QUESTS: Post-fair affairs
4/16
On the way to Maginhawa street, my arm wrapped around in yours, we paced slow. My feet were killing me. I think I’d drop dead just looking at you. I, in my feeble attempt to keep this moment for myself, take out my phone. We talk. I hear myself performing for the camera. ‘Sir where are you taking me today?’ You point forward once we took a turn.
We cross the road. I needed not to worry about looking side to side. You were next to me. A bike neared us, from the south he did not stop at the pedestrian lane. You held your hand up. Led me out of the road through my shoulders as you complained and almost curse out the rider. I slide my hand in yours. Fearless attempt to fathom this reality. My mind cannot translate how a familiarity, the callouses in your thumb, could be true.
Where do you want to eat? You decide, my dear. Right there. I am in utter awe. Funny how firsts often feel like fiction, like something in novels I’d dog-ear. Then I ate that lugaw, I gave you a slice of the deep fried liempo, I overhear the other table’s conversation, the woman’s rules on dating, guy’s array of interests he clearly was projecting as ideal qualities. I yawn, I lean on your shoulder so that you wouldn’t see. I hold your hand with my other hand, fearless attempt to fathom this reality. You make life a lot like fiction. You make life a lot less like fiction.
I miss you.
