Of Boys and Break-ups

The scenario: Two friends, both journalists (the other only partly), met up after x years. The last meeting was literally eons ago, with none remembering the circumstances or the conversation that flourished during the encounter. Waistlines have thickened and hairstyles have changed—that’s how too long it had been.

The first scene: Outside the bookstore. After a few exchange of pleasantries and the usual how-have-you-beens, two friends, arms clinging at each other like high school girls, begin to talk about more serious topics.

L: J added me on Facebook. She even mumbled a length apology over chat. Did something happen with theboyfriend? S made a face, slowly nodding.

S: She called off the wedding. And S went off with the details blahblahblah. L trying not to be too pessimistic—its too early for that. What did you tell her?

L: I said its been too long; the details have escaped me. I don’t think we’ll be close friends again overnight. Still, it’s a start. L stops and thinks. But if she sells me an insurance, I’ll go ahead and buy.

The second scene: A brightly-lit Filipino restaurant. The atmosphere was cozy, but noisy. The plates have arrived and the stories have poured in.

L: I do pottery now. S laughs, a what-the-hell type.

S: It’s not your element.

L: I know. It’s takes me out of routine; teaches me patience. You should join me sometimes so I have someone to talk to. The others are not talkies.

S: How do you do it? L demonstrates with her hands. S laughs again, this time her eyes twinkled. Wow… Now you know how to grip. L’s eyes widened and hushes S—there are little kids on the next table.

The third scene: A dimly-lit bar tucked between posh restaurants. On the table lies a bucket of cold beer and crunchy chips. S has given an extensive narrative of her current predicament: A bad break-up.

L: That’s why you should never date a writer. Learned this from experience. Writers are too good with words, they open their mouths and you fall in a snap. S shakes her head. But when it comes to closures, they shut up. They give you the cold shoulder and that's it. Not a single word to spare your feelings.

S: Don’t close doors. S is now serious. Only a writer can understand a writer. I dated other guys who are not writers and they don’t understand my creative struggle. They don’t know what goes in my head. S puts down her fork. Besides, only a fellow writer can help you get out of dry spells. Touche.

The fourth scene: Outside the same bar. The tables have been turned, save for the last one where the two girls continue their conversation. It’s already another day.

S: Sober and depressed. S picks up the last bottle and drinks from it. Tell me a cute story.

L: Laughs, partly drunk. Well, I met a boy last month. I didn’t really meet him—we weren’t introduced. I even forgot his name.

S: S narrows down on “a boy” How? Where?

L: In pottery class. S laughs really loud. She’s connecting the dots—she’s still a full-pledged journalist after all. I don’t attend classes to see him. S smirks, she is not convinced. But it’d be nice to see him again.

S: What is so cute about this story?

L: He drew me. S giggled as the other friend flushes. And my thought was: This stuff actually happens? I mean—the scenario only existed in scripts!

S: Yeah, its cute. But don't you think he's a little of a stalker?

L: Rolls her eyes. What is there to stalk about me? I am perpetually awkward. Besides, him drawing me is like me taking pictures of people without permission. S smiles, L feels victorious S ceased being lonely. And he taught me pottery. L goes on with the narrative… blahblahblah.

S: Are you sure he was teaching you pottery? L nods innocently. From my end, he seems like he was teaching you sex!

A throng of tirades followed before they separated for the night, with a deal closed over the drunken mess that was their lives. L realized on her way home that her friends, her real friends, can shut her up with witty banters. And so, she looked forward to seeing S again after 25 days. - 11/20/2012