that night after chiggy's

(First of six parts, for lack of better things to do)

Weeks and weeks before that night in Chiggy’s, I took time to watch CNN and made some remark which was a little off my usual downbeat commentary about life. And it went: ‘Holy crap, I might be flying to Cali in a few years.’ Not that I think it’s a better place, with all the talks of Wallstreet crumbling and the rest of the US diving into recession. Subsequently, I flipped to E! and there was Ellen DeGeneres, long time girlfriend, Portia de Rossi, with the bells and doves and the paparazzi. I thought that was just, wow!

So today, thanks to another three hours stand-by time and the rest of the terminal and slow mo, I’m thinking, ‘It’s gonna be Canada after all.’ I cringe at just the thought of letting go of a glamorous career in PR (at least at face value) to take a secretarial position in an indisputably unglamorous place. I was—you see—willing to do that for you.

Please do remember your shameless admittance that, that night after Chiggy’s was the night you fell pretty damn hard—for, well, yours truly. Almost four o’clock in the morning with rest of the group still knock out drunk, I first ran my fingers across your back and smelled your hair and tasted your lips that were pursed, shut tight, quivering—and you were stiff as a corpse though your eyes were perfectly open. Sure was more freaky than sweet. I said I like you, and you kept asking, “Are you drunk?”

No, I wasn’t drunk. For lack of space we shared one pillow, laid in our stomach, our faces real close. All I did was squeeze your hand and there we missed every chance of getting decent sleep. When Val finally rose up and almost fell off the bed finding her mobile, we knew, everybody’s alarm clock is going to be sounding soon. And being a good host that I should be, especially in your presence, I got up to make breakfast.

You looked so hurried to leave my house, then, saying you got work to do. Being in advertising, I understand, is glitzy on one side, and a total pain in the ass on the other. So we all had breakfast—and you guys left a little before noon.

That Saturday, six in the evening, your call woke me up. Instead of an invitation for a second date, you gave me snuffles and sobs, and it didn’t take long before you totally burst out crying. And your story went, “I lost a bunch of ad materials for client approval, and they’re supposed to be up the following week.” Baby, that’s what you’d get for working on a Saturday. Despite yesterday’s smell of cigarettes and beer, I again broke my vow of not leaving the house without a shower.

Too late, telling me not to go. At about 6:20 I was already running for the train, dying to get to Glorietta. Your greeting when I finally got to that god forsaken corner of the walkway where you were sitting was, “You look so girly,” while looking at my metallic doll shoes. “Thank you,” I said, while in my mind I really meant, “What the hell, man! Would you mind asking your friend (who was sitting beside you) to give me some smoke, because you freaked me out again.”

…to be continued…