letter #3: anticipation

Miguel,

When you commented that my Saturday affair sounds like a romantic interlude were you waiting for me to reconfirm it or deny it? And whether I do either, would it have mattered to you? I have this wicked fantasy of tasting your jealousy. How do you deal with it? As I learned a lot about you, I realized there are still so many things to understand. And I had started thinking about powdery white sand and six o’ clock sunsets and stories about your childhood, your first heartbreak, your first big break, your embarrassing moments, your really lazy days, and the women you loved and loved you.

The green monster is listening, Miguel. And a sharp pang hit my heart and began crushing it. I thought about the women that love you, not so much on the women you loved. Those that loved you, did you ever love them back? Do you always love them back? And how easy it is for you to stop? We never talk about our love affairs; if we did touch the subject, it was merely on the passing. It is a part of an exercise as we bring the other to that chapter of our lives that we can never share. Who are they, and why did they love you?

Please do not panic. All these hints about love and jealousy and intimacy must have been choking you as much as it is consuming me. I am scared, Miguel, for I do not know what this is I feel anymore. This cannot be love for I know love as I know the back of my hand. I cannot name you; I do not have any name for you. A realization of this fact scares me like hell. I have never been unsure of myself before this. And looking at you, so unaware of this madness that is slowly killing me, is madness in itself.

“Perhaps, you can join us tonight.” You told me, a statement rather than an invitation.

I looked at you, “I wish I could.” I said, not really sure if there was really a reason why I couldn’t join you. “It would be fun, I bet. Hunting you down among sweaty, wasted bodies, snatching you from your date, racing you to shots of tequila, dance with you like there is no tomorrow either because I am too drunk to realize I cannot dance or because you are too drunk to notice I cannot dance, and perhaps, have the luxury of you nursing my fucking headache while we take a lousy shot of getting into a level headed, intellectual conversation.”

You laughed, Miguel. One of the many good memories I have of you laughing. Your eyes closed momentarily as the sound of your voice vibrated in the room. I was staring at you; watching as your happiness made me lighter, brighter. “I do not have a date.” You told me. “And I would love it if you could hunt me down.”

And I didn’t know then if I should literally take your statement as it is. A few things were soon cleared though; that you didn’t really have a date, and that I didn’t really hunt you down. We talked more, building an encyclopedia of each other’s lives over shots of tequila. We talked about our friends and how yours always stray away from you every time they have relationships with some girls and how they come back when it is all over. I told you about how Filipinos tend to always get the approval of their friends and loved ones on the people they are dating; and that it is a big factor to consider weighing the relationship. You kidded me that you should be careful with my friends then.

You always play cute with me, Miguel. And I love it.

We didn’t dance, though, but we held hands. And in that few seconds that we did, I fancy you pressed your hands on mine and I wondered if the electricity that vibrated was purely an overflow from me or was it your making too? It wasn’t clear to me. What happened between our hands was entirely different from what was happening in the bigger reality. Us, standing there, yelling at the bands, our attention eyed to what was happening with the rest of the world.

You did ask me if I want to hop on your back so you can carry me on your shoulders. I didn’t know if you were serious or if you were joking. And if I did say yes, would it have changed everything? You asked me three times, and in all those questions, I shook my head.

I was thinking now, Miguel, would it have changed if I said yes?

author’s note: The questions one asks oneself, especially on the one that concerns something that was not done and cannot be done again because the moments have passed by forever, is merely a cry-out plea of getting an assurance that one did the right thing of not doing it. If she did hop on his back, it could have triggered change. But whatever it is, they can only subjectively deduct from the established facts. No one exactly knows what it could have been. But he did hope she would have said yes. If she said yes, things would have been clearer to him. He doesn’t know what these things are, but he felt it. And that opportunity, having been offered thrice and turned down, passes them by forever.

letter #2: discovery
letter #1: birth

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