After another disaster earlier, attempting to un-inhibit myself in a tryst, I caught a bus with another commuter who seemed interested in me. Lanky with black-rimmed glasses (real, by the way), he was actually handsome upon second glance. Skimming through the seating arrangement in the half-filled bus, I caught the eye of a seemingly cute guy in the upper rows. My insecurities rendering me to shrink, I immediately took on the empty two-seater right behind him. “Nerdy”, following behind me, took the empty space beside “Cutey”. With the both of them cramped together, I was to witness their quick-forming relations all the way home. Left already with a broken ego earlier, the sordid duo in front of me made the long way home almost insufferable.
I began recounting how dirty I felt, post-tryst. I couldn’t help feeling down as the other issues I thought I sorted out already began rushing in. I felt uglier than usual, smaller and insignificant. All these exacerbated by the duo in front of me, quickly hitting it off, as I could tell through their furtive glances and guarded movements.
Trying to drown out my thoughts and the scene playing in front of me, I turned up the volume of my i-pod, opting for some loud house music; while curiosity and envy swam in my head. To make things worse, thinking that the cute guy would get off alone, it surprised me that the other dude followed in haste. Then I thought to myself, why shouldn’t he? The guy was indeed cute, and you’ve got to hand it to the other guy for his courageous pursuit. Through the oily window, I watched them scamper along, imagining what else the evening had in store for them: an exchange of numbers? a tryst? a brewing future relationship?
As always, I got to the sanctuary of my unit alone. I got my mail and opened my phone bill hastily while riding the elevator, attempting to convince myself that I had something important to look forward to. It was due next week. Great, more money to shell out. I felt all the more down on my way up.
After quickly stripping my clothes off, I almost swallowed my fast food takeaway in front of the T.V. After a cigarette by the window, I jumped in the shower to wash away the day’s excess, and sang to myself melancholic tunes, relishing the womb-like safety of the bathroom's accoustics.
I got to bed, cushioned my head with pillows, my mind still hard with thought. Even with the T.V. glaring in front of me, my fingers relentlessly surfing channels, I wasn't really paying attention. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't help bashing myself for reverting back to my dismal distresses. I couldn't help feeling frustrated at my current space: stuck and petrified. I couldn't stop feeling... hungry!!! Oooh! Martha Stewart started baking in the Lifestyle channel!
As soon as she was done, I put on a jacket and a pair of shorts, took the elevator and bought me a pastry downstairs. Though it almost tasted like hardened papier-mache sprinkled with sugar, it made me quite happy. After smoking a stick, watching people pass by, I couldn't help but smile. I couldn't help thinking that all's well really. Life's still good, even when you've got a pathetic pastry in hand.
