Friday, February 20, 2009
Before attending my Saturday class, I visited the family corporation purposed at sharing Mariliese’ homemade cookies to the ones manning the kiosk, in this case Lette and Leo. We were munching on our last chips when Mr. Spectacular appeared in view. Alarmed that he would throw a fit for not having been able to taste the goodies, I offered to treat the siblings to breakfast, to which they readily consented.
While his elder siblings were choosing sunnyside up (which the dear canteen owner calls "upside down") and fried tinapa with fresh tomatoes, chili and soy sauce, Mr. Spectacular rubbed my back and whispered, “Sir, na-miss kita a.” We weren’t able to see each other the night before, so probably he was just reciprocating my message of ardent longing that night. I smiled sheepishly, for if I so much as utter a word I might start reciting any of Sappho’s love poems.
We boys were about to finish eating when Lette began rummaging through her bag. I saw that its contents were a motley array of various articles including a wallet, notebook, hairbrush and the like. She seemed apologetic for the distraction she was creating, and then she fished out what she claims as any girl’s two most important accessories: lipstick and cake foundation.
While at the subject of searching, Mr. Spectacular himself browsed for something in my TV phone. Confident that he would discover nothing outrageous except for the wallpaper and screensaver featuring the pictures I downloaded from his homepage, I let him check the images. Someone’s picture caught his attention, upon which case he declared, “Sir, kilala ko ito a. Kilalang-kilala ko,” referring to a former boylet who resembles Aldred Gatchalian. He said that the boylet, a schoolmate of his, was the erstwhile boyfriend of his ex. They are in good speaking terms, though; in fact, they are sort of buddies who comfortably joke with each other despite the common romantic link that’s the girl. His brother nodded in agreement.
Thinking of N and the boylet who are inextricably connected to Mr. Spectacular and me, I silently swore yet again—right there before my partly consumed egg and smoked fish—that I will be saintly good before conspiratorial destiny goes full blast in unbraiding my karmic dues.