Seeing Iris

Men will deny it vigorously, of course, but trust me, they’re worse snoops and gossips than women. The hub is no exemption. I told him to drop me off at i1 in IT Park, come Tuesday evening. I’m finally going to see The Iris in the flesh. What does the hub do? He tags along! He says he wants to see her, too.

That was how we ended up in i1’s Bo’s, my little family and I. Alex wanted to see The Iris as well. That little city dweller, Iris, must have found it weird a little barrio showed up to see her. She ought to be thankful we didn’t show up with a rusty old trombone in tow.

IT Park amazes me. I gape every time I pass by IT Park. That place looks like a little piece of New York City - cut up, dried, and then shipped to the Philippines. The people walking about in IT Park are a chic bunch. They’re fascinating, these people! They walk with purpose, talk forcefully, and look very trendy as they wield ciggies and jab the air with them to, say, punctuate a statement or just flick ashes off. Oh, and not only does Iris work in IT Park, she looks like she belongs there, too. The jeans she wore clung to her curves with porn-ish precision. She is lovely, this goddess, and Wett, Alex, and I are glad we finally saw her in person.

Dearest Rose, I know you and Paul will be good to her, but please don’t be soooo good to her she wouldn’t want to come home anymore.

Thursday, In Photos

Wake me up when this work week is over.

Strange/ Beautiful

She will always be a little strange, this girl named Mariel. We are not biologically related but even now, even after seven years of separation, we remain connected by an umbilical cord far stronger than biological.

As freshmen at university, we had lots of fun tearing away at each other.

Her: Your bucktooth makes you look like a rabbit.
I: It’s my lucky charm. Don’t start. I might start describing how your odd facial shape makes you look like a mango.

Her: You shouldn’t have tagged along. You’d only disgrace yourself. You can’t carry a tune.
I: I don’t force myself to, like you do.

Her: Why is Arthur Y. walking you to class?
I: He, like many others, worships me. Why shouldn’t he walk me to class?
Her: Of course he worships you! You’re the only one who gives him hope he looks normal, aside from his mother, naturally.

I: (after seeing her new hairdo) Congratulations! You now look like a little boy.
Her: Do not pretend to be an authority on good taste. You are from Bohol.

Mariel and I, we still verbally cut each other up these days, but it’s no longer as enjoyable. We’re older now; we’ve come to realize what a truly wonderful person the other is, so our insults ring hollow even to our ears. Whenever we swap insults, they’re always half-meant. So, they don’t sting at all, and some days, they’re not even fun.

How do I describe Mariel? She would sooner perform self-mutilation than admit she loves me. But she didn’t talk for years to a girl she’s been friends with since kindergarten, after this girl dated my first boyfriend while the guy and I are still together.

Mariel works for a bank now. On weekends, she teaches Business English at a university in Davao. She gloatingly told me the male demographic of her classes has registered a hundred percent attendance since summer classes started. Just recently, she signed up for mixed martial arts. She placed third in a local tournament. "Not bad," her sensei said, "for someone who’s only been doing it for three weeks."

Ah yes, I have always suspected she has a natural talent for beating people up. I look forward to seeing this strange girl again tomorrow. We will have our feet and hands french-tipped, and should the attendant ever scrape on a cuticle too roughly, I promise to stop Mariel from beating the girl up to a pulp.

An Exercise in Seeing

Shall I tell you what I saw?
Rain-soaked windows, a woman selling
pan de sal,
cigarettes flickering like strobes of light.
Go ahead and tell me I
should have looked at other things: speckled stones,
a piebald dog,
windows coming to life,
cigarettes gleaming with discontent, a
woman hawking sorrow and a basket of bread.
I lied, you know. I saw these, too, but I
wanted you to to tell me
you saw me, too.

Last Class

We could, perhaps,
teach each other lots of things:
songs, the silky vastness of thighs,
the sounds fingers make as
they entwine,
the buttery feel of skin
on skin,
pressed so close there’s little room for
secrets.
We could, perhaps,
teach each other many things:
the placement of moles, for instance,
or the way we prefer our coffee,
or
why we both keep our phones
furtively stashed away. There’s
a better universe for us, I said: one where
we don’t etch secrets like
ours on sheets and skin. But you
were too
scarred, and bitter,
and the only universe you know is
the one we now have.
I’ve only two lessons left
for you now: my name, and how
to slip away on a humid May afternoon.
Goodbye, my love.