Saturday Night

They don’t put bubbles in the milktea anymore. They omitted the Thai version and retained this one, a brown concoction with more milk than tea. I barely remembered how the old one tasted and as I stirred the tall glass, I realized I do miss the bubbles. Nica arrived with the twilight to find me in my favorite balcony table, my mind swimming in smoke.

“I was with Kim at the art fair earlier.”
“How was it?”
“Good. Tempting as shit.” I killed my stick. “Kim’s into this health networking thing. She attended a conference in Bangkok last July and came back a different person. Do you know what she said when her dad asked her about the whole experience?”
“What?”
“I saw my future.”
“Wow.”
“She stood in that conference hall with 18,000 people and saw her future.”
“That’s great!”
I lit another stick. “Have you ever felt that way? I mean, being in this place and knowing that you belong? That this is where you see yourself for the next so and so years? Doing this?”
“Yes of course! I felt it once… no, twice. The first was when Tatlong Piso was shown at CCP.”
“I was sitting beside you—you felt that exhilarated?”
“Yes! Seeing people’s reaction, hearing them laugh… I sat there and realized: This is my future. Making films. You?”
“Never.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”

+++

My chopsticks pierced another chunk of Japanese rice while Nica narrated the plot twist of her week. I had the same, though it had been hanging over for the last six months it’s no longer a plot twist but an overused device. I had Japanese for lunch, and another yesterday. This was my third katsudon in a row. The air reeked of pepper and grilled meat.

“He said I’m stubborn. That I don’t know how to stop… I only did because I was right.”
“That’s the Leo in you!”
“But I’m not stubborn. When did I ever go against him? Them? I’m at the fucking bottom of the food chain here.” I stuffed another ball of rice into my mouth. It tasted like sandpaper.
“Well… you rocked the boat. And they’re handling it immaturely.” Nica was almost done with her plate.
Silence.
“I’m not really affected by all the politics… and the rumours.”
“But you’re gloomy. You’re in snail mode today… treading carefully, slowly. I think that’s a good pace.”
“I felt... betrayed.”
“I can understand why you feel that way for him because he’s your mentor. But what about her?”
“I dropped my guard the first day we met. I thought maybe if it’s with her, I can try one last time. Trust one last time.”
“That is sad.”
“I choose to be vulnerable with the wrong people lately.”

+++

The last stop: a frozen yogurt shop where my old flavor got phased out a few months ago. Times were changing. I scooped a pink twirl and rolled it over my taste buds. Strawberries. We have just finished brainstorming for Nica’s short film and agreed to exchange creative calendars. Just to check on each other’s progress.

“Feeling good? Feeling good?”
“Very.” This flavour was better than the pomegranate.
“It’s a new season for us.”
“Yeah… I love freefalling.” My cup was almost empty. “I’m on my toes all the time.”
“I know, right. When was the last time you felt this way?”
“More than five years ago.” At least I can answer that. “When I left journalism for television.”
“And we have only one place to go now.”
I smiled. Of course.