A Tale of Two Sissies
True to its name, Loyola Heights actually felt like it was situated on top of something as the cool breeze flew past the curiously styled hairdos of the college students out drinking al fresco. The Katipunan traffic was as expected, somehow overflowing with cars without managing to be congested. It was a little past 11:30 at night and after four packs of Marlboro lights and three pitchers of Zombie per table, everyone was feeling the buzz.
A strangely effeminate waiter plopped down two bottles of Red Horse on top of the corner table, the quietest one in the area, amidst the little pockets of unruliness that somehow managed to give the area a paradox of organized chaos.
That particular table was almost a mundane sight: a guy and a girl, who seemingly embodied that tired old cliché of awkward silence between lovers in a rut, though neither one was in a rut and only one was in love with the other. A more apt term would be friends-under-pressure, with just the faintest recognition of a past warmth hovering over them. It wasn’t the comfortable silence bur rather one of nostalgic depression and regret, a silence you’d rather break.
“You look bored,” said the girl with short hair who deserves a prize for doing so.
“You think?” the boy replied as he took a hefty swig from his bottle.
“Ok look. This is not going well. Let me give you two options: Either we A) sit here in a torturous silence or B) we try to small talk our way through it until we hit on something that interests us. Deal?”
Silence.
“Option A then?”
The boy, whose messed up hair and messed up clothes seemingly reflected the messed up situation, took a cigarette in hand and took a drag, trying to suffocate the words of reassurance and hatred stuck inside his throat. He loved the drama and hated it at the same time. He was the poster boy for the sheltered youth who loved to magnify little pockets of excitement and sorrow in their lives just to see if their hearts still work.
But this time, it was different. It wasn’t the drama that silenced him but a realization that for the very first time, there was a lack of one. And it frightened him. As the girl’s stare seared into his memory, the boom of laughter from the other table jolted him out of his pathetic trance.
“If you’re gonna be like that, I’m going to go,” says the girl.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Bye.”
He doesn’t reply. They both stand up, ditching their cigarettes on the floor and parting ways without speaking, without blinking. The girl with short hair enters the car and slams the door, leaving the boy with messed up hair with only his beer bottle and a dreary indication that he no longer matters.
He stared at the mistreated cigarette on the floor as the car sped away, blowing past the refuse and garbage of the day before. And he stood there on the curb not knowing what to do. As morning stars settled down on the now deserted avenue, he fidgets in his place and plops down the pavement, imagining a slender silhouette of a girl with short hair. Speeding away. And the overpowering but rapidly fleeting desire to follow her to the ends of the world.
A strangely effeminate waiter plopped down two bottles of Red Horse on top of the corner table, the quietest one in the area, amidst the little pockets of unruliness that somehow managed to give the area a paradox of organized chaos.
That particular table was almost a mundane sight: a guy and a girl, who seemingly embodied that tired old cliché of awkward silence between lovers in a rut, though neither one was in a rut and only one was in love with the other. A more apt term would be friends-under-pressure, with just the faintest recognition of a past warmth hovering over them. It wasn’t the comfortable silence bur rather one of nostalgic depression and regret, a silence you’d rather break.
“You look bored,” said the girl with short hair who deserves a prize for doing so.
“You think?” the boy replied as he took a hefty swig from his bottle.
“Ok look. This is not going well. Let me give you two options: Either we A) sit here in a torturous silence or B) we try to small talk our way through it until we hit on something that interests us. Deal?”
Silence.
“Option A then?”
The boy, whose messed up hair and messed up clothes seemingly reflected the messed up situation, took a cigarette in hand and took a drag, trying to suffocate the words of reassurance and hatred stuck inside his throat. He loved the drama and hated it at the same time. He was the poster boy for the sheltered youth who loved to magnify little pockets of excitement and sorrow in their lives just to see if their hearts still work.
But this time, it was different. It wasn’t the drama that silenced him but a realization that for the very first time, there was a lack of one. And it frightened him. As the girl’s stare seared into his memory, the boom of laughter from the other table jolted him out of his pathetic trance.
“If you’re gonna be like that, I’m going to go,” says the girl.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Bye.”
He doesn’t reply. They both stand up, ditching their cigarettes on the floor and parting ways without speaking, without blinking. The girl with short hair enters the car and slams the door, leaving the boy with messed up hair with only his beer bottle and a dreary indication that he no longer matters.
He stared at the mistreated cigarette on the floor as the car sped away, blowing past the refuse and garbage of the day before. And he stood there on the curb not knowing what to do. As morning stars settled down on the now deserted avenue, he fidgets in his place and plops down the pavement, imagining a slender silhouette of a girl with short hair. Speeding away. And the overpowering but rapidly fleeting desire to follow her to the ends of the world.
posted by Juan Miguel Sevilla at 10:45 AM
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