he is not prepared to play the role of a dripping wet disheveled cursing knight in distress as she enters the elevator.

He then tries to evade her pitying glances. He looks down to his now shoggy pair of loafers. Just a while back, he accidentally missed his bus stop and in the middle of walking the distance, the rain poured out all its mighty menace on him.

Now he is soaking wet.

"Achooo!"

"You can't go to work like that--" She comments, her last word recoiling up and down his spine.

"Uh-huh. But I can't go home either. I have a deadline before noon."

"By noon, you'll go down with the flu and you'd be lucky if you can concentrate at all on finishing your report."

"I'll take that risk-- aacchu!"

"Save the virus and do yourself a favor, go home."

"No."

"You know what, sometimes, you need to think of yourself first."

"How can I do that when all I can think of is you--" He suddenly blurts out. He bits his tongue and curses himself. How could he think that loud?!

"Wha--"

"Ehrr-- I mean-- why aren't we on our floor yet? We're running late!"

"Did you mean that?"

"Yeah, I do! We're going to be really late! Oh, we haven't pushed a button yet, that's why!"

"You know what your problem is? You don't really care about me. Because if you do, you'll listen to me. I'm concerned about you getting sick. And you know what else? You're not thinking of me at all, because if you really do, you won't keep me guessing about what you really feel for me--"

And as he stares back at her sad eyes, he feels rooted at his drenched spot, dejected all over again.

Suddenly, she says in a caring soothing whisper, "Really, please Zach, take a cab, go home, change into dry clothes and be back before ten. I'll cover up for you. Then treat me to a nice lunch later."

She then pushes the "open door" button and waits for Zach to step out of the elevator.

Before the door closes, he catches her mischievous grin that turns into the sincerest and sweetest of her smiles.

Somehow, he feels warm now. Almost dry even. Maybe he doesnt' need to go home and change?

But he can't let Suzanne down. For today, he is not just daydreaming.

First and Last Favor

Leila will always refer to his smile as the Mint Chocolate Chip Baskin Robbins ice cream of her heart. Seeing him smile, like he does now, sends shivers up her spine making her hands and feet cold, yet her heart warm all over. She can’t explain why every time Ned smiles, she starts to feel as if nothing else matters but his cherubic face, and the stubborn “zing!” in her heart.

And there is also his pair of eyes that become slits under his dark eyebrows whenever he laughs. There it is again! His face looks like the perfect portrait of a face all aglow with sheer happiness.

No, Ned’s smile isn’t for Leila. She doesn’t even know who it is for. All she knows is that Ned is now laughing while carelessly clutching the phone to his ear.

The hell she cares who he is talking to!

Hell, she cares. A lot. In fact, there’s nothing on her mind but Ned and his smile, Ned and his laugh, Ned and his cherubic face, Ned and the sound of his voice, Ned and everything that makes the “zing” on her heart sounds like Bach, or maybe Beethoven, or Skid Row.

Yes, she cares. She has a fancy word for how she’s feeling now. Love at first day at work.

But Ned doesn’t. Try with all her might, Ned will never see her as special as the one whom he is talking to over the phone. He doesn’t even know her name and her table is just next his, and it’s her first day—

“Leila? Leila, right?” Ned covered the mouthpiece and turned to Leila.

“Yep, and you’re Ned, right?” Leila said while trying to sound casual, although she felt herself choke.

Ned winked and carelessly shuffled through the papers on his table, the phone now cradled by his shoulder to his ear. Then he turned to Leila and in the most gentle voice said, "Heard you were the fastest typist ever recruited by Butter Fly Limited—will you please help me with this?" and handed Leila a paper with marks and comments on the margin.

Leila took it, read it, "What help do you need? I mean, this is uh—"

“I don’t want to type it myself, can you please, please?” implored Ned as if all that matters to him is Leila’s help.

Leila smiled, half-heartedly. She turned her computer on and waited for Ned to tell her he was just joking.

But Ned wasn't joking. He now put down the phone and turned to Leila again.

"Thanks, really. The truth is, I can't make myself do it. I like it here, you know, but sometimes one has to leave things that he likes to be with things and people he loves," explained Ned.

Well, then, good luck,” is all Leila could say. She could have asked him what he meant but she couldn’t make herself do it. There was a gargantuan lump in her throat, and she was trying so hard to fight back the tears.

Leila ran the word processor and clicked the new blank document icon. She blinked at the paper lying alone on her clean table.

This is Ned’s first, and well, last favor. It gripped her heart with a wrench of unimaginable hurt and regret. She couldn’t still believe as she read the letter in front of her, Ned’s letter. Though harder she stared, words didn’t mutate into a memorandum. The first sentence still reads, “This is to tender my irrevocable resignation effective immediately.”