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Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Unvarnished Truth

Short, Continuation
Installment #3: Unvarnished Truth (finale)

 I recollect the first time my eyes laid on her. Every break, I used to dine alone in a bourgeois café established unpopularly along the university belt; it was less nestled by boisterous people and so a limpid place to purge time. Daily, I indulge my palate with Curry and Java whilst the remaining time is mine to grow callous in my seat. One fine day, as I was about to finish my routine, the meek chimes from the door belled. My eyes, as usual, is abnormally sync to  who goes in and out of the café. I noticed this fagged looking girl, clumsy in every detail as she dropped the book considering all puissance were on her fingertips, engrossed texting. And in the time she picked it up, stuffs in her bag slipped out. She was awkwardly a turn off and so I decided to depart without even looking where she seated.

The following day, she did not show up; I did not expect her to come back. On the other day, she was already perched when I came. Staring at her closely: plain earrings, dyed hair, faint makeup, the badge in her uniform, and the book she was reading by Tom Porter, no doubt an architect student not far my institution. I requested a different entrée this time, but at the same charge. There was nothing fancy about her, not even fairly ravishing except for the dint on the sides of her cheeks. I wonder what her name is. As she closed her book about to leave, her surname inked sidewise, Cordova. I finally unveiled something about her, at least.

Days had passed and I figured out she would only visit to lunch thrice  a week. Increasingly, I was becoming an espionage to her. Every so often I would slyly tail her the moment she vacate the café. I did not care if she sees me, or else I would merely feign that were traversing the same route. Make-or-break, I irrevocably decided to introduce myself, I did not just know how.

One noontide, I saw her making way to the café. It was a terrible day for buckets of water come down from sky. She tried to cover herself with a book but failed so. Clumsy as ever, I whispered. Today is my day. I, on the abreast side of the street, with an umbrella amassing all the guts reserved, fleetly saved her from full-blown catastrophe. As gentle as a mist dress, I opened the door for her. This time, we shared the same table. We gibbered endlessly as the rain plummet unceasingly and decided to absent ourselves from respective class. Her name was Agnes and the rest is how we became lovers.

Truth rifted me. Forthwith, the moments we shared turned oblivious. We were once admirably a couplet—conjoined sensibly with single mind—stuck impassioned incessantly, much resembling bacteria that will surpass lifetimes. However, as burning metamorphose substance to flume and with hair physiologically turning gray, so as  nothing by any chance will undo us. She had found her own bliss with.

That December, where holy angels gamboled above the heavens with ever lavishly cascading harmony, I caroused the eve deeming likely to shun the travail that poisoned me—liquor had never stood a luck. While walking falteringly along the forsaken pavement of Don Galo, as Harold Crick coaxed his author not to end him and his story, I glanced beyond invoking to hear me. To trees and street lamps, I looked conventionally a peasant scum but a bystander would claim me demented.

Late that night, our door was opened and all lights were on as if a gala of squandering energy is being celebrated. I caught her weeping in our rented apartment. Her head leaning on someone else‘s shoulder, probably the man she was with early this morning, then, I teased her with doubt why she never content. She sobbingly mumbled to my mother, “Anthony will be missed.”

All of the sudden, the life I knew evolved to a dark piece of ember. All the while, I had been thinking I was still Anthony, a boy who hardly love but loved. I looked around and noticed a sublime white casket laid in our common room, adjacent to it is a favorite old picture of mine when I was eleven and a bouquet of lavender Tulips with a pearly sash saying condolences—I no longer exist.

Despite the baffling agony, I tried to retrace myself back to where I should be. It was when I was in the jeepney. My soul, unknowing my demise, still hoped that  I could answer her back, I love you, too. It may be too behind time to love her further, still and all, her name will boundlessly relived in me, Agnes.


  1. Wow ang linis ng layout mo kainggit. GREAT BLOG!

  2. Salamat! :) Thanks for following me din.