...
Sana'y di magmaliw ang dati kong araw
Nang munti pang bata sa piling ni Nanay
Nais kong maulit ang awit ni Inang mahal
Awit ng pag-ibig nang ako'y nasa duyan…
Nakaupo ako sa duyan, kasama ang alaala ng aking ina. Pagod na pagod na ako sa kakaiyak, pagod na pagod na sa lahat ng bagay na may kinalaman sa pagkamatay. Naaalala ko parin ang kanyang sinabi sa akin.
“Huwag mo akong limutin, ngunit bitawan mo rin ako,” wika niya.
Pinunas ko ang mga luha na nahuhulog muli sa aking mga mata. Ngayon ay nagsisisi ako sa aking mga kalokohang ginawa noong araw, noong buhay pa si ina. Pinapagalitan niya ako noon, naiinis rin ako sa kanya. Ngumiti ako ng konti, inaalala ang kanyang mga sermon sa akin. Ngayon na wala na ang mga araw na iyon, hinahanap ko sila.
Umugoy ng kaunti ang duyan sa pagdaan ng hangin. Hanggang ngayon ay napapatulog ako sa boses ng aking ina, na dinadala ng bawat ugoy ng duyan, ng bawat ihip ng hangin. Napapatulog ako sa kanyang alaala, sa kanyang kanta…
Sa aking pagtulog na labis ang himbing
Ang bantay ko'y tala
Ang tanod ko'y bituin
Sa piling ni Nanay
Langit ang buhay
Puso kong may dusa
Sabik sa ugoy ng duyan mo, Inay
Sana narito ka Inay…
Sana narito ka, inay.
[based on a Filipino lullaby]
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
A Table for Two
He sits by himself at a table for two.
The uniformed waiter returns to his side and asks, "Would you like to go ahead and order, sir?"
The man has, after all, been waiting since seven o'clock -- almost half an hour.
"No, thank you," the man smiles. "I'll wait for her a while longer. How about some more coffee?"
"Certainly, sir."
The man sits, his clear blue eyes gazing straight through the flowered centerpiece. He fingers his napkin, allowing the sounds of light chatter, tinkling silverware, and mellow music to fill his mind. He is dressed in sport coat and tie. His dark brown hair is neatly combed, but one stray lock insists on dropping to his forehead. The scent of his cologne adds to his clean cut image. He is dressed up enough to make a companion feel important, respected, loved. Yet he is not so formal as to make one uncomfortable. It seems that he has taken every precaution to make others feel at ease with him.
Still, he sits alone.
The waiter returns to fill the man's coffee cup. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"
"No, thank you."
The waiter remains standing at the table. Something tugs at his curiosity. "I don't mean to pry, but..." His voice trails off. This line of conversation could jeopardize his tip.
"Go ahead," the man encourages. His is strong, yet sensitive, inviting conversation.
"Why do you bother waiting for her?" the waiter finally blurts out. This man has been at the restaurant other evenings, always patiently alone.
Says the man quietly, "Because she needs me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, no offense, but assuming that she needs you, she sure isn't acting much like it. She's stood you up three times just this week."
The man winces, and looks down at the table. "Yes, I know."
"Then why do you still come here and wait?"
"Cassie said that she would be here."
"She's said that before," the waiter protests. "I wouldn't put up with it. Why do you?"
Now the man looks up, smiles at the waiter, and says simply, "Because I love her."
The waiter walks away, wondering how one could love a girl who stands him up three times a week. The man must be crazy, he decides. Across the room, he turns to look at the man again. The man slowly pours cream into his coffee. He twirls his spoon between his fingers a few times before stirring sweetener into his cup. After staring for a moment into the liquid, the man brings the cup to his mouth and sips, silently watching those around him. He doesn't look crazy, the waiter admits. Maybe the girl has qualities that I don't know about. Or maybe the man's love is stronger than most. The waiter shakes himself out of his musings to take an order from a party of five.
The man watches the waiter, wonders if he's ever been stood up. The man has, many times. But he still can't get used to it. Each time, it hurts. He's looked forward to this evening all day. He has many things, exciting things, to tell Cassie. But, more importantly, he wants to hear Cassie's voice. He wants her to tell him all about her day, her triumphs, her defeats....anything, really. He has tried so many times to show Cassie how much he loves her. He'd just like to know that she cares for him, too. He sips sporadically at the coffee, and loses himself in thought, knowing that Cassie is late, but still hoping that she will arrive.
The clock says nine-thirty when the waiter returns to the man's table. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
The still empty chair stabs at the man. "No, I think that will be all for tonight. May I have the check please?"
"Yes, sir."
When the waiter leaves, the man picks up the check. He pulls out his wallet and signs. He has enough money to have given Cassie a feast. But he takes out only enough to pay for his five cups of coffee and the tip. Why do you do this, Cassie, his mind cries as he gets up from the table.
"Good-bye," the waiter says, as the man walks towards the door.
"Good night. Thank you for your service."
"You're welcome, sir," says the waiter softly, for he sees the hurt in the man's eyes that his smile doesn't hide.
The man passes a laughing young couple on his way out, and his eyes glisten as he thinks of the good time he and Cassie could have had. He stops at the front and makes reservations for tomorrow. Maybe Cassie will be able to make it, he thinks.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow for party of two?" the hostess confirms.
"That's right," the man replies.
"Do you think she'll come??" asks the hostess. She doesn't mean to be rude, but she has watched the man many times alone at his table for two.
"Someday, yes. And I will be waiting for her." The man buttons his overcoat and walks out of the restaurant, alone. His shoulders are hunched, but through the windows the hostess can only guess whether they are hunched against the wind or against the man's hurt.
As the man turns toward home, Cassie turns into bed. She is tired after an evening out with friends. As she reaches toward her night stand to set the alarm, she sees the note that she scribbled to herself last night.
"7:00," it says. "Spend some time in prayer." Darn, she thinks. She forgot again. She feels a twinge of guilt, but quickly pushes it aside. She needed that time with her friends. And now she needs her sleep. She can pray tomorrow night. Jesus will forgive her.
And she's sure he doesn't mind.
The uniformed waiter returns to his side and asks, "Would you like to go ahead and order, sir?"
The man has, after all, been waiting since seven o'clock -- almost half an hour.
"No, thank you," the man smiles. "I'll wait for her a while longer. How about some more coffee?"
"Certainly, sir."
The man sits, his clear blue eyes gazing straight through the flowered centerpiece. He fingers his napkin, allowing the sounds of light chatter, tinkling silverware, and mellow music to fill his mind. He is dressed in sport coat and tie. His dark brown hair is neatly combed, but one stray lock insists on dropping to his forehead. The scent of his cologne adds to his clean cut image. He is dressed up enough to make a companion feel important, respected, loved. Yet he is not so formal as to make one uncomfortable. It seems that he has taken every precaution to make others feel at ease with him.
Still, he sits alone.
The waiter returns to fill the man's coffee cup. "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"
"No, thank you."
The waiter remains standing at the table. Something tugs at his curiosity. "I don't mean to pry, but..." His voice trails off. This line of conversation could jeopardize his tip.
"Go ahead," the man encourages. His is strong, yet sensitive, inviting conversation.
"Why do you bother waiting for her?" the waiter finally blurts out. This man has been at the restaurant other evenings, always patiently alone.
Says the man quietly, "Because she needs me."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, sir, no offense, but assuming that she needs you, she sure isn't acting much like it. She's stood you up three times just this week."
The man winces, and looks down at the table. "Yes, I know."
"Then why do you still come here and wait?"
"Cassie said that she would be here."
"She's said that before," the waiter protests. "I wouldn't put up with it. Why do you?"
Now the man looks up, smiles at the waiter, and says simply, "Because I love her."
The waiter walks away, wondering how one could love a girl who stands him up three times a week. The man must be crazy, he decides. Across the room, he turns to look at the man again. The man slowly pours cream into his coffee. He twirls his spoon between his fingers a few times before stirring sweetener into his cup. After staring for a moment into the liquid, the man brings the cup to his mouth and sips, silently watching those around him. He doesn't look crazy, the waiter admits. Maybe the girl has qualities that I don't know about. Or maybe the man's love is stronger than most. The waiter shakes himself out of his musings to take an order from a party of five.
The man watches the waiter, wonders if he's ever been stood up. The man has, many times. But he still can't get used to it. Each time, it hurts. He's looked forward to this evening all day. He has many things, exciting things, to tell Cassie. But, more importantly, he wants to hear Cassie's voice. He wants her to tell him all about her day, her triumphs, her defeats....anything, really. He has tried so many times to show Cassie how much he loves her. He'd just like to know that she cares for him, too. He sips sporadically at the coffee, and loses himself in thought, knowing that Cassie is late, but still hoping that she will arrive.
The clock says nine-thirty when the waiter returns to the man's table. "Is there anything I can get for you?"
The still empty chair stabs at the man. "No, I think that will be all for tonight. May I have the check please?"
"Yes, sir."
When the waiter leaves, the man picks up the check. He pulls out his wallet and signs. He has enough money to have given Cassie a feast. But he takes out only enough to pay for his five cups of coffee and the tip. Why do you do this, Cassie, his mind cries as he gets up from the table.
"Good-bye," the waiter says, as the man walks towards the door.
"Good night. Thank you for your service."
"You're welcome, sir," says the waiter softly, for he sees the hurt in the man's eyes that his smile doesn't hide.
The man passes a laughing young couple on his way out, and his eyes glisten as he thinks of the good time he and Cassie could have had. He stops at the front and makes reservations for tomorrow. Maybe Cassie will be able to make it, he thinks.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow for party of two?" the hostess confirms.
"That's right," the man replies.
"Do you think she'll come??" asks the hostess. She doesn't mean to be rude, but she has watched the man many times alone at his table for two.
"Someday, yes. And I will be waiting for her." The man buttons his overcoat and walks out of the restaurant, alone. His shoulders are hunched, but through the windows the hostess can only guess whether they are hunched against the wind or against the man's hurt.
As the man turns toward home, Cassie turns into bed. She is tired after an evening out with friends. As she reaches toward her night stand to set the alarm, she sees the note that she scribbled to herself last night.
"7:00," it says. "Spend some time in prayer." Darn, she thinks. She forgot again. She feels a twinge of guilt, but quickly pushes it aside. She needed that time with her friends. And now she needs her sleep. She can pray tomorrow night. Jesus will forgive her.
And she's sure he doesn't mind.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Merry Christmas.
There's no moon tonight, just the sound of children's laughter in the streets and random explosions of fireworks. I can smell my aunt's roast chicken, uh, roasting downstairs. My cousins are whipping up a riot on the patio, making up a dance for the street party tonight.
The house is literally shining and bright, what with lights sprouting from every possible surface. Daddy's playing his old Christmas records; songs from many years ago that never fail to bring that fuzzy feeling back to me. My cats are sniffing the smoked bangus like they always [always] do, and my sister is chasing them away with her plastic water-gun, the one she got from the kid's party earlier. My hands are soiled from handling barbecue marinade and fruit salad, and the food set grandly on the table smell just as good as my apron.
The smaller kids gather around the tree, shaking and rattling the presents. The boxes sit neatly beneath the prickly green branches, but their happy silence is disturbed by the small, impatient hands. They're all in different shapes, wrapped in various, gaily colours: blue, red, green, gold.
People flock to the churches, holding candles and greeting each other. After services, they flurry around wishing each other well, hurrying to get the most essential Noche Buena fares -bibingka, puto, bico, chicharon- from the humble vendor's stalls. Everyone's hurrying to go home to their families, to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The colourful parols and fireworks light their way home...
It's Christmas.
Never forget the reason for the season: JESUS CHRIST.
The house is literally shining and bright, what with lights sprouting from every possible surface. Daddy's playing his old Christmas records; songs from many years ago that never fail to bring that fuzzy feeling back to me. My cats are sniffing the smoked bangus like they always [always] do, and my sister is chasing them away with her plastic water-gun, the one she got from the kid's party earlier. My hands are soiled from handling barbecue marinade and fruit salad, and the food set grandly on the table smell just as good as my apron.
The smaller kids gather around the tree, shaking and rattling the presents. The boxes sit neatly beneath the prickly green branches, but their happy silence is disturbed by the small, impatient hands. They're all in different shapes, wrapped in various, gaily colours: blue, red, green, gold.
People flock to the churches, holding candles and greeting each other. After services, they flurry around wishing each other well, hurrying to get the most essential Noche Buena fares -bibingka, puto, bico, chicharon- from the humble vendor's stalls. Everyone's hurrying to go home to their families, to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The colourful parols and fireworks light their way home...
It's Christmas.
Never forget the reason for the season: JESUS CHRIST.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Kapre
A lot of things slip past you when you're, say, about seven years old.
.............................
"Are you thsure thith ith a good idea, Annemarie?" James asks, struggling to achieve proper pronunciation despite his missing front teeth.
We're in the garden, collecting small bugs for a brand-new experiment.
"Calm down, Jamesey. Mama thinks we're in the tent."
"They might hear us."
I pause and look at him cautiously. "Who?"
"The night monsterth and the kapres. Daddy thsays they thsmoke big pipes and thsit in big treeth. Like that one."
"Kids? Where are you?"
I run through the house screaming bloody murder and dive inside the camp tent that stands pitched on the patio. He dives in after me.
The black of the night makes the tent's interior even darker than I'd like.
"You're the one who's always scared, anyways, meathead." I hiss.
"Then why did you ruuun?"
"Because our mamas are gonna hear us."
"They'll hear uth even more 'cause you thscreamed."
We bicker on for a while, until the sound of our mother's voices cut in.
"JAMES! ANNEMARIE!"
Quickly we slide under the tent blanket for refuge.
"I'm sorry for making you scream, Annie! I'm sorry sorry sorry..."
What a baby.
My mother rips the tent door open. She's standing there with James's mother, whose hands are planted on her hips. I've got the feeling that they're gonna start calling us by our whole names and stuff.
They don't, but they lecture us on a very consequential matter: that of digging through the garden without permission or a pair of rubber gloves. At night. In pajamas.
After they leave, I turn to James.
"I believe in your kapre," I whisper. "we should go hunt for it!"
He brightens. "Yeah! But maybe we should bring along flashlights. It'ths dark."
Nodding, I start to rummage through his backpack for a torchlight. Then suddenly he tugs on my arm, looking rather beseeching.
"Annemarie, promith me now that if the kapre gets uth, we'll help each other out. Okay?"
"Yes, and through anything else, too," I whisper back.
"Spit oath," he says. I reach my hand out to him, and he spits into it. I do the same-most gracious-favor for him, and we shake.
[Eugh. Slimy.]
He smiles at me, so I can see the gap where two new teeth will be sprouting out soon. And I smile back, because somehow, I know he isn't going to fail me.
.............................
Ah, only a true kababata knows just how important and meaningful a spit oath is. It's for life and for death, for sun and for rain.
No, seriously.
Don't you think so? :)
.............................
"Are you thsure thith ith a good idea, Annemarie?" James asks, struggling to achieve proper pronunciation despite his missing front teeth.
We're in the garden, collecting small bugs for a brand-new experiment.
"Calm down, Jamesey. Mama thinks we're in the tent."
"They might hear us."
I pause and look at him cautiously. "Who?"
"The night monsterth and the kapres. Daddy thsays they thsmoke big pipes and thsit in big treeth. Like that one."
"Kids? Where are you?"
I run through the house screaming bloody murder and dive inside the camp tent that stands pitched on the patio. He dives in after me.
The black of the night makes the tent's interior even darker than I'd like.
"You're the one who's always scared, anyways, meathead." I hiss.
"Then why did you ruuun?"
"Because our mamas are gonna hear us."
"They'll hear uth even more 'cause you thscreamed."
We bicker on for a while, until the sound of our mother's voices cut in.
"JAMES! ANNEMARIE!"
Quickly we slide under the tent blanket for refuge.
"I'm sorry for making you scream, Annie! I'm sorry sorry sorry..."
What a baby.
My mother rips the tent door open. She's standing there with James's mother, whose hands are planted on her hips. I've got the feeling that they're gonna start calling us by our whole names and stuff.
They don't, but they lecture us on a very consequential matter: that of digging through the garden without permission or a pair of rubber gloves. At night. In pajamas.
After they leave, I turn to James.
"I believe in your kapre," I whisper. "we should go hunt for it!"
He brightens. "Yeah! But maybe we should bring along flashlights. It'ths dark."
Nodding, I start to rummage through his backpack for a torchlight. Then suddenly he tugs on my arm, looking rather beseeching.
"Annemarie, promith me now that if the kapre gets uth, we'll help each other out. Okay?"
"Yes, and through anything else, too," I whisper back.
"Spit oath," he says. I reach my hand out to him, and he spits into it. I do the same-most gracious-favor for him, and we shake.
[Eugh. Slimy.]
He smiles at me, so I can see the gap where two new teeth will be sprouting out soon. And I smile back, because somehow, I know he isn't going to fail me.
.............................
Ah, only a true kababata knows just how important and meaningful a spit oath is. It's for life and for death, for sun and for rain.
No, seriously.
Don't you think so? :)
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Mango Tree
It was for tomorrow, honest-to-goodness tomorrow?! My knees started to feel weak. There had to be a way to get apples before classes tomorrow. I felt a bolt of electricity shoot through my spine. There was only one way.
James.
Quick as lightning, I grabbed the cordless phone that lay on the kitchen counter. My fingers flew through the familiar number.
"Hello?" a voice answered on the other end. I gulped.
"Hello, may I please speak to James..."
"It's me, dummy." The playfulness in his voice made my heart jump.
On the verge of tears, I asked if he had any apples.
"Apples?" he paused for a minute. "Meet me at our mango tree in ten minutes."
"You expect to get apples from a mango tree?"
Beep. I rolled my eyes.
Then I realized that I was to go to the tree. Our tree. Uneasily, I tugged at the hem of my shorts. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go, to that old place where James and I had spent our childhood afternoons. And why meet there?
But I had to go. Composing myself, I straightened up. If I didn't go, my cooking class groupmates would tan my hide, anyways.
.............................
The gentle evening breeze blew through my hair. I rested my hand on the tree's rough, old bark. Memories of long-ago summers rushed through my mind...
I felt a mango fall on my head. I looked up.
There, sitting on a branch, was James, cradling a brown bag filled with, yes, apples. I pouted, rubbing the top of my head. He reached for my hand, and pulled me up when I gave it. He settled the brown bag into my arms.
"Thanks," I said, truly grateful now. He grinned back at me.
Now, I looked around me. It was here in the shelter of these leaves that I grew up. It had kept me from the world when I cried, its whisper rocked me to sleep when I was tired. Why had I not come back to it? I felt a tear stream down my cheek.
He turned to me and gently brushed the tear away. "I was remembering, too."
Half-laughing, I asked, "Remembering what?"
He looked at me steadily and said, "Back then."
I felt a lump rise in my throat. I leaned my head against his shoulder. We sat like that for a while, lost in our own thoughts.
Then I looked at him. Really looked at him. I felt surprised when he returned my gaze.
I gave a strange little laugh. "Are you learning me by heart?" I teased.
He fell to an even deeper silence. "No," he said slowly. "I already have." He smiled at me.
I felt like crying. I hadn't seen that smile in such a long time. Now I knew that I missed those days here in the mango tree. Our mango tree, a long, tired time ago. How did my need for apples lead to this realization...?
"We'd better get on home," I said softly. He nodded, taking my hand as we leaped off the tree like before. I guess I hadn't lost my touch.
He looked up at the tree once more, my hand still in his.
"Some tree, huh?" he said wistfully.
I hugged him.
"Yeah... some tree."
James.
Quick as lightning, I grabbed the cordless phone that lay on the kitchen counter. My fingers flew through the familiar number.
"Hello?" a voice answered on the other end. I gulped.
"Hello, may I please speak to James..."
"It's me, dummy." The playfulness in his voice made my heart jump.
On the verge of tears, I asked if he had any apples.
"Apples?" he paused for a minute. "Meet me at our mango tree in ten minutes."
"You expect to get apples from a mango tree?"
Beep. I rolled my eyes.
Then I realized that I was to go to the tree. Our tree. Uneasily, I tugged at the hem of my shorts. I wasn't sure if I wanted to go, to that old place where James and I had spent our childhood afternoons. And why meet there?
But I had to go. Composing myself, I straightened up. If I didn't go, my cooking class groupmates would tan my hide, anyways.
.............................
The gentle evening breeze blew through my hair. I rested my hand on the tree's rough, old bark. Memories of long-ago summers rushed through my mind...
I felt a mango fall on my head. I looked up.
There, sitting on a branch, was James, cradling a brown bag filled with, yes, apples. I pouted, rubbing the top of my head. He reached for my hand, and pulled me up when I gave it. He settled the brown bag into my arms.
"Thanks," I said, truly grateful now. He grinned back at me.
Now, I looked around me. It was here in the shelter of these leaves that I grew up. It had kept me from the world when I cried, its whisper rocked me to sleep when I was tired. Why had I not come back to it? I felt a tear stream down my cheek.
He turned to me and gently brushed the tear away. "I was remembering, too."
Half-laughing, I asked, "Remembering what?"
He looked at me steadily and said, "Back then."
I felt a lump rise in my throat. I leaned my head against his shoulder. We sat like that for a while, lost in our own thoughts.
Then I looked at him. Really looked at him. I felt surprised when he returned my gaze.
I gave a strange little laugh. "Are you learning me by heart?" I teased.
He fell to an even deeper silence. "No," he said slowly. "I already have." He smiled at me.
I felt like crying. I hadn't seen that smile in such a long time. Now I knew that I missed those days here in the mango tree. Our mango tree, a long, tired time ago. How did my need for apples lead to this realization...?
"We'd better get on home," I said softly. He nodded, taking my hand as we leaped off the tree like before. I guess I hadn't lost my touch.
He looked up at the tree once more, my hand still in his.
"Some tree, huh?" he said wistfully.
I hugged him.
"Yeah... some tree."
Hallway Air
The door muffles out my classmates’ voices as I close it. How much a quick restroom break means to anyone else, I don’t know, but it means a lot to me. I’m more than thankful to escape from the chilly classroom right now, and I don’t care if I’m just getting out to empty my bladder.
I hear their voices swell and cease again as the door opens one more time. A dark-haired girl steps out and takes my hand in hers, smiling at me. Meet Tatienne, miss ultra-energy. Let’s just say that the words ‘too much caffeine’ pops into your head when you see her, and let’s just leave it that way, shall we?
A fresh gush of warm hallway air blows as a boy passes by. This strangely weak feeling comes over me as I feel the skin of my arm brush against his. “Hey shrimp,” he whispers into my ear as I walk by, running his hands through the blackness of his hair. I roll my eyes and mutter back, “Paper-face.” He leans against the door frame and winks, before disappearing into the room.
I must be quite red right now, because Tat is surpressing a squeal. The moment we enter the restroom, she grabs both of my hands and looks severely at me.
“What is it with you and James? I could absolutely positively feel sparks flying; I could feel the tension.”
She bounces up and down, up and down expactantly, fire lighting her eyes with an excited flame. I pull my hands back and pretend to fix my hair. “Nothing is,” I say simply. I can practically feel her stare drilling a hole into the back of my head. She clucks her tounge impatiently and turns to the mirror with a sigh. I know she knows I’m lying, but it’s more complicated than that.
Things between James and I weren’t always like this. There never was any tension; there never were any weird silences before. There was just us. I guess it’s not like that anymore; everything just changed more than I would have wanted them to.
As for Tat, I just… can’t tell her. Not yet.
One, she wouldn’t understand. It’s not that I don’t trust her, she’s just got way too much sugar in her system, see. She’s got this ‘tendency’ to let things slip.
Two, I know how I feel for James, but I don’t want anyone else to find out.
And three, most importantly…I really, really have to pee.
I hear their voices swell and cease again as the door opens one more time. A dark-haired girl steps out and takes my hand in hers, smiling at me. Meet Tatienne, miss ultra-energy. Let’s just say that the words ‘too much caffeine’ pops into your head when you see her, and let’s just leave it that way, shall we?
A fresh gush of warm hallway air blows as a boy passes by. This strangely weak feeling comes over me as I feel the skin of my arm brush against his. “Hey shrimp,” he whispers into my ear as I walk by, running his hands through the blackness of his hair. I roll my eyes and mutter back, “Paper-face.” He leans against the door frame and winks, before disappearing into the room.
I must be quite red right now, because Tat is surpressing a squeal. The moment we enter the restroom, she grabs both of my hands and looks severely at me.
“What is it with you and James? I could absolutely positively feel sparks flying; I could feel the tension.”
She bounces up and down, up and down expactantly, fire lighting her eyes with an excited flame. I pull my hands back and pretend to fix my hair. “Nothing is,” I say simply. I can practically feel her stare drilling a hole into the back of my head. She clucks her tounge impatiently and turns to the mirror with a sigh. I know she knows I’m lying, but it’s more complicated than that.
Things between James and I weren’t always like this. There never was any tension; there never were any weird silences before. There was just us. I guess it’s not like that anymore; everything just changed more than I would have wanted them to.
As for Tat, I just… can’t tell her. Not yet.
One, she wouldn’t understand. It’s not that I don’t trust her, she’s just got way too much sugar in her system, see. She’s got this ‘tendency’ to let things slip.
Two, I know how I feel for James, but I don’t want anyone else to find out.
And three, most importantly…I really, really have to pee.
After A While
Okay, so I haven't been posting a lot. So, I'll just put my compos here. They're usually on a burst of inspiration. :)
I'll start on the next post.
Till then!
xoxo
I'll start on the next post.
Till then!
xoxo
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