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| Cambugahay Falls, Siquijor |
I’m in my hotel room in Siquijor. It’s the end of a very
long day that started at 4:30am. We flew to Dumaguete City, rode an
excruciatingly slow yacht, and spent the rest of the day on a drive around this
island known for supposed sorcery and mysticism.
When I wasn’t preoccupied with work stuff, concentrating on
keeping up with the vehicle in front of me in the convoy, or basically just
getting lost in the calm and beauty of this place, my thoughts invariably kept
drifting back to you.
I can’t help feeling guilty. I should be allotting space in
my head for my dogs, who must be enjoying their stay at my parents’ house in
Cavite, but must surely be wondering why I abandoned them yet again. I ought to
start getting excited about my upcoming big trip, and making plans for all the
things I want to do and all the places I want to see. And I should really spend
more time contemplating a pretty huge milestone in my life that’s happening in
a couple of months. (And that deserves its own entry).
Instead, I find myself just looking back at the littlest
details of the last time I saw you. How I almost went in for a hug when it was
always just a friendly handshake between us. The way you kept apologizing for being
late, when I was just happy you made time to come see me at all. (Okay, I’m not
exactly sure I was the reason you were there in the first place, but in my
head, of course I was). And the shirt you were wearing that, crazily enough,
made you look both old-fashioned and impossibly hip, either of which suits you just fine.
The way you laughed at the jokes at the table. How you listened
and paid attention to the person talking that probably made them feel like they
were revealing the secret formula for Coca-Cola. And how I imagined you were
stealing glances at me while my head was turned, even though you were probably
just turning your head as well, my face just another mundane object in your
line of sight as you scanned the vicinity, perhaps looking for other, more stimulating targets.
But I didn’t have time to worry about that. You were there—all
patient, polite and, well, pulchritudinous—and that was all that mattered. It
took almost all of my willpower not to rest my gaze on you the entire evening. I
engaged with the others, stood up to get a new bottle, and basically made excuses
to look anywhere else but in your direction.
Oh but when I did. When I allowed myself those one or two
seconds of just appreciating your you-ness; those atoms and molecules that come
together to form your likeness and being—it made those weeks of not seeing you all
worth it.
Even now, here in this hotel room in Siquijor, when I should
be worrying about another early and long day tomorrow; when I should be
panicking about stuff I have to do for work; when I should be thinking about a
million other things in my life—my thoughts keep floating back to you.
It's strange, but thinking about you makes me feel morose and happy all at the same time.
