That Time of Day

She’ll never let her guard down, ever again. But she won’t overthink either. Simply because it’s maddening. Thinking is, as a matter of a dear friend’s opinion, overrated.

She leers, looks sideways, and hesitates a bit. She pays attention to what surrounds her and tries to make her observations as bias-free as a scientist’s. (Though this might be challenged by Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, which states that the mere observation of an electron already affects such electron’s behavior or movement.) She labors in expunging pre-existing feelings inculcated in childhood, as what one does in rubbing out the stains in a mirror. She once heard Joey say that she wants to spend the rest of her life wiping out stains in mirrors and glass doors. Yeah, me too, she thoughtlessly declared. But it need not be pointed out that thoughts like these are born only out of sporadic care-free moments—ones where you can afford to look above, beam, think freely and blurt out whatever comes to mind. To not hesitate at all.

“So was 'This Is It' a documentary or a concert?”
“The former. It was so cool, man. So worth it. No other fifty-year-old could have done such brisk moves and stunts as MJ; well, he was no longer as snappy as before but still… ahhh… just awesome…” Blah blah blah. There goes that self-pleased grin of the twenty-year-old kid-slash-adult that’s known to ATSO Gas customers as Carlos, seated next to her. Could be due to the Span-glish accent, could be due to how the training spiel blends with the greeting combination, coming out as “Welcome to ATSO Gas. This is Carlo-speaking, lalala…” People’s common impression of him is that he’s a nerd trapped in yellowish-rimmed glasses, worn-out loafers, week-old pants and oversized jackets. He knows it and he is more than pleased. But he is unaware of the continuation of that statement of an impression. More so, he is quite unaware that gays, girls, and women alike, for reasons unknown to him (and to the baffling and arcane world of the male specie), DO check him out.

Sitting at the back of her, side by side, are the crowd-supported and cheered couple. She saw her holding his hand. The lad tries hard to be comfortable and get rid of that cumbersome feeling and then finally becomes at ease. She could feel the adventurism and electrifying sensations combined with knee- and spine-tingling feelings of can’t-wait-to-be-there and are-we-there-yet.

Toot.

“Welcome to ATSO Gas, this is Maria speaking. I am confident that I can help you today; I just want to let you know that I am currently on training so this call may take slightly longer than you would expect. May I have your patience while I look after you needs today?” That was delivered in no less than 11 seconds.
“May you have my what?”
“Patience,” she replied with pride and a tad feeling of idiocy at the same time.
“(Sigh) How long have you been in training?”
“Ummm… more or less a month.
“(Sigh) Okay, okay. Though I don’t have that much time.” Lalala.

Like all else, each call is becoming a series of slightly varying habits, seemingly indispensable as sweat. But only seemingly. She wishes she could deny the familiar pattern that is no mistaking… But it’s there, in front of her, looking at her intently without b-l-i-n-k-ing.

Habits are a bad thing. Oscar Wilde had said that the formation of a habit had proved to be not merely failure but ruin. Burning lessons in the past cry out that the habit to develop habits is fatal: It destroys even the sweetest, most charming and most precious of things.

= = = = = = = = 0 0 0 0 0 0 = = = = = = = = = =

Time for the final 15-minute break. She uses both hands to carry her trappings—a purse with coins for some reds, Rosselle’s chrismassy mug gifted by a yellow-blooded suitor, whom she (Rosselle) ended up loathing for being too righteous, a year-old prized lighter from Peter and George, her ol’ time buddies way back in the previous job. She sees George from time to time. He works somewhere in this building. He says he gets bored with his new office gang. He said he’s not quite used to the idea of him hanging out with such a crowd—girls and boys with the same phallic fetishes. Not in a million years. And they reminisce, think about Peter, tease one of the absent other, run out of things to remember, get exhausted and then fall silent. She used to brag about her matchless talent of being able to perform numerous tasks within a 15-minute break. On several occasions, she gets to have a rice meal, go to the wash room, get coffee from the vendo, get down the ground floor through the elevator to have one red stick and get back on the dot.

It’s 0530. Cigarette butts sown on the ground are being swept off. Hers is planted in one of those rectangular boxes with soil. But today, she loses the usual conscientiousness and flips the cigarette butt in the rain gutter. Dang! Wrong move, Maria. But the damage could not be undone. The street sweeper would have to sweat it to pick it up.

Setting that bit of a tragedy aside, she likes the sweet subtle promises that this last precious break always brings. It’s still her favorite time of day, though relished in a painfully brief and fleeting amount of time. It’s her time to sigh.