The Sunbaked King

The Wedding Before the Stars (II)

A boy, about age 9, wandered from table to table, picking flowers and clutching them like a prince in search for a bouquet for his princess. He looked dashing in his long-sleeved shirt, which he wore under a cotton vest. The sight was surreal. But like everything else that night, it was magical.

Outside the pavilion, a group of polo players galloped in their chestnut-colored horses, intent in their mission to score a goal. The neighs and the grunts seemed to amplify in the silence that came before the music. It was in this short-lived silence, amidst the background of sporting noise, that my eyes locked with yours. They only said one thing: You came through for me.

An array of five expansive white draperies hung from the ceiling of the pavilion, their ends meeting at the very center. A constellation of crystal stars and sparkling snowflakes descended from this point. When light struck them, they first glittered and shone, and then reflected the light at several directions. When the music began, the stars danced with the beat.

Melody made way for Motion, Motion made way for Marriage, and Marriage made way for Majesty.

Melody: a ballroom tune that had been played in weddings for decades, but whose lyrics now run a special rhythm in our hearts; Marriage: a union between two souls, the merging of which may be painful and tough, but all the more meaningful; Majesty: you and me, me and you, together this night, bound by a common cord: our love for each other.

My sister wasn’t the only person who got married that night. Underneath the crystal stars, I danced with you, and we were together.

Filed under: Fiction, Yes?, Utter Joy

The Breakup Before the Wedding (I)

I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the closet in front of me. I saw a glimmer of white hanging among the long sleeves and the ties, the pants and the polo shirts, and that glimmer seemed more pointless than ever. Nothing made sense– no matter how much hard work was placed in choosing the perfect fabric, no matter how many hours were put into creating the intricate design, no matter how many times I had to return to get that right fit… it didn’t matter. This barong tagalog was only as good as the outfit that got paired with it, the one that you were supposed to wear tomorrow.

But I broke up with you, the night before the wedding.

My mind forced my eyes to veer away. The more I looked at it, the heavier it seemed to get. But it was all an illusion. Tears had began to well up in my eyes, doubling, tripling my vision. I did not want to break down, not yet, because this wasn’t final. This. Wasn’t. Final. After all, weren’t I the one who told you that this was not how I imagined my relationship with you to be? Weren’t I the one who told you that this was too much, that I couldn’t take your nonchalance anymore? Weren’t I the one who told you that I wasn’t getting the attention I deserved, when all I asked of you was just one day? I did all those things, so I could take it all back. I could take it all back.

But how could I, when it wasn’t my fault?

I felt something in my hand. In my state, I had forgotten all about the cellphone that I held, clenched tightly within my fist. I threw it aside, for the thing was a snake. If I looked at the last message I sent, it was bound to be poison. If I could listen to the last phone call I made, it was bound to have fangs. Now that the righteous anger has passed, now that reason has ceased to control my emotions, I realized… there wouldn’t be another text message, there wouldn’t be another call. Not from you to me. Not from me to you. I had cut you off from my life.

I had cut you off from my life the day before I wished to bind you.

That did it. The dam broke. I placed my face within my palms and cried openly into them. I staggered; my body shook with the weight of the burden you have placed upon me, of the decision I am now forced to face. But I have to be strong. Even without you, I would go to the wedding. The world does not revolve around me. Tomorrow’s going to be a joyous day, and this is something I would have to hide beneath a smiling face.

Tomorrow is my sister’s wedding, and I would be there for her. With or without you.

Filed under: Fiction, Yes?, Utter Sadness

100 Words

heaven + ground + storm + archuleta + happening + rejection + pasok + flapjacks + forgotten + incredible + california + hermit + games + good + journey + taipan + cows + single + knight + kaban + sunday + boob + four + wall + aisle + august + tomb + chris + iphone + entry + history + sassy + wall-e + birthday + way + breakfast + clone + sumosam + study + darkness + competition + poem + jacques + death + coffee + eavesdropping + contented + corollary + catch + atenista + eagle + embers + other + recovery + melancholia + retreat + one + sidebar + thunder + q + hush + coat + waltz + letters + exam + know + family + musical + incomprehensible + leche + minutes + comeback + comeback + universe + blast + joke + brothers + yearend + series + 2008 + 2009 + goodbye + forgotten + sing + united + nations + avenue + honeymoon + american + hopeless + rest + idol + night + honors + honesty + hot + half-empty + hee + hope + 100 =

100 posts in 100 words.

I’ve gone a long way, and there’s no sign of stopping.

I will never tire of writing.

Filed under: ...And Others, Being Blue, Bibliomania, Cinema, Domesticated, Eros, Fiction, Yes?, Gadgetry, Gastronomy, Geekery, Helios, Mindlifting, Ra, Rat Race, Sunshine, Testimonial, The Couch Potato, Them, TV, Untamed, Utter Joy, Utter Sadness, Vanity, Yearend

Hope Springs Eternal

I took a look at the window and saw that you were making your way inside the room. I sighed. This was no time for surprises of any kind. “What are you doing here? I’m tired.”

“I know, I know. But I thought it would be nice to bring you something while you worked.” I couldn’t place the expression on your face. A mischievous giddiness? Whatever it was you were doing, it wasn’t working. I was at the receiving end of F’s short patience, and if he couldn’t be pleased, I sure couldn’t be, either.

“I don’t think I can be disturbed right now,” I said, returning to my papers. “You just would have to wait.” I didn’t want you to wait– in fact, I wanted you to come so badly, but I couldn’t show it. I was still under F’s jurisdiction. I was still under F’s control.

Thank God you ignored me, which was pretty much what I expected from you. As I made my way through the piles of paperwork, a soft sound emanated beside me. It was a melody that called out memories that were not mine, but they were beautiful memories nonetheless. Each note pulled a part of me from myself, soothed the aches beneath my feet, and brought me to a place of peace and serenity– a vision of green grass, tall oak trees, and a carousel.

When I opened my eyes, I knew that F was over. You held my hand and confirmed it. The music box you brought with you was just icing on a very sweet cake.

“You liked it?” you asked, knowing the reply before it came.

“Yes.”

You squeezed my hand tighter. “Then you can have it.”

* * * * *

Not all stories have happy endings, even those lulled into sweetness by the melodies of a wonderful music box. Not even the kind run by brightly colored horses on an intricate carousel. While the beautiful rhythm lives on, you know that not everything can be painted on a canvas of sound.

* * * * *

“I’m sorry.”

I knew you were sincere. I knew that you had no control over the situation. But I had to react the way I did. “I wish you never came with that music box. You just meant to make me vulnerable so that you could hurt me.”

You looked me in the eyes and asked me a question I could not answer: “Do you really mean that?”

Before I even knew what I was doing, I had to escape the doubt that ballooned ever so dangerously in my mind. I grabbed the music box and angrily hurled it against the wall. It was a fragile little thing, that carousel. It had no chance of surviving the blow. With a meek little ting!, the horses revolved around the center one last time before it surrendered itself to the silence.

There was only one word for what I felt when it hit me: horror.

“Look what you made me do! Look what you made me do!” I ran across the room to pick up the pieces, but then you stopped me. You held me in my place. I trembled underneath your touch, and the heavy sobs pushed my body helplessly against yours.

“There is nothing we can do now but move on. It was my fault, but it also wasn’t. We’re almost done, but we’re not yet done. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I didn’t. But you continued speaking like I did. “I’ll be leaving you, but not like this, not with a heavy heart. I promise you that.”

I kept myself steady and looked at you with my bloodshot eyes. “You can’t promise anything.”

* * * * *

Except sometimes, promises are happy surprises.

* * * * *

I stood at the office one night, looking out the vast glass windows that flanked my desk. The city lights were scintillating like the stars; the lamp posts like little supernovas. Once upon a time I walked away from this place with a certain fear and sadness. But right now, all I felt was hope.

When you appeared by the door, I was not surprised. When you took out your violin and began to play, I smiled. You’d come to say goodbye.

* * * * *

– My life in March, depicted in snippets of made-up sceneries and fictitious conversations.

Filed under: Fiction, Yes?

Ha Ha Hee Hee Ha Ha Ho

Love me, hate me, say what you want about me.

– Britney Spears, If You Seek Amy

Got this idea from one of MakMak’s posts. The idea here is simple: listed below are ten life events, 9 of which are very, very real. The other one? A blatant lie, an outrageous fabrication. The guessing game is only half the fun; reading through the entries should already take you midway. Needless to say, I enjoyed this exercise immensely.

(The events are listed in chronological order.)

Episode 1 : Jeffrey. We once had neighbors in Zamboanga that were certified crooks and troublemakers. The sister once attempted to steal orchids from our garden; Mama saw her and grabbed her by the hair before she could get away. The brother, a kid named Jeffrey, had a punching bout with me. I lost that particular round because I went home crying. Sometime during the immediate future, I found myself faced with a wonderful opportunity: we were playing darts. With one swift stroke, I deliberately threw the dart at him, and it landed squarely on his disease-infected leg. I fake-apologized and got all fake-concerned, but deep inside, my inner devil was cheering.

Episode 2 : Promil Kid. I graduated Valedictorian soon after that. (Not that the Jeffrey incident had anything to do with it.) I was in Kindergarten then. My parents had to repeatedly stand up to pin my ribbons because there were so goddamn many of them. I was invited to be accelerated to Grade 1 sometime before that, though, but my parents refused, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Years later, they would be faced with the same decision with my younger brother, and they agreed this time around. I wonder why they changed gears?

Episode 3 : Showbiz. We moved from Zamboanga to Davao around the early 90’s. During this time, Eat Bulaga ruled the boob tube. Shows like Little Miss Philippines and That’s My Boy catered to the kids, and they became so popular that they started holding auditions nationwide. I joined the Davao auditions of That’s My Boy. Contrary to rumors during college, I didn’t win (I came in 3rd), and I never made it to the finals in Manila. However, months later, we received an invitation from a popular local canned goods company to do a commercial. My parents didn’t allow it because we were new in town, and had yet to adjust. (Damn.)

Episode 4 : Prodigal Son. I wasn’t what you’d call an ideal son. I was pretty much a disappointment to my parents when I was younger (as parents, they would definitely deny that, haha). For instance, I squandered my yearbook money by spending it on Playstation games with my friends (X-Men and Sailor Moon were all the rage). I tried to replenish it by getting some money from our sari-sari store, but my Uncle found me out and blabbed me to my parents. My father, a recent Couples for Christ convert, did not do the usual kneel-on-mongo-seeds or belt-to-ass-spanking punishments of old, but made me place my hand on the Bible, and made me swear that I would never do it again.

Episode 5 : Camp Rock. In exchange for a brand new PC (Windows 95, 4 gigs of hard drive memory, yeah!), my father “asked” if I could join the Youth for Christ camp during the summer break. As a recently converted good child myself, and feeling a sense of immense gratitude for the computer, I agreed. That did not mean that I liked the idea. So for a few days, I had to meet with other kids of other CFC members, and do the religious thing with them. However, my silence during the entire thing got me a reputation I thought I’d never have (hence the silence): I was called “Stranger” and “Bato“, and not necessarily behind my back.

Episode 6 : Pink Sacristan. In continuation of my path to total reverence, I served as a sacristan in the Holy Spirit Adoration Convent near our house. The Convent was home to the Pink Sisters, a group of nuns whose faces we normally never see because they had our backs to us during Mass. But I found out (to my extreme humiliation), that nuns are still human, after all. Once, during an early morning mass, I left the priest’s side too early. The nuns looked up and realized what I had done, and they began to giggle. Silently and reverently, of course. But not one iota less embarrassing.

Episode 7 : Cruel Intentions. I had a psycho phase in high school, which pretty much rendered my religious conversion moot. During this time, I wondered how it would feel shooting people using a sniper (inspired by Stephen King’s character Todd Bowden in Apt Pupil); how it would feel making cocaine and getting tweaked (inspired by Josh Hartnett‘s role in The Faculty); and how it would feel just simply being deliciously evil (inspired by Sebastian Valmont, Cruel Intentions). I got so scared of the book I gave it away; got so into Josh’s character that I researched on homemade cocaine; and got so into Sebastian’s persona that I joined a school play with the same role. Talk about immersion.

Episode 8 : Lovestruck. Everything changed when Senior Year came. In Senior Year, everything is all about love. I once wrote a love letter to a friend that contained the cheesiest lines. The first stanza went this way: There is no Britney Spears / When a girl like you appears / Forget Christina Ricci / When you’re in front of me. Cheezay! I went on to write an essay about the same girl. I kept it to myself. Papa, however, snoopy little dad that he is, found the letter and sent it to Inquirer as an entry for the Youngblood column. We didn’t hear from them.

Episode 9: Lust, Caution. I flirted around by calling/texting my crushes in their cellphones, even if we weren’t close. I had a weekly Top Ten ranking of said crushes which I updated religiously. The criteria? Looks, Personality, Kerwin Bias, and Friend Factor. The Friend Factor is a consolidated ranking my closest friends gave to the people in the list. I think I allotted too much of my time to this nonsensical but exciting exercise that my grades dove alarmingly. Thank goodness graduation came and I did not have to suffer any more academic free fall.

Episode 10: Close Encounters of the First Kind. Years later, I would be going to a strip club for a bachelor’s party, and this is going to be the first time I’m going to see an aquarium full of women, ready to be chosen with the flick of a finger or a glance. This is also the first time I’m going to see a woman dancing around a pole in a see-through mesh shirt. Finally, this is also the first time I’m going to encounter, up close and personal, the female genitalia. Dun dun dun!

Filed under: ...And Others, Domesticated, Fiction, Yes?, Ra, Testimonial, Untamed

Single Guy Watches the Night Sky

March 20, 2009
10:12 PM

There’s something fascinating about the top floor of a high-rise building. The building itself defines the skyline, cuts the peaceful horizon, and distinguishes itself among all the other surrounding structures. Through the giant imposing glass windows you see the entire city beneath your feet. The lights dazzle like little stars; the lampposts like little fireflies.

You stand here now, 12 minutes past the hour of ten, hands hooked into your pockets. Something compels you to look out the window and gaze at the beautiful sight. You can feel that something grand is about to happen; your fingertips are positively tingling with excitement. For a moment, the scenery is serenely static, and nothing disturbs the lights, the lampposts, and the lovely Northern sky.

And then it happens. A flash of light appears as a tiny dot in one portion of the heavens, and then streaks across the nightscape with an eerie sense of intent and determination. Your heart skips a beat; your mind is full of awe. Remembering the stories of shooting stars you’ve had as a child, you close your eyes and make a wish. The words escape your mouth in tiny breaths, urgent and important. You open your eyes and remain astonished at the celestial display of the universe’s grandeur. Something suddenly clicks inside your mind. This moment is to be shared. This moment is not meant to be seen alone. You turn around to point the shooting star to your companion and–

Slowly, the astonishment vanishes from your face and gives way to a startling realization: you are alone. There is no one here with you.

A chill runs through your spine. A mixture of fear and sadness penetrates your soul. And, as though a malevolent being has sniffed the fear off you, the lights inside the building go out. You are in the midst of darkness. You face the glass windows once again, hoping to find solace at the shooting star and the city lights. But the shooting star is gone. As for steady burn of sparkle and shine? The distant light of stars and supernovas cannot save you from the desolation of this dark place. This you know now. This you have learned.

With a heavy heart, full of conflicting emotions and thoughts best left unsaid, you make your way to the elevator. You press the button and wait for your lift to come. A few moments later, it arrives. You get in. The door closes.

It’s 11 PM, and you’re going down, down, down.

Filed under: Eros, Fiction, Yes?, Ra

Homebound: Single Guy Says Goodbye

You look at your watch. It’s 4 PM. The plane leaves at 6. You have two solid hours to roam around the airport, eat, and skim through the book you brought with you. It’s the same old routine, the road easiest to travel, the path of least resistance.

But somehow, this time, you just want to take a seat and look around.

The guy in front of you is fiddling with his laptop, muttering under his breath about how there’s no socket anywhere. He absentmindedly messes up his well-gelled hair in frustration. As he closes his laptop, his phone rings. There’s nothing but frustration in his voice. His body screams for release; his demeanor reveals nothing but resignation.

The woman two seats down is reading a greeting card from someone you surmise is her beau. Her smile is radiant and fills her face like a thousand beautiful Japanese lanterns. At one point, she tucks her hair behind her ear and giggles silently. You begin to suspect that the greeting card isn’t as long as she makes it appear; she has been reading it again and again.

Kuya!!!”

To your left, a ten-year-old boy is busily punching his brother by the shoulder. You are first saddened by the sight; your brothers mean so much to you. As the scene unfolds more clearly in your sight, however, you realize that the youngster is laughing as he “mock” jabs the elder. On the older brother’s lap is a puzzle book. Clearly they are having a competition, and the younger one just lost on a question. You wait for their parents to arrive (perhaps holding two Smokey’s frankfurters), but no one comes. The brothers are all on their own.

Philippine Airlines Flight MC5 flying to Manila is now accepting passengers for boarding.

The corporate guy, just finished with his phone call, looks at the plane with a hopeful look in his eyes. It’s just work, those eyes say. There’s something beyond the islands, beyond the seas, and I will find my rest.

The woman leaps out of her seat, grabs her bag, and rushes to the front of the line. It’s been too long, that jump says. The words from the endless exchange of letters shall now become reality, the words shall now bear fruit.

The older brother takes the youngster’s bag and carries it with his own luggage. With one arm holding the bags, and the other draped around the youngster’s shoulders, the two walk the short path to the queue. They have just left their parents and their childhood behind; it’s now time to be men and move on with their lives.

You smile. A tingling sensation runs from your toe all the way to your head. As you stand, a single thought crosses your head:

“Three.”

The future has never looked so bright.

Filed under: Domesticated, Eros, Fiction, Yes?, Utter Joy

Single Guy Dances the Waltz

The sky is overcast. The clouds are gray and threatening. The prospect of rain usually sends the normal, rational mind to reach for the nearest umbrella, or in its absence, the nearest available shelter. But you are neither normal nor rational these days. Your mind is stormy, like it usually is, so you continue your walk under the bare, pregnant sky. Its childbirth will be spectacular, and your current state of mind will be its child’s brother.

Take my hand, take a breath 
Pull me close and take one step
Keep your eyes locked to mine
And let the music be your guide

Loneliness is a state best indulged in under the rain. It makes perfect sense: the only other people you’ll see in the street are those bearing the same cross that you’re bearing. The fact that you’re so few and far apart is a perfect manifestation of your loneliness, and it suits you just fine. No one to take your hand. No one to pull you close. Only the rain’s weight to comfort you. Only the rain’s beat to be your guide.

Won’t you promise me (now won’t you promise me, that you’ll never forget)
We’ll keep dancing (to keep dancing) wherever we go next

The distance you’re trekking is one of anger and sadness and confusion and revenge. With every breath, a promise forgotten. With every step, a painful memory. Your feet are taking you to familiar roads, but your destination is blurry. But you’ll keep on walking to wherever, because you have no choice.

Take my hand, I’ll take the lead
And every turn will be safe with me
Don’t be afraid, afraid to fall
You know I’ll catch you through it all

A kilometer in, and the tears begin to fall. What has been a vague undertaking is now infinitely vaguer, sadder, lonelier. The roads are getting more and more unfamiliar. Your socks are soaked, and your shoes are caked with mud. Your entire entity is awash with wetness. At this point, safety ceases to matter. You’ll fall, and no one will catch you. You’ll get lost because no one took the lead.

It’s like catching lightning, the chances of finding someone like you
It’s one in a million, the chances of feeling the way we do
And with every step together, we just keep on getting better
So can I have this dance
Can I have this dance?

The rain pours harder, and in the sky: a roar of thunder, a bolt of lightning. In your mind, a single thought shines: what are the chances of getting hit by lightning? One in a million? One in a billion? And if you get hit without anyone there to see it, will you make a sound? Will anyone give a fuck?

These thoughts fade slowly from your mind as you walk further down the path you have chosen for yourself. The rain continues to waltz around your feet, and you continue to dance with it.


Filed under: Eros, Fiction, Yes?

Single Guy Misses a Good Catch

You stomp your right foot lightly on the dust-covered ground. Despite your care, the rust-colored earth envelopes your shoe. A thick layer settles. You give your shoe a glance, appear to have interest in it, then, like a lover scorned, ignore the thing. Meanwhile, the bubble gum you’ve been chewing has decided to lodge itself in a comfortable position near the back of your tongue. Your face contorts in puzzlement. If the guy in front of you were paying attention to your face rather than your hands, he will have seen the comic way your face gets distorted as your tongue struggles to swipe the stubborn gum from your throat. But the guy’s not here to see you; he’s here to see your hands.

Free of the gum at last, you spit it out on the ground, where another person’s probably going to step on it. That’s the nature of chewed bubble gum, right? It just begs to be stepped on. In the sneakiest way possible, at the moment of supreme inconvenience. The guy in front of you, however, has no concern for your bubble gum thoughts. In fact, it’s probably to his advantage that you’re inconvenienced.

In any case, enough of non-existent metaphors and cryptic descriptions. It’s time for the game to resume.

It’s the top of the eighth inning, and the game’s tied at 1-0. Your team has home field advantage, but the other team has one very important asset: they now have their star player at the bat. The only reason why you’ve managed to squeak in one good play is his absence for the first half of the game. You don’t know what issues the other team faces, but you have heard about certain rumors–run-ins with the law, pregnant girlfriend, hostile parents. Whatever. Victim or perpetrator, as soon as he walked in the diamond, the entire arena held its breath. It’s never too late when he’s around.

You toss the ball back and forth between your gloved and free hand before looking at the home plate once again. The batter’s ready; so is your catcher behind him, and the umpire behind the two. No one else is out on the field, so your attention’s all set on this single threat. With one final toss between hands, you take your position on the mound.

Your catcher sends one finger down. Fastball. What the heck? With the star player in the helm, a straightforward fastball will not cut it. He’ll probably send the goddamn thing to outer space. You shake your head vigorously, hoping that the catcher will realize it was a stupid suggestion in the first place. To his credit, the catcher immediately nods his head slightly, and sends two fingers down. Curveball. Great. Just the play you wanted. You nod your head, tug the front of your cap forward, and ease yourself into the pitcher’s stance.

One. Your heartbeat, slow. Your vision, clear.

Two. Your senses heightened. Your right hand armed.

Three.

You feel your entire right arm stretch backward at an angle as it provides the perfect momentum, feel it move expertly forward as it prepares for the release, feel the tips of your fingers flex as they send the ball flying at a nasty curve. Surely, not even the star player is prepared for that.

Except that he is. With one swift stroke, the batter hits the ball.

One. Your heartbeat, pounding at a medically impossible speed. Your mouth, gaping. From the corner of your eye, you see the batter drop his bat, and run.

Two. The ball, in motion. Not hurtling towards the sky. Not going beyond the foul line. Instead, flying slightly parallel to the ground, forward. Zoning on what’s in front of it. Zoning on you.

With your clear vision, it’s going to be easy to see the ball’s path of travel. With your quick reflexes, it’s going to be easy to catch it. With your luck, it’s going to be easy to send this star player out by virtue of only the most important flyout ever. 

You raise your left arm to meet the ball and seal all your fates once and for all.

Three.

Filed under: Fiction, Yes?, Untamed

Single Guy Eats Breakfast

“It all began in Manila,” the menu in front of you starts to say. It does not finish its spiel, because your hand immediately flips the page to check the restaurant’s offerings. Your mind does a backflip, though, wondering what began in Manila– was it the first toasted bread? the first chocolate shake?– but your stomach groans to remind you who’s boss. You succumb to hunger. And there is a world of hunger.

When faced with choices that spell pleasure either way, the mind rarely hesitates. However, when faced with an objective restriction, say, finances, the mind steps back and assesses the situation. Once an assessment is done, and a choice is definitively chosen, the mind rests, but only for a second. It wonders what a particular choice would have felt like, what a particular choice would have been like. And if this line of thinking triumphs, a sense of depression sets in. There is a word for this. It is regret.

You regret that there are a lot of things in the menu that you can’t afford. Others, like the steak, are too fancy for your taste. Some, like the shakes, are too weird to even try. You want something simple, and clean, and delicious. You want something that can give you a warm fuzzy feeling inside. You want something that can excite your senses and stir your emotions.

You settle for the breakfast sampler.

After having given the waitress your order, a group of girls catches your eye. They’re young; some of them may not have even experienced the tender claws of puberty. Not that the mess would matter, especially to these kids. You are pretty certain that their entourage of servants will be there by their side when that happens. 

You are about to return to your peaceful waiting when laughter suddenly erupts from their table. It’s refined laughter, the sort one hears from the Upper East Side girls of Gossip Girl. You glance over their direction. Their attention has been captured by something on the table. A picture. From their giggling, you immediately conclude that it’s a boy. Perhaps a kid their age, living in their village. Perhaps the next-door type, always ready to flash them a handsome smile.

Taken away from its solitude, your mind swerves into a different corner altogether.

You begin to wonder, what if you were that boy? What if one of the girls hosts a party and you get invited? What if, in that party, someone has spiked the punch? What if, at the end of the night, you find yourself face-to-face with the little hostess, tipsy as hell? What if you tentatively kiss her and she doesn’t let go? What if your hormones slam into overdrive? What if she leads you to her room? What if things happen that only the inside of your journal will learn about?

What if, a few months later, you learn that she’s pregnant? What if you and your parents are invited to a conference with her and her parents? What if they decide you should marry? What if you’re just barely in your teens? What if you don’t love her? What if she doesn’t love you? What if you just don’t want to be stuck with one sexual experience? What if she feels the same? What if, in the course of all this, you learn…

…that your food has arrived? You smile at the waitress in front of you, assure her that you’re okay, and thank her for the food. Holding a fork and a knife, you glance at the girls a final time.

Riiight. Not in your world, not in your lifetime.

When faced with an objective restriction, the mind hesitates. It begins to assess the situation to find a suitable answer to the problem. In this case, the mind has decided long before the restriction was faced. In fact, the restriction IS the decision.

Those girls aren’t in the menu in the first place.

With a smile on your face, you begin to devour the sausages and eggs in front of you.

Filed under: Fiction, Yes?, Sunshine