Little Bloodies

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 10

Drops of rain started to fall in a humid April night as more and more people lined up the terminal. The mall was about to close to end the last minute hurdle of shoppers wanting to buy a thing or two. It was payday weekend.

As usual, I was at the end of the snake line waiting for my turn to get on one of those commuter vans. The Tolkien book about Numeronean wars absorbed my thoughts while I kept a watchful eye on the arrival of the blue Bloody van. He’d be back in thirty minutes. By sheer estimation, I was more likely to catch the ride with him without putting up another excuse to wait for him. Like placing another call to an officemate and discuss matters with him in the middle of his sleep while I let other commuters to go ahead. But this time, everything was just near perfect.

Two little boys caught my attention. They were chasing each other and hiding behind every post. After a minute of watching them box each other playfully, I noticed the older boy’s face bore semblance to Bloody’s - those brows, eyes, nose and even that mischievous smile. He was Little Bloody.

I saw The Wife come out of the crowd trying to silence the two rowdy boys and nail them down to the bench. She was this doting mom who wiped the kids’ sweaty faces and put towels on their backs. That particular sight washed away my excitement to see Bloody again as I stood in the middle of the tired crowd frozen on my feet. I felt guilt surface and accuse me of trying to steal away their dad. How in the universe will I be able to do such wicked thing to a family who depended so much on him? While Bloody collected women since youth, he had never abandoned his family. Not those kids, particularly that one who would someday carry his name.

These were the sons Bloody told me about. The eldest one, who wasn’t there that night, was already fifteen. I had a pleasure watching his younger kids play while I hid my face behind the book. The Wife may not be that fortunate to have promiscuous Bloody as her partner, but those kids were enough to complete her. I wasn’t really kid-friendly but I found myself wishing I was that lucky too. Maybe I would have been a better mom and perhaps a better wife, partner and friend. But they say that sometimes God give you what you deserve. Bloody got his while I tried to figure out mine.

The Flower Farm

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 9

Are you happy?

The question snatched his thoughts back to present reality. I studied his face with the hope of finding signs of brain activity. His right hand held mine so tight as if I would disappear from his side anytime. He was driving on our way back to my office.

I had questions rehearsing themselves inside my head. And while it took Bloody forever to give his reluctant yes, I couldn't resist asking some more. If he's happy, what was he doing here with me? What about those two other women I saw he flirted with last Christmas? He justified his philandering by his ability to provide for the family. As long as no one got hungry, it's ceasefire. He winked at me.

I felt his pulse, inspected his nails and gave his hand a crude massage. Maybe that would drive enough blood supply to his brains and let him see things as they were. He drove around the place with one hand on the steering wheel and alternated it on the clutch. His mind flew out of the window and landed somewhere along that dusty highway to be run over by trucks.

We met earlier that day at the other terminal on my way to work. It was the first time we were together on a daytime. I felt relaxed and comfortable sitting beside him while we were telling each other vacation plans for the Holy Week. From time to time, I could feel his hand on the clutch brush against my knee and would sometimes rest his arm on mine. When all passengers were gone, he started holding my hand. The warm fuzzy feeling was intoxicating me.

Out of the blue I blurted things I should have not said. Words like sleepy, tired and hungry had underlying meanings in the male dictionary that I wasn’t aware of. Before I knew it, he turned left on the road that would lead us to that particular spot famous for motel chains I bluntly labeled "the flower farm". I saw in his eyes the quiet determination to pin me down somewhere.

Then my life flashed before me.

I just couldn't do it. A quick roll in the hay was never included in my plan. It took so much persuasion on my part for him to finally turn around and head back to the main highway.

That gorgeous smile that brought sunshine to my day was wiped out by pain of rejection. The most charming guy in the terminal had just failed to score on a naive 30-something virgin. But Bloody wasn't the type who would just give up on selling the idea to me. We're old enough, he said.

Stealing him from his wife could be easy. Really. He had not seen that dark side of me - my persuasion, persistence and creativity. But it was far way below me and Bloody already knew I was too chicken for anything like that. All of these stupid mind games had morphed itself into an entity I was afraid to even look in the eye.

I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. I felt his hand clasp mine. It was already close to noon and we were stuck in the middle of the traffic. The heat outside already reached a sweaty degree that we could actually fry an egg on the windshield. The comfort inside those air-conditioned rooms of the flower farm a few blocks away was beckoning me. I shut the thought out of my head.

Bloody put his arm around me as he pulled over in front our building. I was about to say goodbye when he leaned forward and kissed my lips without saying a word. It just blew my mind away.

Choices

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 8

The next few days that followed the joyride were clouded by conflicting mix of emotions in varying degrees. Bloody’s voice played over like a broken record inside my head. The touch of his hand lingered on like a persistent second-hand smoke clinging to my clothes. I could see his face on every blank space inside the building, in the movies I saw and even on my dinner plate. My stomach would twist and turn at the thought of seeing him at the end of the day. I had gone totally nuts that a good slap on my face would be appreciated. Or anything that would wake me up from this long bad but sweet dream.

My office table was an exact replica of the current state of my mind – a virgin forest inhabited by a dangerous snake hissing “Can I see you tomorrow night? Everyday? Please?” The invitation was laid out in the open and the only answer needed was a sound yes. That would mean free rides everyday, holding hands behind the clutch, sneaking around and kissing when no one was looking.

Even if that sounded like pot, I somehow relished the thought of giving in and taking the plunge. Although I had never been into this kind of sticky situation before, stealing him away was never a problem. I was confident I could do it. He liked me for one obvious reason that I was different in his world of sameness.

But since I had been wired to listen to reason, I had to weigh down my options between right and wrong. I already had imagined what the consequences of my actions would be like in the future. A revengeful wife would hunt me down. The brewing scandal would keep people buzzing for years. And the unimaginable damage the word “kerida” can do to my self-worth. Will he be there for me when the going gets tough? Was he worth even a grain of sacrifice?

I was torn between living on the dot and on the line, the now and forever, the good and bad. Bloody woke me up from a long deep sleep to the other side of reality that showed my propensity for evil. But in the grand scheme of things, no matter how I shut my guard down, I remained that conscience-stricken person. There wouldn’t be everyday for Bloody, neither a tomorrow night.

Or maybe I really should consider changing my soap brand.

Joyride

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 7

Choices. I had many taking into account the thirty plus years I spent on this planet. I could easily point out bad from good and black from white. There was this invisible demarcation line planted in my brains that separates angels and demons, morally good and evil, right and left.

I was the perennially good girl. Trust me.

But no one in school told me that temptation could sometimes get tired taking the forms of a crispy P500 bill, a cold-blooded murder, or a Rated R movie. It became quite predictable I could even see it breathe through its pores and fend off its advances before it could get to me. Somehow the devil himself subtly learned to do his homework. I almost failed to tell how an innocent exchange of glances with a seemingly harmless charmer named Bloody cost me my peace and sanity. Every unexpected meeting with him for the past three months seemed to escalate from bad to worse. My steel-like resolve melted under his hypnotic gaze and I heard myself agree to his invitation to take me out. A joyride as he bluntly put it.

So I tucked conscience somewhere inside the trunk to silence it and threw away the keys and cautions to the wind.

While Bloody chuckled at the idea of having me all by himself, I was busy forming conversation fillers that would take his attention off whatever plans he had set to do and keep his mind (and hands) on the wheel. When I learned that he knew how to speak Japanese, we conversed in bloody Japanese for the next 30 minutes. It so occupied his mind that he forgot the reason why he strapped me to the seat next to him in the first place.

We arrived at the terminal an hour before midnight and I came out of the van unscathed. My role as the other woman came with this sneaky instruction, “Please wait for me at the stall down at the corner. Order whatever you want. I’ll go park the van.”

So there I was reprising the role of the other woman, hiding in the shadows. A soft touch on my back snatched me back to my present reality of a counter girl gawking at me and Bloody breathing down my neck. I wasn’t really sure whether to go forward, backward or sideways. I asked him to buy me a cold drink and pulled myself away to the nearest vacant table.

While Bloody served my food and drink, I tried to remain conscious on what to do on the next hand movement. He asked me to share his food by eating on the same plate using his spoon. There was something about it that was plainly seductive and violated my basic form of hygiene. Was the recession this bad that I had to eat on his plate and share his spoon on a dinner date? He laughed quietly to himself. I dug out my cell phone and started replying to about five unread messages. I wasn't even done texting when I felt his arm wrap tightly around me. If I had to believe the reincarnation, Bloody was an octopus in his past life. But given his loose morals, he was probably a small-time squid.

“Stop texting. You should eat.” He kissed me lightly on the head and let me go. His eyes were laughing.

He paid the bill and I went back to his van parked at the terminal. It was already full of late night passengers. There was this guy occupying my front seat and I took my place beside him and the door. Bloody came along a few minutes after and chatted briefly with the barker while he kept a close eye on me. With this burly guy blocking our view, we never had a chance to speak. I closed my tired eyes while the bloody van sped down the empty highway.

I came back to my consciousness when all the passengers, including that guy between us, stepped out at the next terminal. Then Bloody held my hand.

“Can I see you tomorrow night?” His calloused hand pressed my cold hand hard, almost crushing it. “Just wait for me at the terminal. I’ll be there. Please?”

He pleaded like a man who was about to die.

“Please?” There was something urgent, desperate, careless and stupid about his plea. I don’t know was the only safe answer I gave his wish. I feared looking straight into his eyes and be found lying. He pulled over and I reached for the door. I stepped into the night and walked away trembling.

The truth we both seek was written all over me.

About last night

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 6

The traffic was extremely bad that one particular morning. I had to wake up early for the eight o'clock meeting and had to leave the house long before the people around my neck of the woods were up on their toes. I was caught up in this unimaginable two-hour traffic jam that caused the road temperature and everyone's temper to rise. That defined how my day went and closed in a rather peculiar way.

The last meeting I had in this classy restaurant ended at seven. By the time I reached the mall terminal, it was already eight. I was tired, sleepy and hungry. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught that tall familiar figure looking my way with his arms folded in front of him. He was lovely sight to look at that made all my worries disappear in thin air. I turned to smile quite sheepishly and walked consciously towards his direction.

Bloody was in a happy and relaxed mood. He was enjoying his free time watching people go about their quiet lives and was probably thinking of plans on how to screw up mine. At the far end of the corner, his co-drivers gossiped like women. For Bloody, it was an opportunity to take off his mask and talk like a free man without The Wife’s spy satellites on him. He asked how things were with me for the past few days we had not seen each other. I summarized my misery in a short sentence that had the word "busy" in it.

“Your life is like your cell phone. Always busy.” He was sitting on this concrete bench wearing his usual white shirt and faded jeans that fitted him so well. I thought he was handsome without that brown cap he uses to hide his eyes.

“Welcome to the 21st century.” I tried to sound as casual as I could to conceal my excitement and prevent the nerves on my head from popping. “You’re the only Filipino I know who doesn’t own a cell phone. Even babies have one.”

He chuckled. Bloody owned commuter vans but not even the world’s lousiest cell phone. Last Christmas, I overheard him telling this other front seat girl about his sad story on how The Wife took away his unit. In my mind, that time, I labeled him "jerk". Really.

“Wait for me. Don’t go anywhere.” Bloody went to the nearest phone booth to place a call that took ten minutes. Hiding behind a book, I watched him intently like a serial killer studying his prey. I took note of those impatient little gestures. I had imagined what the conversation was about whenever he would run his fingers through his dark brown hair or rummage his pocket for coins to feed the hungry telephone unit. After what seemed to be a thousand years, he emerged out of the hell hole with a relief on his face. With just a nod, I followed him to his van and decided to book the entire front seat. I had a plan brewing for that night. I wanted to get to know who this creep really was and learn more about his worth without a nosy third wheel clogging our conversation. He seemed glad.

During the short trip, I asked him about his past, his family, his work abroad and his life today. He gave me honest answers. Bloody did not offer too many details unless asked specifically. Time flew without me noticing that we already reached my destination. I felt my heart sank.

I was going for the door when he asked, “Would you like to join me in a joyride?”

What joyride? Was this Roxette's "Joyride"?

My mind suddenly went blank as I groped for a more appropriate answer. Was it a date? Was it even good or bad?

Then curiosity kicked in and took over my rational thinking. Why not? We're no longer kids but two middle-aged adults. We both knew our boundaries. I was confident enough to think that we would emerge out of the whole sticky situation with our clothes still on. I just wanted to seize the day, live for the moment and worry about the future later.

So I said yes.

Now I knew what killed the cat.

My Bloody Valentine

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 5

Valentine’s Day.

Ho-hum.

I spent the day watching the movie “Push” with a friend. It was a Chris Evans movie with Dakota Fanning and the lead star of Joy Luck Club who already wore wrinkles. It was supposed to be a powerhouse movie with a superb cast but I caught myself enjoying sleep than listen to their conversations about a sniffer, a pusher and whatnot. The only movie I knew where Chris Evans showed serious acting was Cellular opposite Kim Basinger.

It was actually a relief to realize that the movie was finally over. While my friend and I were nibbling cookies inside this coffee shop, we watched women carry their flower bouquets and stuffed toys of various shapes and sizes the way a Miss Universe would. Men lined up the nearby flower shop for single long-stemmed red roses.

Love. Ha ha. I still didn't quite get it.

With just three hours before midnight, I decided to leave the mall and headed down to the terminal to take a ride back home. There were very few passengers I could actually roll under those benches. But I was not expecting to see Bloody and his blue-violet van picking up passengers at a late hour. He should be home having dinner with his wife or dating a couple of girlfriends in the motels. He was on his way to the phone booth when he saw me. I thought that moment the world ceased from turning.

Bloody waited for me at the corner and greeted me “Happy Valentines”. He held out his hand. I responded thinking it was just one of those casual little handshakes I give generously to everyone I knew. The guy seemed pleased with the gesture and started his rusty pick up lines while holding my hand firmly and a little longer than usual.

“Where’s my kiss?” He whispered on my ear.

“Why?” I asked nonchalantly.

“You never gave one last Christmas. It's Valentines already. You owe me two.” I felt his hand pressed mine.

“Do I? How about this Christmas?”

“That's ten months from now...” He groaned. There was this helpless but charming look in his eyes that read "Seduction 101".

“I think I have just paid you.” I motioned towards my hand caught in his tight grip.

We laughed.

I took the front seat with an elderly woman seated between us. While we were on the road, Bloody asked questions about why I go home late and why he seldom sees me. He seemed to track the days we didn't see each other. I was tempted to present an offer to be my official service van. But I thought about The Wife, the kids and the ugly consequences. I was not that brave. I wish I didn't have that much of a conscience.

We were silent the whole time he was driving. It was something we usually do when there were still passengers inside. There might be spies on board who do field reports for the wife. For all we knew, that mature-looking woman between us could be her personal detective pretending to be asleep.

Bloody dropped me off at the last stop without saying a word but just a smile and his casual wave of goodbye. Thanks to that elderly woman who blocked our view and spoiled the night. But then, come to think of it, she could be an angel in disguise.

Nevertheless, I took home with me his smile and the memory of his calloused hand holding mine.

Bloody on the mirror

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 4

I was on my way home from church when I saw a familiar sight I missed for the past two weeks – a faded Superman sticker at the back of a blue-violet commuter van. My heart screamed “Bloody!”

With quick but graceful strides I reached the terminal. I scanned the entire place for that tall, dark and handsome figure in white shirt and faded jeans but he was nowhere to be found. A couple was already occupying my front seat. That left me with the next vacant space at the back of the driver’s seat.

Hmm. Not bad.

The van was dark inside and the tinted windows made sightseeing at night more difficult but my accidental guy-watching possible. While I was contemplating ways to calm my hyperventilating self, he came back to check on his passengers. I immediately ducked my head and picked up the book I deliberately dropped on the floor. That was the thirty-something me who simply couldn’t make up her mind. Should I say "hi", smile or put my head inside my bag? I was like a thirteen-year-old who couldn't figure out what to do with an overripe pimple.

He started the engine and the van took off with an amazing bullet train speed. That was what I liked about his driving – reckless, just like him. He drove quietly and was lost in his own train of thoughts as old love songs in the background lulled tired passengers to sleep. I caught his reflection on the tinted side window and studied his face under the guise of reading billboards. And while at it, the only word that echoed inside my head was wow.

Wow. I was smitten.

Bloody was forty but he seemed to age gorgeously like Richard Gere. I wondered how he looked like when he was younger, how many girls fell for him and what percentage of these Bloody converts he took to bed and seriously considered walking down the altar. He certainly both had the face, the body, the wit and the charm. A combo that was far deadlier than all male IQ’s combined.

Maybe I should congratulate The Wife. She did a pretty good job in leashing him, taking away his right to the use of a mobile phone, and planting spies at his workplace. No. I do not try to be messianic. It's just me stating a fact of life that I can never have someone who was not mine in the first place.

He turned the lights on when we reached the destination. Everyone stepped out except for me and the couple seated in front. I hid behind the driver’s seat to avoid his gaze on the view mirror. When Bloody drove to the last stop, I decided to show up my face, smiled at him on the mirror and leaned forward to whisper “ingat”. He turned his head towards my direction, stretched out his arm to touch my shoulder and mumbled something like “nandyan ka pala”. I simply smiled at his amazement. Our gazes locked for what seemed to be forever before I finally released myself from his spell and reluctantly closed the door behind me.

I didn’t want to hear what else he had to say. This time, I may not be able to refuse him.

Ako Legal Wife

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 3

There was something so different about Bloody when I saw him that day at the terminal. No smiles, no jokes, and no flirty lines. He was this whole different person detached from his usual charming self who automatically beams at the sight of me. And of all the people I knew, he was the least person to be demon-possessed.

He was the devil himself.

I had a cute battle plan prepared for that day. The lines were rehearsed inside my head for a couple of times in between dreams, breakfast and sleep. The visuals were there, the blocking was fantastic, the timing was precise and my alibi was set. I was to approach him to inquire about the transport franchise application we talked about a few nights ago. Appear helpless, if not stupid. Of course, only I knew about the truth to my little scheming. It’s actually a lame excuse to talk to him, get him talking and check out if those well-toned muscles and abs are for real. Sometimes, my vision would register him as a Jay Manalo or Die Hard 4 Sidekick What’s His Name Again look-alike. Yes. Hunk.

Surprisingly, his response to my well-rehearsed line was particularly out of tune. It was monosyllabic and cryptic I felt like some cheap chick stalking on him and vying for his attention. It was like eating leftover pizza from the fridge. When he sensed my sheer disappointment, he whispered, “My wife is here.”

I thought my eyeballs popped out of their sockets. I knew he was a married guy but meeting his wife was something I really didn’t expect to happen. Not in a thousand years.

Now casual Bloody introduced me to his wife who was inside the van occupying the same seat which, well, I would borrow on certain nights. She was a little taller and leaner than I am. Her hair was black and long. And she gave me that sharp inquisitive look from head to toe. But I managed to win her with a friendly smile and a voice that assured her place in history as the legal wife. It's a simple PR tactic I learned over the years as a professional and a university scholar who majored in PR – Plastics Reinvented.

The entire game plan was changed abruptly with the latest addition to the cast of two. But the storyline was the same. The tone was business-like and friendly to make sure I go under her radar undetected. Bloody, her husband, evaporated from thin air. After all, who would want to be caught in a crossfire just in case?

In the course of lengthy 30-minute discussion with the wife covering procedures, drivers and nasty cops, I detected at least five “bolero” words in her vocabulary. I knew she said those deliberately when the talk would shift to her husband, Bloody. Just by listening to her gripe figuratively, I knew they had been fighting for the longest time over trust issues. And while I didn’t exactly fit the bill of a sexy other woman (save for a stunning hairdo courtesy of my brother’s barber), she still saw me as a potential threat. My hair was so damn lovable (har har) but that did not exempt me from undergoing a series of her homemade polygraph tests. I was bombarded with questions about where I live, work, move and breathe. I offered her generous generic answers.

Anyway, what was there for me to hide? Her husband and I were nothing but just casual acquaintances in the process of developing an intense liking for each other. But that rainbow-like connection never went far beyond teasing. It was not even physical no matter how Bloody often begged for a kiss.

The wife insisted in giving me her number. To get in touch, she said. I got her number but I didn’t give her mine. I seriously doubted her intentions. It was either she tries to recruit me to be her ally or stalk on me. I am far way too savvy for that. I Google.

I saw Bloody from a safe distance. I could sense his fear and gaze following me as I left the terminal. I had just uncovered valuable secrets to his being. Somehow the playing field was laid bare and made even. It stripped him naked to the core I had to cover him with a smile that seemed to say, "I know. It's alright. Don't you dare try to mess up with me."

Christmas Eve

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 2

It was the night before Christmas.

After work, I headed to the mall to do last minute Christmas shopping. I didn’t realize that the mall was scheduled to close at 7pm and I only had an hour left to breeze through the shops. I bought myself a book and mom her first mobile phone ever. At exactly 7, I was already checking out.

Outside, I headed towards the FX terminal to catch a ride back home. It took probably an hour more before I finally got to the front of the half kilometer commuter line. And guess what? The blue-violet Adventure arrived and Bloody the driver picked up the first ten tired passengers with already quaky legs. And for no particular reason, perhaps serendipity or part manipulation on his side, he led me to the front seat. When I got in, a girl was already occupying the seat that was supposed to be mine. So I took the space beside her and the door.

The girl between us turned out to be someone he knew. She was probably one of his regular seatmates who asked to be picked up somewhere like a kid waiting for her yaya. I can't help but overhear their conversation for half an hour. But none of those piqued my interest. (What would I expect they’d talk about? The Wall Street crisis?) Feeding Bloody with poisoned chocolate she probably got from a Kris Kringle did not impress me either. C’mon, was that all she’s got? I can give him the entire menu of our restaurant for free you know. Now that’s cocky.

The girl was flirting with him and it disturbed me so much I hid my face behind my hair. My ears were hot and my face was already red. I've got this mental picture of him who seemed so nice to everyone. I wasn't expecting he'd literally take it an extra mile further. How many have he been so "platonic" with? Where do I land on that wait list? Why do I feel bad about this whole thing? I looked up for an appropriate word. Jealousy flashed like an electronic billboard.

When we arrived at the destination, everyone left except for me and Bloody. It has been our unspoken tradition that I would be the last person he had to take to the last stop. I was insanely quiet and forced myself to look out of the window. I would have stuck my head out if it were only open and breathe. Bloody would occasionally glance at me. It took him a couple of minutes before he finally said "Hi" to an iceberg seated a few inches from him. Of course, I responded with a fake smile. I was rather good at that.

Bloody explained himself like a typical boyfriend caught in a lip-lock incident. Even if you feed him to a thousand volt shock from a Meralco transformer, he would stick to his famous line, “We’re just friends!” The girl, according to him, was just his friend. Maybe kissing friends was a little more accurate.

And I, the now irate passenger, assured him it was a secret I won't tell his wife. That “wife” bait worked like “open sesame”. The fish was caught in the hook without much resistance. Revelations came pouring in, one by one, with little less prodding. Bloody is a married man. He’s five years older than I and has three kids. If he could only tuck the word “wife” in the trunk, he would have gladly done so than make it part of his speech. This guy was obviously trapped inside a bad marriage. That explains the front seat girls, which unfortunately already includes me.

It was the first time I heard him talk about his life seriously. When we reached the final stop, he suggested driving me all the way home. I refused. He asked for a kiss. I was completely horrified. He looked amused and at the same time, perplexed. I left him with no explanation to ponder on except for a playful smile I hoped would drive him nuts on a Christmas Eve. That way the playing field was even.

I went home more confused than ever as I tried to make sense out of the whole situation. Bloody was not the only married man who pursued me. There were two others who I avoided like an Ebola plague. But this one heck of a driver of Casanova caliber was the first one who had successfully invaded my thoughts and thawed my icy demeanor with his irresistible charm. He caught me spellbound. Like Christmas.

Terminal

Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 1

I felt relieved to have spotted this FX taxi immediately after I crossed the busiest street on the planet. It was very rare that I chance upon one on a Sunday. Usually, I had to take a jeepney to reach the rotunda and another ride that would take me to the mall. You can just imagine how grateful I was to have spared a calorie from burning. The vehicle, a blue-violet Mitsubishi Adventure, looked new and clean from the outside. I took the vacant front seat and sat still while the air condition blew winter on my face.

Surprisingly, the driver beside me wasn't that bad looking either. He didn't smell the combination of gas, grease and putok. There was no sticky feel every time his arm would brush against mine. I could tell he never missed a bath in his life and knew how to take care of himself. At his age (mid to late 30’s), he was lean and looked younger than most 30-something guys I knew. He was also very courteous to his passengers. When we stopped by the gas station to refuel, he gave few pesos to those kids singing him Christmas carols. He smiled at me when he got back to his seat and gave me my change.

Suddenly, the world around me began to swirl.

I liked the sound of his voice. It was cool and kind, the type you would want to hear before and after bedtime. There was no hint of jologs tone in it. I had learned about his name "Blademir" from that ID on the dashboard. It sort of inspired me to coin an appropriate nickname for him. (“Bloody” or “Bladi”, you bloody choose. Before you readers bloody bash his name, the guy owns and operates the unit.)

All of these quick observations were made while I was busy texting two people. I was smiling not because those two people texting me were funny. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him stealing glances at me the way an Edward Cullen would in real life. When we reached the destination, he whispered “Ingat.”

There was the "kilig" feeling I swear I never had for ages.

I couldn't get him out of my head the whole time I was inside the church. He was this invisible presence that disturbed me all through out, like a poltergeist messing up my brains. There was something about him that attracted me like magnet. Perhaps it was his scent, the car perfume or his voice that got stuck inside my head. I was not so sure what it was that hit me hard.

After church, I went to buy stuff at the mall to distract myself from this confusing possession. It was almost 9 p.m. when I went to the terminal to catch the last trip back home. To my surprise, the familiar blue-violet Adventure was parked at the front line waiting for passengers. That same driver I nicknamed "Bloody" appeared from nowhere. He was all smiles when he saw me and let out a surprised “Hi. It’s you again. How was your shopping?”

I couldn’t remember the exact lines I told him when I took the seat beside him. Everything went dark then light and muddled in between. But every pore in my skin was screaming "Destiny!"

We were quiet the whole time he was driving. I couldn’t think of a good conversation filler to break the silence. If I did, I would have probably squeaked my lines all through out and that was the kind of embarrassment I was not prepared to make. So I feigned sleep to discourage any conversation that could lead us off to topics I might not be able to answer anyway, given my current state of mind.

I was the last person he still had to take to the last stop. After his passengers left, he started asking me questions. Silly questions like how my day went and something about those Christmas shoppers emptying their wallets at the mall. He asked about my husband and looked surprised to find I do not have one even figuratively. It was a very short conversation that lasted 5 minutes. When we reached the final stop, I bid him goodbye and I heard him say “ingat” in a quiet manner. I took off immediately without even looking him in the eye, asking his name or telling him mine. I was afraid my eyes would give myself away.

This story rehearsed itself inside my head as I took the long walk from the village gate to the house. I was not sure if I would still see him on the same time and place tomorrow or next Sunday. But I had this feeling that we would soon.

He'd be there waiting.

Flat line

John and his two sisters go to church at 8am without fail. Come hell or no water, you’d find them there at the last row of the balcony, all by themselves and sometimes joined in by other relatives. After church, they would all scurry down the hall to the terminal that would take them straight to home, rarely taking time out to check fellow human beings invading the nearby mall.

Having read and watched Twilight, his family’s semblance to the Cullens are pretty close except for the fact they go to church and they don’t grow fangs. They don’t eat at the restaurant because they prefer dining at home. John is neither that pretty to be Edward. Pale maybe. The rest of the brood are just as ordinary as anyone else in the Philippines try to be. Pleasant, nice, kind and quiet.

Everything about him and his family are perfectly orchestrated in such a way one could easily distinguish black from white. Home-school-work-church routine is the way of life. It is one straight line doctors interpret as flat line. For a spectator like me, he is safe, boring and dead.

I am what he perceived a complete opposite of his being, a genetic anomaly that came across his realm one fine day. I am likewise a boring person but I tend to differ from known stereotypes. Like Barrack Obama, I like change. John is McCain. Somehow, those occasional chatroom dramas and 30-minute gossiping during church breaks helped melt down the iceberg between us.

John is flat line no more.