LATE NIGHT SCRAMBLED EGGS

LATE NIGHT SCRAMBLED EGGS

By: Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

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The cliché that “the best things in life are free” must have surfaced from a general nodding of heads from people who have been in love or have experienced love. In my experience, it was him suddenly lying on my lap one lazy afternoon with just a book and a fruit shake in hand at Ayala Triangle. We had light conversations in between his naps and my reading, the feeling that those conversations gave me was the same feeling you get when you are used to eating burgers and red meat and you suddenly shift your diet to vegetable salads and sliced fruits. We sat on that spot until the moon was gazing at the world with lazy eyes, hesitant to leave its spot but itching to end its shift like a perfume sales man on a slow day or a prisoner guard. That day, the jokes we shared about couples in Luneta Park or Manila Bay became ubiquitous, we understood them all of a sudden because we were in the moment – we were in their shoes, in their state of mind. What happened that afternoon gave me an illusion and hope that maybe I could spend the last of my years with this man, on an old porch, sitting on a rocking chair, white hair, thick glasses, a large floral dress and a knitting project in my hands.

 

Recent developments made it clear that those romantic misgivings were indeed illusions and false hopes. Only the both of us hold the secrets of our affair and its demise, I always say our love grew in cunning, in silence and in quiet. As much as I would have wanted to share our story in full animation and gusto, I cannot bring myself to do that. My mind and heart trails to lucid moments of torrid kissing and tight grabs of once unknown places in my body that I am left in a resigned mood, left to the overwhelming gush of longing those passionate moments bring — those once unknown places in my body that became the territory of his hands and postmarked by the sweet juice of his kisses. I hug myself at the memory. I had to pause my writing this hug myself at the thought…

 

The thoughts of him bring vivid sensory recollections. I can still feel the reverberation of his voice in my ears when he tries to make a point, or the sound of his soft snoring wand heavy breathing after a tiring day. His eyes, seductive and expressive, sheds a fine light when he is engrossed in what he is reading or when we enjoy a morning stroll and the first rays of sun passes through it in a diagonal fashion. His eyes were the color of grape seeds; they were always teary and sad, like newly varnished mahogany. The deep pools of brown in his eyes came out even more when he wears his black scarf, he wears that scarf and he looks so regal and feels cozier to hug. His hugs say a lot about his feelings, most of the time it makes me feel like a starfish being taken to deeper seas by a big wave, a brainless starfish not knowing what to do. That feeling of engulfment is eased when I feel the details of his thumb mark on my cheek and all worries and woes melt into a blur – as if the world is so simple and nothing can ever hurt me. I miss the mossy smell of his apartment and the very distinct manly smell which sticks to his bed that I keep whiffing off his pillows and sheets when he is away, sometimes even when he is just taking a shower. I randomly get a whiff of his Issey Miyake perfume when walking at a mall or the streets and that is when I badly miss him, that is the height of my sadness and I feel all of a sudden that the buildings or the crowd would eat me a live – very nauseating, my legs throb and weaken and feel like it is giving away.

 

That same crowd that used to double over when we walk the streets, that gave a slight smile when overhearing our little arguments or funny takes on random things over dinner or drinks, that same crowd that stared when he pulled me in for a kiss good-bye and that followed me with its eyes on mornings when I have just emerged from his place with my hair in a rut and in man clothes – the crowd that gave justice to walking the walk of shame in those mornings.

 

His place, his apartment is the backdrop to the memories we have created together. That dingy old apartment: where quiz papers from fourth grade with perfect scores and smileys in red ink are scattered along laced panties and used condoms. A wooden ashtray that fills up as the night deepens and the morning enters, dusty books with frail pages seemingly salvaged and dried from a rainy day and an un-stringed Fender acoustic guitar that sits on its corner were a few of its remarkable features. His place was my refuge from storms and graying skies complete with hot chocolate and slow rainy day sex, my secret place for watching movies and fucked up documentaries that cause my impatience to go home from the office, his place was the breeding ground for our love and eventual pains with its four walls privy to our whispers. The same four walls banged by neighbors when we have raucous sex, the same four walls that are stained black from his cooking.

 

I lie about not eating scrambled eggs ever. I ate scrambled eggs because it reminds me of post-coital breakfast food he cooks deep in the night. It was cooked to perfection, a little milk and just enough salt that it turns out fluffy and tasting exactly the way I want it to taste.

 

Late night scrambled eggs that have been demoted to late night scrambled thoughts…

chillinglovers

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QUIET

QUIET

By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

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I prefer to remain silent about us, to not divulge the love ensuing between us two people very much alike and at the same time very much distant. Our love is the low flame on a stove, safe yet warming…

But at the same time, on good days with you, it is an influx of unidentified feelings that cannot be encapsulated in words conjured up by man to make another understand, all I know is that it is a conflagration… On good days.

On bad days, on normal days, I am adamant to feel the other side, the darker side because I have grown in the fear of hurting and losing myself again, I am inept of emotion, or maybe I prefer to be that way — unfeeling and oblivious.

As much as I want to talk about you, brag about you and tell them of the moments we share that make good stories, I prefer to hush and keep it to my memory… It is a beautiful secret…. And we are sheathed by their unknowing because what is habit and what is ordinary is often time missed – they will never notice because we are just together, a placement in the eternal parabola of time, a streak to the blind side. Seeming ordinary like a common thing that goes unnoticed in our everyday, like a toothbrush, a towel or a wrist watch that when lost would be a disturbance to the natural flow of things – that is our love.

P.S. Today, like the long days that have passed without you, I realize that the pain is losing you is remarkably different from the ones that I have felt in the past. Pain was one full blast of emotions that erupt from a break-up and recedes away as time passes. But the pain of being away from you is one that goes on a steady crescendo with time’s passing. I wonder if it would stop at a certain point. 

 

The Silence Of Our Love

THE SILENCE OF OUR LOVE

By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

The silence of our love is like the first rays of sun that illuminate the earth and dries the dew that sits on leaves right after the earth wept itself to sleep in the darkness. It is the silence of a soft slumber and the secret of cathedral walls. Our love is the kind that goes unnoticed in a crowd of equally forgettable faces. However lethargic or gray that may sound, it is as complex and as robust as the lives owned by those forgettable faces. Unnoticed and mysterious as it is, they might never divulge the secret of us – like a sunken treasure in the deepest pockets of the ocean. The innocent and unintended silence lends to its beauty – that we may go on in the chaos and hurly-burly of this world and still smile – just us two knowing that we have each other. Just us two knowing that when a big meteor hits our planet or when the sun suffers an immediate death – we would hold each other’s hand and die in the silence of our love.

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