Scheherazade85

I dread having to have found the words for this. I wanna do other things. I wanna go to places. I wanna write about other things—miserable country travels, inferior accommodations in some substandard shelter (calling it an inn would be too charming), wearying and exhausting bus rides where you find yourself all sticky and sultry—anything spectacular, ordinary and what-not, just anything, but this.

Twelve o'clock midnight, on a Saturday. I am at a loss as to what to do with the rest of the weekend. The damned guy is full of bull, as usual, sending emails of how he misses me and us together, all that ****.

Then I remember that unplanned evening with the girl, just the week before. Yes, one of those awkward and discomforting moments that nobody ever wants to be in.

We exchanged besos in the counter, after which I faked a name (as usual) with the barrista that the hot mocha was for Ophelia. I felt defeated still coz he spelled it Ofelia. Mæn! Later, we tried making ourselves comfortable in one of those tables for two in a patronized coffee shop (why do I have to not name it, it's just Starbucks, for godssake). The conversation was lively, I should say. It was comparable to discussing the three basic problems of our desolate country with all the cheerfulness and soft tones of Audrey Hepburn. (Well, two Audrey Hepburns, at that.) When one of us got nervous, the coffee and reds (hers were whites) were our ready armors. To say that we were diplomatic would be inaccurate because far from the usual and the ordinary, we had a bond. There was a bond—not the fake platonic or lover-to-lover kind of bond but that of feeling like knowing a person like you've met before but not really. It was quite a surprisingly comforting feeling. But the hell, that "bond" was illusory and if I'd known better as to where the hell it emanated, where the hell else but from that thing... the hell, never mind. (The tone is not of bitterness but one that's indubitably brusque and harsh that comes from objectivism and coming into the right senses. And by the way, I never thought you could insert multiple the hells in a sentence.)

Then I said jokingly (I knew the joke was lame though), "In coffee veritas." But she only stared at the table. Blank. I didn't know if she heard me. If she did, I didn't know if she understood the joke or she was too pensive and preoccupied. I choose to believe the latter, okay? Anyhow, all else that were brought into the open became insignificant when one thing was discovered—apart from sharing the same lover, we discovered that at one point in that infamous love entanglement, we both got an indecent proposal from the bastard, him using similar words. (I am tempted to end this here, the way the both of us wanted to rush home upon that discovery. Until now, it remains a spoiler.) That discovery was like an extended brick wall in that old Pink Floyd album that appears out of nowhere and knocks the senses out of you, telling you to go home, shower and wash away the drunkenness out of you.

I still feel strongly for that bastard. Of love, longing, hatred, disgust, I'm not sure. But I say this with objectivity: it doesn't matter, not anymore.

If I have one precious possession right now, it is that god-given salvation that I will never be that bride who, on her wedding day, instead of best wishes and thoughts of hope, would fret and worry about the uncertainty of that day itself. To a typical woman, there is no greater horror than to live in worry, on her wedding day, of all days, as to whether, in that day of crisis, her partner would chicken out like he did so many times before. And if at all, we would survive that day, how about the life (where there's no escape, only a cul-de-sac) of living in anxiety and fear that he would one day turn into the dishonest, disloyal and distraught man who once had the sickness of indecision. And worse, there's nothing that he could say or do that could ever take that fear and worry away. I may have felt beaten and that I've lost but at least, I have the promise that I will never be that woman. Therefore, I am thankful—thankful that I am saved.

With all the courage that I could possibly muster, I take heed of the wisdom of the already immortal Melanie Lim (then again): Avoid men afflicted with serial infidelity like the plague. Don't make the mistake of welcoming a philanderer into your home or your heart. Walk away and know that you are a better woman for having walked away from a lesser man.