Saturday mornings are the best mornings to wake up to. No worries for tomorrow and free from the stress of yesterday. I shuffled from my former fetal position into a starfish spread, stretching my limbs out wide across my bed. Waking up without a hangover on a Saturday morning is a refreshing experience, especially for a workaholic (and slightly alcoholic) woman in her early thirties like me.
The smell of something delicious lingering in the air encouraged me to get up. I usually don't cook for myself in mornings, especially weekends. (Well technically, I rarely cook for myself.) Since I moved out of my parents' house and started living on my own, I lived out of buying food ready for consumption. (Don't get me wrong; I don't completely pig out on fast food chains. The lutong-bahay from a trusted neighbor is enough for me.)
Lately, my officemates are pressuring me to go kick-start my idle love life. My friends are with them as well; they say that at our age, we should already have someone to invest emotionally and romantically or if not, at least someone to date. I feel so left out, seeing them all happy and enjoying their lives with their partners.
I went downstairs to check the source of the scent, only to be greeted by the bare back of a half-naked man fiddling with stuff in my kitchen. I heard a hum of an unfamiliar tune as I approached the man wearing only his gray boxer shorts and my pink apron with a 'Kiss the Chef' print. Stealthily, I snuck up on him and placed a light kiss on his muscular back, which startled him.
"Hey, Gale. What are you doing?" I asked him.
"Cooking."
"No shit, Sherlock. I mean, why?"
"What a great way to greet me a good morning, Hazel," he chuckled, his back still facing towards me.
"Using someone else's kitchen without their permission is rude."
"Complaining to someone who voluntarily cooked for you is rude," he replied back.
"Whatever, babe."
A brief amount of silence enveloped the room for a while and the only audible background noise was the crackling sound the oil made. It was not an awkward kind of silence; it's the type of silence that makes you feel comfortable and at ease. During those moments, I just hugged him from behind and watched him as he worked for the food.
For just a span of a year and a half, I've already dated (and gave up) on twelve different men. Gale, my current one, is apparently the most long-lasting, comprising the entire half of a year from my tally. There's just something . . . different about him. A responsible and employed adult who is also a bit knowledgeable in household chores: he is the perfect partner that a modern woman needs.
Although a part of me worries that our relationship might not end up well (since thirteen is an unlucky number, according to others), who knows? Maybe the thirteenth try's the charm.
As he dipped more pieces of chicken fillet on the bowl of battered eggs, I tried to mimic his manly baritone voice and said: "I will bathe you in your own children!"
He snorted because of my joke about dipping a piece of chicken flesh in chicken eggs.
"Well actually," he said, rolling the soaked fillet on the breading, "these eggs aren't fertilized, so you can't call it the chicken's 'children' or something like that. Maybe balut would pass as a child or a fetus."
"Umm . . . so what is it, then?"
"I'm basically soaking it in its own period. These are unfertilized eggs, remember?"
Without warning, we both fell into a laughing fit, chuckling so hard that our sides started to hurt. When we finally recovered, we just found ourselves staring at each other, my blue irises against his brown ones. We just stared at each other for a while in silence; brown against blue, the land against the sky, the earth against the heavens. We were entranced by each other's eyes that they almost forgot that they were staring at each other.
I cleared my throat, finally breaking eye contact with him and ending the seemingly perpetual cycle of contradiction between our eyes, clashing like colossal creatures of color challenging one another.
He went back into cooking while on the other hand; I headed straight to the cupboards to get some plates, utensils and glasses. As I prepared the table, a thought went through my mind:
We are starting to act like a married couple.
The idea ignited an inexplicable feeling inside of me that I couldn't comprehend. Am I really ready for stuff like this? What if I ended up disappointing him?
Hmm.
Maybe I just have to let things go on.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Gale screamed as his character fell off the track. I just chuckled as I reached the finish line despite my struggle to keep on the track. Playing games on Saturdays became a tradition for both of us, and I thought it would be a great idea to piss the hell out of him by choosing Rainbow Road (even though I myself hated the track as well). Mario Kart surely is a rage-inducing game.
After his raging fit full of profanities was done, he finally managed to let out a laugh which I joyfully joined. In a matter of months, Gale and I became very intimately close to each other. Being with Gale became an addiction for me; for some unexplainable reason, this man made me a lot happier than before. It was as if he showed me a brighter world.
A pair of arms made its way around his waist. "Any problem, Gale?" I whispered in his ear as I hugged him tighter.
"Just...thinking about stuff," he replied.
"Do you miss it back there in L.A? It's probably better there than in here ..."
"Shh," he said, cutting me off, "don't think of it that way. I love it here and I couldn't be happier to be able to call you as my girlfriend."
Girlfriend. Just the thought of it made my spirits afloat. I played with his raven hair, messing it up with my fingers as I hugged him.
"Thank you so much, Gale. I mean, you can have better earnings back at your home yet you-you...decided to stay here with me," I muttered silently.
"Hey, stop that. I love you so much and you love me as well. That's what matters. Besides, this is my definition of home."
Home.
For a moment, tons of conflicted thoughts entered my mind. I'm still not sure why I deserve this guy. Who am I to be treated as his special one? His home?
I just hugged him tighter as he whispered sweet nothings into my ear. Sometimes, I don't understand myself anymore.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
The restaurant was filled with couples minding their own worlds, engrossed with the company of their partners. However, for the first time ever, I didn't find the atmosphere toxic, but rather rejuvenating. Perhaps I'm starting to get the hang of this 'romance' thingy.
I shuffled a bit from my seat, looking around and patiently waiting for my date. A mixture of excitement and nervousness whirled in my insides as seconds passed by. For a moment, I thought he already ditched me, until I heard a voice call me from behind.
"Hazel?"
I turned around to face the source of the sound and smiled.
Maybe the fourteenth try's the charm.
