(… Last Blow continued)
It was a cold November night in the city. The urbanity of it all got to me… and to you, too. I was under the decorative lights of Ayala Triangle, waiting for you. You told me to wait for you there – to fix that which shattered in two.
For months hitherto, we had been at each other’s throats – demanding this and that, forgetting what we first tried to uphold. I remember those livid and bitter messages on the phone. It was not like us anymore. Did we really talk like that? What have become of us?
We were fire and rain…
For hours I have waited, so you could tell me about Celine, whose eyes dazzled you and made you think too much. “Let’s ‘cool it off’. I need time and space…” you told me. There were Celine’s eyes that made you post on Facebook and tell your peers, “I can’t take my mind off of her…”
I knew that you were not referring to me.
For a moment there, I lost you. Your face – I realized – belonged to the throng of people that whizzed past static me during that one dreadful night. Men in slacks, khakis, chinos, leather, ties… and some muskiness aside; women in flowy garbs, chiffon dresses, high-heeled shoes, bum-hugging pencil skirts… Nude to Persian-red lips… whiff of Eau de parfum in Seduction, Scandalous, Temptation and good old Cherry…