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A Story (not) for the Kids
This is a story I wrote for my CW100 class. It hasn’t been through the workshop yet so it’s still pretty rough around the edges, but I’m happy with it for the most part. Yes, I used my other piece of fiction (The Other Side of Ridiculous) as the first vignette, albeit modified slightly for tense consistency, etc.
July 2016
His hands are cold, clammy. He doesn’t know what to say. He watches her take another puff from the cigarette she holds in her hands delicately—almost too delicately—and takes a deep breath as well.
She clears her throat, and purses her lips. Throughout the years they’d been together, he’d recognized this habit of hers, of smacking her lips together, or biting down on her lower lip, when deep in thought.
“Yeah?” He preempts, and he feels a little relief from seeing her lips curl into a small smile.
“We need to stop.” She says softly, the smile still playing on her lips.
He pauses, unaware of what to say.
He looks her over, and sees how much she’s changed. He tries to find the words to describe her and what she’d been when they’d first met, and decides he’ll settle for no less than “alive”. There are many things that illustrate this change—like how her hair has now decided to flow down past her shoulders in that messy way that he likes, and how her lips now purse more often than they curl—but it’s most evident in her eyes.
He remembers looking into them years ago and seeing how bright and vibrant they were; how full of wonder they seemed to be. Now she glances at him with dull, unfeeling orbs.
“I can’t do this anymore.” She says, still smiling as the amber light of her cigarette flickers.
He reaches over and takes the small stick from her hands, throwing it down on the ground beside them before grinding it down with his heel. “I thought we agreed to quit? It’s been years, Angela. When did you start smoking again?”
“I’m losing my mind; I need to stop seeing you.”
“Give me the rest of your smokes.”
“D-Didn’t you hear me? We need to stop doing this to ourselves—“
“Give them to me.”
“It’s not going to help. I can always buy more.”
“Now give me your lighter.”
“I’m only going to hurt y—“
They both stare at the lighter’s small flame as he lights the cigarette in his lips, taking a deep breath.
“What are you doing?”
He looks up at her, takes the cigarette out of his mouth, and exhales, seeing the cloud of smoke escape from his mouth—or was it his nose? He can’t really tell. It’s been too long since his last stick. He sees her eyes following the cloud of smoke as well, and, just for a split second, he saw them widen with wonder.
“What are you doing?” She asks again, reaching over and trying to take the lit cigarette from his mouth. He shakes his head and tells her to wait, rolling the smoke on his tongue. It’s a weird taste, sort of bitter, but sort of cool. He remembers how he used to enjoy this in the years before they’d met.
She fidgets in her seat a bit, and looks around at all the other people there, all minding their own business, unaware of the bridge burning right in front of them.
“I still love you, you know. That hasn’t changed.” She says.
He takes the pack of cigarettes from the table and offers her a stick.
“No, I quit, but thank you.”
She leans back on her chair and takes a deep breath. He puts the cigarettes back down on the table, and continues to fumble with his first stick. They remain quiet for a little bit, until she reaches over and takes a stick from the pack.
“I thought you were quitting?” He asks.
“I can’t let you do this alone.”
His hands are cold and clammy. He doesn’t know what to say. She lights her cigarette and he keeps his. It’s chilly out, and the air is thick with the smell of coffee and cigarettes.
11 February 2012
You know I’ll always be there for you, right? She asks him, twirling his hair in her fingers as they lay together, feeling each other’s warmth.
“I know,” He says, smiling. Truth be told, he couldn’t imagine there ever being a happier moment—except, perhaps, seeing her finally walk down the aisle with him. But it was too soon for that, and even he knew.
He watches her eyes slowly close, and feels her breathing slow down.
Finally, today, he’s able to call her his. Finally, after months and thousands of love letters, notes scribbled in haste, nights spent trying to get her home, and hours spent together doing nothing. Nothing could compare to the exhilarating feeling that overcame him at the sight of her lips curling into a Yes. Sure, the first kiss was amazing, but the understanding, and knowing that they now shared something so beautiful, was different.
Tonight, he promises to keep her safe. To make her happy no matter what it takes, and stand by her and by the promises they’d made together. Tonight, he holds her in his arms and pulls her close, squeezing her small frame.
He’ll start going to all her gigs now, exclaiming proudly to a friend that up there, performing, is his girlfriend. She’ll look down from the stage and mouth an I love you! to him, and his friends will tease him, but only because they’re jealous.
Tomorrow, they’ll start being a couple. She’ll introduce him to her parents and her sister, and he’ll take her to their rest house in Tagaytay. When her dog runs away, he’ll console her like the good boyfriend he is and offer to buy her a new one. She’ll refuse, of course, saying that it’s not the same—that it’s not the same Balto even if it is the same breed.
Tonight, though, he holds her tight. She tries to roll over, but he keeps her still, and she laughs, giving up and resting against him. Her hair smells of bananas and her skin smells like freshly-cut sampaguitas.
December 2015
Click.
He flips through another channel. There’s nothing worth watching on, as expected. Shark Week just ended, and all the cooking shows are dubbed in Chinese and he’s too lazy to read subtitles right now.
He glances at the clock on the wall behind the TV. It’s a little past 3. He has work in a few hours, but he decides to stay up anyway.
She’s still not home. There are no messages on his phone; no calls left on the machine.
Then again, he doesn’t know why he expects anything out of her anymore. She’s her own person, independent, too strong for him to control. He’s learned at least that, from being with her for the past few years.
“Kevin and Angela, together since college, three years and counting.”
They’d prided themselves in it once—both of them, at the same time. What an accomplishment. To have been able to stay together for so long, and still be happy.
He hears the rattling of keys and turns to the door behind him. More fumbling, and he hears some soft cussing. Shit, it seems to say, as the keys fall to the ground.
He gets off his chair and opens the door. She looks up at him from kneeling over to pick up her keys, eyeliner smudged and lipstick faded.
Hi, she says. He helps her up, and as soon as she walks past him to get inside, he gets a whiff of the alcohol that seems to veil her.
“How was the gig?” He asks, and she waves her hand at him before going into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He follows her and leans on the wall by the door, waiting. “Sorry I couldn’t come,” he adds. “You know how it is, work, they opened a new account and—“
The door opens and she emerges, face and hair wet. It’s okay, don’t worry about it, she assures him. I’m tired, let’s talk tomorrow, and she goes into the bedroom.
It isn’t the first time she’s done this—in fact, it’s starting to become a regular thing. She performs, she gets drunk, she gets wasted, and comes home to him waiting for her, goes to bed without even a kiss-hello or kiss-goodnight. He knows it’s probably his fault—he could do more for her, like be there for her gigs, to see her performing up there, and be the proud boyfriend he once was. Maybe if he did, he’d at least get an I love you!
He gets into bed beside her and tries to wrap his arm around her, but she rolls over to her side and he’s left with a view of her thick, dark hair. She smells faintly of beer and sweat and cigarette smoke.
November 2011
“Kevin, this is Angela.”
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” He says, holding his hand out to her.
“Hello,” She responds, her voice soft, smooth. She doesn’t look like much. She has long, dark hair and is probably too skinny for her height. She takes his hand and shakes it, and her lips curl into a small smile. “I didn’t realize Mark had cute friends.”She says, and he laughs.
She sits down as their friend leaves, and they talk over a few beers. He notices her wrist, and the tattoo of a snake eating its own tail, and he asks her about it. She purses her lips and says, “It’s called an Ouroboros. Interesting, isn’t it? You can’t tell where it begins and where it ends.”
“Yeah, like a lot of things in this world,” He says, trying to sound smart. Unfortunately, she calls his bluff.
He watches her eyes widen with wonder, outlined by the thin strip of eyeliner and the heavy mascara. “Yeah? Like what?” She asks.
“Oh, I don’t know. Love? Where does it start and where does it end anyway?” He says, turning away to take a puff out of his cigarette.
“It starts when you fall in love. Ends when you break up.” She replies.
“Yeah, but when exactly do you fall in love? Is it after the first kiss? After you fuck for the first time? And breaking up with someone doesn’t mean you fall out of love.”
“Really? Well, it’s pretty simple for me. You love someone, you tell them. You be with them. If you fall out of love, break up. If you’re unhappy, break up. You don’t leave someone you’re still in love with.”
He pauses, considering the idea.
“You know, I recently quit smoking.”She chimes in.
“Really? How recently?” He asks.
“Well, I haven’t smoked in eight days.” They both laugh, and she smiles at him. “Why don’t you quit with me? You know it’s not good for your health.”
“Alright,” He says. “Normally, I wouldn’t do this, but how could I say no to such a pretty girl?” He takes his cigarette, takes one last puff, and puts it out on the ashtray. “No more smoking. Cold turkey. If one of us fails, we have to post a video of us taking a dump on Youtube. Game?” He asks her, and she laughs whole-heartedly.
“You’re fun. We should hang out.” She says.
He smiles back, and nods. From where he’s sitting, he gets a whiff of the faint scent of bananas over the smell of beer and cigarettes.
December 2025
Click.
He flips through another channel. There’s nothing worth watching on, as expected. Shark Week just ended, and all the cooking shows are dubbed in Chinese and he’s too lazy to read subtitles right now.
He glances at the clock on the wall behind the TV. It’s a little past 3. He has work in a few hours, but he decides to stay up anyway.
The kids are asleep, and his wife is still in the hospital, working another shift. He settles on a cartoon he recognizes from his childhood, and is appalled now by its humor. How could he have liked this as a child? It’s obscene, and the jokes are disgusting!
He remembers watching this as a young boy, and again much later in life, possibly as a college student. He starts thinking about college. Life in the university wasn’t so bad, he knew. He had so many good memories there. All the late-night parties and beer pong, spontaneous out-of-town trips, and the girls.
He’d tell his children someday, that when he was in college, he’d dated quite a few girls himself. He’d tell them about the fun from the university and if they asked, he’d say that despite all the other girls, he’d never been in love until he met their mom.
There was a girl who came pretty close though, he would think, but he’d never say it out loud. It was that girl he’d met in a bar one cold November night. That girl with the long dark hair and the tattoo of an Ouroboros on her wrist, who was probably too skinny for her height. That girl whose hair always smelled like bananas, on whose neck sometimes lingered the smell of sweet flowers, and sometimes a thick musk-like odor.
He tells himself now that he could never have really been in love with her. Not even after four and a half years of slaving away for her. There was nothing in that relationship, he knows that now. All they had then was mutual confusion—both deluded into thinking that they were meant for each other, when they clearly were not. He remembers the late nights he’d spent trying to get her home, the notes he’d scribbled for her in haste, the love letters he wrote in class.
He remembers the gigs they’d gone to together, some days, she performed, other days, she stayed with him and held his hand, singing to him with the crowd. He remembers the teasing from his friends, every time she mouthed an I love you! from under the harsh glare of the bar’s artificial lights. He remembers how it felt to be the boyfriend of the girl who was kicking ass onstage.
He remembers meeting her parents—the joy in their eyes at the sight of him—and he remembers bringing her to their rest house in Tagaytay, which his wife and kids will never see, because it was swept away by that typhoon.
He remembers the night Balto ran away, and how he’d cooed to her, “Angela, Angela, stop crying, it’s okay. We’ll get a new dog,” and how she’d said No, Kev, it won’t be the same. It’s still not the same Balto, even if it is the same breed.
He remembers how it felt to hold her. How her hair always smelled like bananas, except for that one night at that old apartment they’d shared. He remembers her soft skin, her laugh, how she pursed her lips when deep in thought.
He lights a cigarette now and takes a deep breath, wondering. Wondering where she is now. The room suddenly begins to feel too stuffy, and his cigarette stains the air with its smoke.
