freefall is a section in weight of words for masturbatory, practice writing, random quotes and pieces of poetry. similar to a tattoo where an artist sketches an outline first before the very illustration, freefall is an outline of either beautiful or monstrous sets of words to come.
“so, what’s your problem?”
“nothing. i don’t want to talk about it.”
“you mean, after 7 years of not meeting up, and then getting an urgent text from you about a problem, and after dragging me all the way here, you shrug and say, nothing?”
“i wanted to just be with you, forget about things.”
“is this about your internship, pharma subject, your parents?”
i look at her glass of water, see a tinge of her lip gloss on the glass’s edge. if i can just drink from that same glass, i can kiss her. any contact, it’s fine with me. sigh, i am such a repressed maniac. she hasn’t changed, still spouts brusque words, her automatic insults to other diners, the lingering kiss on my cheek for our “hello’s”, the full red of her lips.
“okay. i get it, you don’t want to talk about it.”
“my friends are in bora, i didn’t get to go since i have med mission scheduled tomorrow, which was cancelled last-minute.”
“you can follow them.”
“by the time i board the plane, they’d be on their way back to manila.”
“is the bora trip the one bugging you?”
“why are you so blunt?”
“i don’t know. must be the second-hand smoke. you know i don’t sit in any smoker’s area.”
how should i know? we haven’t talked in years.
“but there’s no place for us inside.”
that phrase, it’s so ancient. the last time i heard it was from my own lips when i portrayed ebenezer in our grade school play. she got that habit from reading my book reports when she helped me clean my room. she’s the only one who says it with authority, as if those wordswere made by dickens just for her, sending shivers down my spine. the shiver feels a bit odd and funny and threatening.
“i need to work on a project, so i gotta go asap. when you’re done with your chicken, of course.”
“that’s fine by me. i can be lounging in bora now, but no. fate is cruel.”
yes, it is.
she drops me off, offers her cheek, and i lean closer, like a goddamn pious child about to kiss a saint’s feet.
i walk with my head reeling in distress. i can set up a blog merely for giving advice on remaining friends with someone whom you didn’t get to own in a relationship, sort of a limbo relationship, a big what-if, an M.U., as what my generation terms it, the type that drives you to choose “It’s Complicated” in Friendster. the point of the blog would be to save readers from heart ache, to recognize a deadend as a deadend, to look at holes as too small for a revolutionary entry, to know that even if your head reels, your heart is too shredded to even hold up a hand. and she will be the only link in that blog, and her comments would be too tragic and too painful i will just delete the entire blog. that’s how much it hurts, that’s how much it will remain hurting, you just decide to erase things.
bah, humbug. those words again, from my eternal last song syndrome, my bold saint who has the power to turn me into a door mat, a coaster, a transistor radio, into whatever she desires.