Behind the pretense and embarrassment
Eyes squinting, eyebrows frowning, and lips curling in disgust. I do not long for love. Too blatant. Too embarrassing.
A couple wearing the same school uniform is standing on the sidewalk with their hands perfectly tied together, as if they are in their world, not minding the afternoon heat of late April, the loud noises from the pumps and drifts of the public drivers, and the long line of people awaiting them before they get to have a seat and head to wherever. What a display, I said. I passed their way and continued walking to my usual path, going to my university.
It seems that these other two just got tied off, too, not their hands though. I looked at their fingers, and I was right—a silver metal with a small stone that could get people looking at it blinded by how it reflected the lights of the department store. They are conversing, maybe about what color their sheets are going to be next week as they check the bedding essentials laid in front of them. What a sore in the eyes, I said as I turned my gaze back to this mandala-patterned plate in my hands.
The sky seems alone and lonely, opposite to this lone beautiful woman in front of me, as she seems happy and content with her life. Never had a boyfriend at the age of 40. She has a great career anyway. I smell the strong scent of her decision not to want marriage. I am addicted to strong scents, so I might add this to my collection. I then loudly said I wanted to be like her. I would not wish to add any scentless thing to my life. I wish for a thriving career instead.
It is 5 a.m. Two people in the kitchen, sitting next to each other, sipping their hot coffee. From groggy voices to giggles—one is ready to go on his morning jog with his dog, the other preparing a big breakfast for her kids and the return of her man. Whatever, I said as I continued to close my eyes and plunged myself into the black abyss.
I do not long for love. Too blatant. Too embarrassing.
But the thing is, there is something more embarrassing in me. In front of people, I pretend love is so vulgar, so naked, and I am too pure for it. I pretend love is only for those people who want to take the usual road and I am just not meant for that. I pretend love is cheap and I do not want it. I pretend because I would never admit, not even to myself, how I also dream of and live for love.
I could pretend for another decade not to want that thing I thought of as cheesy, blatant, and embarrassing. But at night, I dream of walking on a sidewalk with a hand perfectly intertwined with another, never letting go of the warmth that grows within those palms and the intensity of the unknown it creates. I dream of laying down in a comforting silence with someone on the newly washed white sheets you just bought. I dream of being happy and content with just the sight of a man walking toward you with a single wildflower that he handpicked on his way to your spot after working the whole day. I dream of feeling the embrace of a cold morning breeze while sipping your coffee, but you know the only thing that warms you is next to you, drinking your favorite coffee, too.
That is so embarrassing of me, pretending I am all that—cold, nonchalant, and above love, but in reality, I long for it just like anyone. Or even more than anyone.
Remember the two people in the kitchen I mentioned? I have witnessed how the man’s eyes sparkle every time in the slightest sight of his woman, how unconsciously he giggles over her silly jokes and stories, and how the woman would wake up early every morning because they own that time—only two of them, not in another universe but now, that they get to share intense stares, calm voices, and deep conversations.
I remember their son, how he would willingly grace through the crooked and warped road built in mountains so steep and abused that its parts scream in separation, just to claim the reward of being with his girlfriend and the victorious feeling that comes with it. My family made love sacred, and I know for sure, in whatever phase or form it takes, I could make a religion out of how we love. How I love.
It is like the world revolves around it that even if plants are planted near or far, two roots will go deep down at the same time and intertwine. It is like the only language the world has ever understood; days are hard as it is, but only this language makes it soft like the belly of a fish and I will never ever let a knife near it.
Honestly, these thoughts are embarrassing for me. But what do I do? It finds me at a random time of the day. It haunts me even on a sunny day, a crowded evening, or even at the time when the night whispers its secrets to the moon.
Stomach curling, insides twisting. I want to throw up. This is embarrassing. And if I cannot shake off that feeling, then let it be. I can live with embarrassment and bluntness my whole life, but not with love.
Yes, I long for love. This is embarrassing.
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Hannah Camille T. Mallabo, 22, is a fourth-year political science student at the University of Santo Tomas, Manila.
