Blog Carnival. There is something wonderful in all things short-lived: it does not last long enough for the magic to wear off.
Those fleeting moments become the memories we tuck in the pockets of remembrance. Those are the same stories we fish out on nostalgic drunken nights to share to a friend or two.
Once upon a time, I allowed myself some recklessness. Fully aware that I wasn’t to be forever young, I took advantage of a time where I was at my most palatable. hah.
Let us pretend I wrote this drunk.
Noting her toned arms, the first thing he asked her was what sport she play. The first thing she asked him was this:
“Have you ever drunk Absinthe?”
The answer was no. Not only was he a devout Christian, he also was a sports buff. In a span of just a few minutes, she found out that he played the piano and was a tennis hero in his native Cebu.
It wasn’t everyday that Pinoys figure in a downtown backpacker hostel in the Southern Hemisphere– a mixed dorm room, at that– so she threw a dinner invitation in the air.
A saucer of takoyaki later, they found themselves in a late night liquor shop raid for that evasive bottle of Absinthe.
They ended up in an acquaintance’s inner city apartment, jamming with an acoustic band, speaking pretend-Russian in between.
“I have not been kissed for a long time, ” I said, confident under the influence of alcohol.
“Me too.” For really, there was nothing much that needed saying.
She stormed out the room right after that drunken kiss; before he could ever have the chance to realise what was happening.
They attempted to hit the clubs, but were too wasted to be allowed entry, so they headed back to the hostel
Back in the dorm room the next morning, he begged for explanation for what had transpired the previous night. She acted with nonchalance, pretending not to remember a thing.
The next time they saw each other, they agreed to check out a nearby amusement park. Another guy won her a stuffed toy. But he tailed her strategically, attempting chunks of conversation while lining up for rides.
The cornmush worked; she was female after all.
On the way back to the hostel, he told her about a previous visit to a butterfly garden in Bohol, a friend who committed suicide, a dying violinist and a Japanese ex-girlfriend. She gave him a faint smile.
Out of nowhere, he took off his scarf and gave it to her. “Keep this, whatever happens.”
She hated it when people pour so much of themselves; when she is left with something that would warrant remembering long after things have ended. She hated it that romance stood a chance. Love was not supposed to squeeze itself in random backpacker hostel hook ups. She was not supposed to feel.
Once back in the dorm, they sat on opposite bunks. The rest of the room drowned in alcohol, oblivious to the looming attempt in the air, to stall what was supposedly fleeting, transient. Eventually, the night pulled them closer
in a whisper,
in a kiss.
small pecks at first,
then lingering ones.
The universe spiraled, senses unified—
technicolor truths, bokeh-ed reality
Her world, his world,
into the narrow, rectangular tangibility
of a squeaky bunk bed.
“I love you, Rain.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
This post is part-fiction. Any resemblance to certain people, living or dead, is your problem and not mine. Photos attached to this article may or may not be associated with the non-fiction part of the story.