The first week
Dear J.,
I saw you earlier.
I saw you while I was leaning against the wall, at our usual spot, where you met me last Monday and swept me off to your place, thus saving me from sure awkward conversation with some person we both did not like. I was sure you'd already left by that time; after all, times like these, you always went straight to the shuttle terminal.
My heart skipped a beat. I know that gait. I know that walk. I know that blouse and that hair and those pants and that bag. It was you, after all, but crossing the street to the McDonald's that was going through renovation. You walked ahead. Perhaps you saw me, perhaps you didn't. Perhaps you didn't care at all. I couldn't blame you.
I decided to follow. By the time I turned the corner, you were nowhere; lost in one of those crowds, getting into the shuttle, turning your phone off. I stopped at the 7-11, wanted a cigarette, then realized that I have to be strong enough to say no, then walked back.
It's funny that I write these love letters whenever we have a fight. Or that you have to write me one (or a dozen!) first, then I write back. These letters are, in varying degrees, apologetic. It's either I turn off my music player or I listen to something sad. Then I tilt my head up so that the tears won't fall. It's been that way a lot of times. But today, I won't succumb to that urge.
The first week is always the busiest. That first week of December was the most magical. In between exchange rates and cash-versus-card expenditure reports, I saw you. I told myself, There goes a jazz tune, and listened. I still listen, you know; only the station has changed and now it's Julie London and not Miles Davis.
I picked that spot earlier because that's where I listen to Miles Davis while waiting for you. Other times would have seen me with a cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other, trying to keep the heat out. Today, I had a jacket on. That jacket you gave me that first night.
By this time, you should probably be on your way home. Around this time, work would be suspended while I wait for your next message. In a few minutes or so, you should be in Shangri-La, where we've logged so many miles on foot. In an hour, you would be home, and I'd be waiting for you to send me a message.
I went to work earlier today, hoping that things fall into place and I'd go to your place and we can talk things over. Maybe today isn't the right time, nor tonight, nor tomorrow; maybe it is next week, or the next month. Maybe I'm meant to fail after all. But remember this one thing. I am here. I am not going anywhere. This is something that I deserve and I won't protest it. I don't know if I still have the right to another chance, because you've given me too many second chances already, but I still ask you for another chance anyway. Right or none.
Please.
Sorry,
J.
I saw you earlier.
I saw you while I was leaning against the wall, at our usual spot, where you met me last Monday and swept me off to your place, thus saving me from sure awkward conversation with some person we both did not like. I was sure you'd already left by that time; after all, times like these, you always went straight to the shuttle terminal.
My heart skipped a beat. I know that gait. I know that walk. I know that blouse and that hair and those pants and that bag. It was you, after all, but crossing the street to the McDonald's that was going through renovation. You walked ahead. Perhaps you saw me, perhaps you didn't. Perhaps you didn't care at all. I couldn't blame you.
I decided to follow. By the time I turned the corner, you were nowhere; lost in one of those crowds, getting into the shuttle, turning your phone off. I stopped at the 7-11, wanted a cigarette, then realized that I have to be strong enough to say no, then walked back.
It's funny that I write these love letters whenever we have a fight. Or that you have to write me one (or a dozen!) first, then I write back. These letters are, in varying degrees, apologetic. It's either I turn off my music player or I listen to something sad. Then I tilt my head up so that the tears won't fall. It's been that way a lot of times. But today, I won't succumb to that urge.
The first week is always the busiest. That first week of December was the most magical. In between exchange rates and cash-versus-card expenditure reports, I saw you. I told myself, There goes a jazz tune, and listened. I still listen, you know; only the station has changed and now it's Julie London and not Miles Davis.
I picked that spot earlier because that's where I listen to Miles Davis while waiting for you. Other times would have seen me with a cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other, trying to keep the heat out. Today, I had a jacket on. That jacket you gave me that first night.
By this time, you should probably be on your way home. Around this time, work would be suspended while I wait for your next message. In a few minutes or so, you should be in Shangri-La, where we've logged so many miles on foot. In an hour, you would be home, and I'd be waiting for you to send me a message.
I went to work earlier today, hoping that things fall into place and I'd go to your place and we can talk things over. Maybe today isn't the right time, nor tonight, nor tomorrow; maybe it is next week, or the next month. Maybe I'm meant to fail after all. But remember this one thing. I am here. I am not going anywhere. This is something that I deserve and I won't protest it. I don't know if I still have the right to another chance, because you've given me too many second chances already, but I still ask you for another chance anyway. Right or none.
Please.
Sorry,
J.