(no subject)
"Want a smoke?" he asks, his lips curving to a smile. Smoke comes out of his mouth as he talks; like a dragon, after breathing out a stream of fire, except his breathe does not smell of charred wood or fire. Instead, it smells like burnt grass and, in fact, that's what it is. His eyes though, are already red; I am reminded of supervillains when they get so fueled with anger. On a hand, his fingers cling to what looks like a cigarette stick, except it is made of metal.
I open my mouth but hesitate to answer. The trees are tall, their leaves, long. We are a long way off from the nearest building; we can always say we were out for a stick or two. A guard stalls behind the gray building, his shades tinted to prevent me from checking if he is checking us. Beside me, Don seems to notice my nervousness.
"Jesus Christ, do you or do you not want one?" he snaps. Again, I imagine him as a supervillain, his shirt and worn out jeans tearing, arms bulging with muscles and veins pulsing quickly as he enlarges into his true form. I feel obliged to tell him that while it's one thing to enjoy getting high, it's completely another thing to do it in campus. That, or kiss him the fuck up.
I do neither. Instead, I close my mouth and nod my head. He grins, teeth barred, showing me how yellow stained it is, thanks to years of smoking. Cigarettes, at first, and come college, something more inducing to the system. Something that I'm sure will kill him sooner. He reaches into the front pocket of his back pack and frowns when he can't find what it is he is looking for.
"The fuck-? I put it here," he mutters to himself, as he continues to blindly search for the item. The fingers on his other hand are starting to loosen its grip on the metal cigarette. Without a word, I grab it and try to take a long drag. Try is the keyword because there's barely any left and I am soon left with nothing.
"Bitin naman," I tell Don. "Bilis, may klase pa ko."
"Shut up, I have class too," he informs me and finally, he pulls a square device from the pocket. It is made of the same material as the cigarette. I believe it was designed to look like a Marlboro pack but Don had covered it with Hello Kitty stickers, which he had stolen from his sister's collection. There is a hole for the cigarette stick. I've forgotten what it's called and out of stupid pride, I've never told tell Don this. Instead, I ended up giving the whatever it's called a nickname: Marly.
("Hello Kitty's a better name," he had said in between giggles.
"Hello Kitty would never smoke though," I had argued.
"Because she's the role model of five year old girls?"
"Because she doesn't have a nose.")
Don turns his attention back to his bag, although what he is looking for now is in a pocket inside his bag.
"Tumalikod ka, may guard na nakatingin," I hiss at him. Idiot. Is he that far gone already that he can't remember we're in school?
"'Wag ka ngang takot, putik. Halata ka masyado eh," he hisses back but turns around so the guard doesn't notice. I go back to eyeing the guard, in case he concludes that our murmured discussion is, in fact, related to something illegal. I try to make it look casual by looking beyond him, to a classroom that does not have air conditioning. The open door reveals the blackboard and the professor-- an old frail man, who paces back and forth. I can't hear what he's discussing and the room is too far for me to see what's written on the board. The guard moves and I tense but he is only grabbing a walkie talkie. I could be paranoid or maybe the weed is starting to get to me. I tug at Don's shirt.
"Hurry up!"
"Eto na, eto na! Jesus Christ!" He rolls his eyes as he faces me. He grabs the cigarette and turns around again. I already know what he's doing: the slot for the cigarette doubles as a slot for the weed. After pouring in some amount in the hole, he uses the cigarette stick to crush the weed. The cigarette is a hollow tube, where the weed goes, hidden and undetected and presto! Once again, Don has found a way to get away with his crap.
He turns around to hand me the stick. I hold it to my mouth as he leans close to light it- the weed- basta! This time, I do take a long drag, my lungs crying out from both joy and terror as I exhale the smoke into the air. The smoke wavers then drifts off to join the smog that blankets the city. In my periheral vision, the guard is done talking to the walkie talkie and gets on his bike, to get to another part of the campus.
"Jesus, you were scared of him?" Don teases me, nudging me when I refuse to look at him. I am too busy looking at the sky, trying to prove God's existence by looking for his face, hidden behind one of the clouds.
"It's not that. Ayaw ko lang na mahuli tayo" Ako, I correct in my mind. There have been a couple of occasions when Don had almost been caught via random drug testing. Random, my ass. I'm just lucky I haven't been associated with Don's vice because I don't have the charisma to charm my way out of trouble. Nor do I have a brain fast enough to come up with excuses. I probably do, but I'd have to be drunk and being drunk in front of the school administration is just as bad as being investigated for doing drugs.
"You're too uptight girl," he tells me, his arm slung around my shoulders in a chummy manner. (He tells me this every time. I once told him that I get out of shit because of my paranoia. He retaliated by telling me shit only happens if we eat too much beans and kamote and down it with a bottle of coke.)
We sit on the stone bench for what feels like some time (Weed tends to slow time-- or is it only me? For all I know, Don might believe we're jumping into lightyears.), switching between sucking the cigarette, crushing whatever weed's left in Marly and talking about our latest project for the class we were both taking. I tell him how Bud is a modern day Arre, how Arre seems to stereotype his characters. He shakes his head and argues that Arre has epic plots; he takes time to develop his characters and plot while Bud seems fast paced. Eventually, we drift into films and as he explains to me the beauty of pace and mood Guy Ritchie makes in his movies, my minds drifts off once again:
Why is it that I do this again? I ask myself as I pass the faux cigarette to Don. He flashes me another one of his grins, waiting for my disapproval. I shrug and ask him, "Ano?" He grabs his hair in frustration when he realizes that I'm not paying attention. My eyes linger on the tousled part of his hair, where it sticks out in a multitude of directions. I want to curl his hair around my finger, card my fingers through his hair, to tousle it some more. I want to cut his hair, tape a lock of it in my planner, to shave everything off and make some pasta out of it. I want to sniff his hair, to figure out what shampoo he uses, so I can use it and be reminded of him when I smell my hair. I want to kiss him, possibly bite his lower lip, hear him ouch in protest or moan with want, to taste what he's had for lunch, if he had chewed on his pencils again, or stuck his tongue up some faceless cunt. I want to hold his hands, admire how he keeps his nails clean, wonder what else he does to give him such rough hands.
It's the weed. Puta, oo, eto ang dahilan kung bakit ko ito ginagawa. Because the weed masks everything, makes him smell like dead grass, like vice, like danger, like warning bells that go up whenever I pass by him and he asks if I want a smoke.
I am lonely, desperate, pathetic and possibly high. Weed is one of the few things I have to share with him, what keeps me connected to him. Every time I take a drag, I smack my lips, wet it with saliva, because I am a sloppy kisser and I want him to have a bit of me when he inhales. When I exhale the smoke, I blow to his face, my lips puckered, the smoke some form of flying kiss that covers his entire face.
"Do you get it? The violence mixed in with the Irish drinking song, it completely makes you unaware of the fight. Oh sure you see it, but the music is overpowering-- hindi mo masyadong mahahalata na kulang na lang mamatay yung lalaki kasi ang saya ng background music. You become amused and cheer on along with the drunken brutes when the hero knocks the antagonist into a coma. We're not the audience anymore; we're fucking spectators." Don looks at me expectantly. At this point, I can't keep up with him; all I'm hearing is: Doooo yooouuuu geeeet iiiittt? along with the pounding of my heart, how blood and chemicals are pulsing through my veins. I become aware that his arm has never left my shoulders.
"Yes. No-- I don't know. I can't recall this movie so well," I lie. "What time is it?"
The bell rings and we both curse. Don keeps the cigarette along with Marly and I wave at the smoke. I take out my perfume and spray myself. Eugh. Forbidden Fantasy, no matter how appropriate the name does not go well with weed. But it masks it enough. I gesture to the bottle and Don laughs. He shrugs and holds out his arms, as if tied to an invisible crucifix. I spray him, I spray the air and we both jump and dance around to get as much Forbidden as we possibly can. He fishes out a pack of gum from his pocket and I accept a couple. We leave the seclusion of the trees and join the rest of the campus. Students pour out of the buildings like tears when one cuts an onion: fast and uncontrollable. Chatter builds and rises and I don't know what is more unbearable: silence or noise?
Don and I don (and here, I snort and giggle) shades. Thank God it's become a fashion accessory.
We pass by a couple of buildings before we stop at his.
"I'll see you next time?" Aaaaaayyyyee'll ssssseee yyyooouuu neeekkksss tiiiiimmee? His voice hits me like a tidal wave. A pathetic tidal wave that doesn't kill my feelings. Sometimes, I want to get high enough to have an excuse to do something to him. Murder, sex, tie him to a tree post-I don't know exactly what I would do.
I nod my head but it's too fast for me so I do it slower. He whoops.
"Ayt, see you dude," he says. "Dude!" he greets someone behind me. They high five and wave at me as they head up the stairs. I need a mirror. I need to show myself who needs to be shot before things get out of control.
I exit the building, hurrying to one of the buildings we had passed by, so I wouldn't be late.
I open my mouth but hesitate to answer. The trees are tall, their leaves, long. We are a long way off from the nearest building; we can always say we were out for a stick or two. A guard stalls behind the gray building, his shades tinted to prevent me from checking if he is checking us. Beside me, Don seems to notice my nervousness.
"Jesus Christ, do you or do you not want one?" he snaps. Again, I imagine him as a supervillain, his shirt and worn out jeans tearing, arms bulging with muscles and veins pulsing quickly as he enlarges into his true form. I feel obliged to tell him that while it's one thing to enjoy getting high, it's completely another thing to do it in campus. That, or kiss him the fuck up.
I do neither. Instead, I close my mouth and nod my head. He grins, teeth barred, showing me how yellow stained it is, thanks to years of smoking. Cigarettes, at first, and come college, something more inducing to the system. Something that I'm sure will kill him sooner. He reaches into the front pocket of his back pack and frowns when he can't find what it is he is looking for.
"The fuck-? I put it here," he mutters to himself, as he continues to blindly search for the item. The fingers on his other hand are starting to loosen its grip on the metal cigarette. Without a word, I grab it and try to take a long drag. Try is the keyword because there's barely any left and I am soon left with nothing.
"Bitin naman," I tell Don. "Bilis, may klase pa ko."
"Shut up, I have class too," he informs me and finally, he pulls a square device from the pocket. It is made of the same material as the cigarette. I believe it was designed to look like a Marlboro pack but Don had covered it with Hello Kitty stickers, which he had stolen from his sister's collection. There is a hole for the cigarette stick. I've forgotten what it's called and out of stupid pride, I've never told tell Don this. Instead, I ended up giving the whatever it's called a nickname: Marly.
("Hello Kitty's a better name," he had said in between giggles.
"Hello Kitty would never smoke though," I had argued.
"Because she's the role model of five year old girls?"
"Because she doesn't have a nose.")
Don turns his attention back to his bag, although what he is looking for now is in a pocket inside his bag.
"Tumalikod ka, may guard na nakatingin," I hiss at him. Idiot. Is he that far gone already that he can't remember we're in school?
"'Wag ka ngang takot, putik. Halata ka masyado eh," he hisses back but turns around so the guard doesn't notice. I go back to eyeing the guard, in case he concludes that our murmured discussion is, in fact, related to something illegal. I try to make it look casual by looking beyond him, to a classroom that does not have air conditioning. The open door reveals the blackboard and the professor-- an old frail man, who paces back and forth. I can't hear what he's discussing and the room is too far for me to see what's written on the board. The guard moves and I tense but he is only grabbing a walkie talkie. I could be paranoid or maybe the weed is starting to get to me. I tug at Don's shirt.
"Hurry up!"
"Eto na, eto na! Jesus Christ!" He rolls his eyes as he faces me. He grabs the cigarette and turns around again. I already know what he's doing: the slot for the cigarette doubles as a slot for the weed. After pouring in some amount in the hole, he uses the cigarette stick to crush the weed. The cigarette is a hollow tube, where the weed goes, hidden and undetected and presto! Once again, Don has found a way to get away with his crap.
He turns around to hand me the stick. I hold it to my mouth as he leans close to light it- the weed- basta! This time, I do take a long drag, my lungs crying out from both joy and terror as I exhale the smoke into the air. The smoke wavers then drifts off to join the smog that blankets the city. In my periheral vision, the guard is done talking to the walkie talkie and gets on his bike, to get to another part of the campus.
"Jesus, you were scared of him?" Don teases me, nudging me when I refuse to look at him. I am too busy looking at the sky, trying to prove God's existence by looking for his face, hidden behind one of the clouds.
"It's not that. Ayaw ko lang na mahuli tayo" Ako, I correct in my mind. There have been a couple of occasions when Don had almost been caught via random drug testing. Random, my ass. I'm just lucky I haven't been associated with Don's vice because I don't have the charisma to charm my way out of trouble. Nor do I have a brain fast enough to come up with excuses. I probably do, but I'd have to be drunk and being drunk in front of the school administration is just as bad as being investigated for doing drugs.
"You're too uptight girl," he tells me, his arm slung around my shoulders in a chummy manner. (He tells me this every time. I once told him that I get out of shit because of my paranoia. He retaliated by telling me shit only happens if we eat too much beans and kamote and down it with a bottle of coke.)
We sit on the stone bench for what feels like some time (Weed tends to slow time-- or is it only me? For all I know, Don might believe we're jumping into lightyears.), switching between sucking the cigarette, crushing whatever weed's left in Marly and talking about our latest project for the class we were both taking. I tell him how Bud is a modern day Arre, how Arre seems to stereotype his characters. He shakes his head and argues that Arre has epic plots; he takes time to develop his characters and plot while Bud seems fast paced. Eventually, we drift into films and as he explains to me the beauty of pace and mood Guy Ritchie makes in his movies, my minds drifts off once again:
Why is it that I do this again? I ask myself as I pass the faux cigarette to Don. He flashes me another one of his grins, waiting for my disapproval. I shrug and ask him, "Ano?" He grabs his hair in frustration when he realizes that I'm not paying attention. My eyes linger on the tousled part of his hair, where it sticks out in a multitude of directions. I want to curl his hair around my finger, card my fingers through his hair, to tousle it some more. I want to cut his hair, tape a lock of it in my planner, to shave everything off and make some pasta out of it. I want to sniff his hair, to figure out what shampoo he uses, so I can use it and be reminded of him when I smell my hair. I want to kiss him, possibly bite his lower lip, hear him ouch in protest or moan with want, to taste what he's had for lunch, if he had chewed on his pencils again, or stuck his tongue up some faceless cunt. I want to hold his hands, admire how he keeps his nails clean, wonder what else he does to give him such rough hands.
It's the weed. Puta, oo, eto ang dahilan kung bakit ko ito ginagawa. Because the weed masks everything, makes him smell like dead grass, like vice, like danger, like warning bells that go up whenever I pass by him and he asks if I want a smoke.
I am lonely, desperate, pathetic and possibly high. Weed is one of the few things I have to share with him, what keeps me connected to him. Every time I take a drag, I smack my lips, wet it with saliva, because I am a sloppy kisser and I want him to have a bit of me when he inhales. When I exhale the smoke, I blow to his face, my lips puckered, the smoke some form of flying kiss that covers his entire face.
"Do you get it? The violence mixed in with the Irish drinking song, it completely makes you unaware of the fight. Oh sure you see it, but the music is overpowering-- hindi mo masyadong mahahalata na kulang na lang mamatay yung lalaki kasi ang saya ng background music. You become amused and cheer on along with the drunken brutes when the hero knocks the antagonist into a coma. We're not the audience anymore; we're fucking spectators." Don looks at me expectantly. At this point, I can't keep up with him; all I'm hearing is: Doooo yooouuuu geeeet iiiittt? along with the pounding of my heart, how blood and chemicals are pulsing through my veins. I become aware that his arm has never left my shoulders.
"Yes. No-- I don't know. I can't recall this movie so well," I lie. "What time is it?"
The bell rings and we both curse. Don keeps the cigarette along with Marly and I wave at the smoke. I take out my perfume and spray myself. Eugh. Forbidden Fantasy, no matter how appropriate the name does not go well with weed. But it masks it enough. I gesture to the bottle and Don laughs. He shrugs and holds out his arms, as if tied to an invisible crucifix. I spray him, I spray the air and we both jump and dance around to get as much Forbidden as we possibly can. He fishes out a pack of gum from his pocket and I accept a couple. We leave the seclusion of the trees and join the rest of the campus. Students pour out of the buildings like tears when one cuts an onion: fast and uncontrollable. Chatter builds and rises and I don't know what is more unbearable: silence or noise?
Don and I don (and here, I snort and giggle) shades. Thank God it's become a fashion accessory.
We pass by a couple of buildings before we stop at his.
"I'll see you next time?" Aaaaaayyyyee'll ssssseee yyyooouuu neeekkksss tiiiiimmee? His voice hits me like a tidal wave. A pathetic tidal wave that doesn't kill my feelings. Sometimes, I want to get high enough to have an excuse to do something to him. Murder, sex, tie him to a tree post-I don't know exactly what I would do.
I nod my head but it's too fast for me so I do it slower. He whoops.
"Ayt, see you dude," he says. "Dude!" he greets someone behind me. They high five and wave at me as they head up the stairs. I need a mirror. I need to show myself who needs to be shot before things get out of control.
I exit the building, hurrying to one of the buildings we had passed by, so I wouldn't be late.