Blame It On Paperbacks

Page 2

It’s Saturday so to speak. I woke up in the absence of everyone. Mom left a note on the fridge saying she only has to drop to the Lee’s as planned. I’m hearing lines from the song Pills by The Perishers. My brother left the iPod playing on the dining table and it’s bothering me why he listened to songs like this. Dad’s out for work. Breakfast is already prepared and I’m starting to wonder why everyone’s gone that early. It’s just 8AM. I remember how tired I got last night from the arcade with Red so I checked my phone if there’s any message from her that I failed to read because I’m still wearing the clothes from yesterday.

There’s a message from her:

Good night, S. I hope everything will turn out right. I love you.

I typed some sentences in reply to her message and decided to shower. I did all my home works after. It’s my kind of routine every Saturday morning and the rest of the day is an overall question what should I do with the several hours left. I checked the clock and it’s just 1 in the afternoon. I guess no one is willing to come home early so I decided to dress myself up and go for a walk. Starbucks is just few meters away and I think I could handle that since I like the amount of scattered dry leaves all over the neighbourhood and the weather is fair.

I like everything that withers old. They make me realize what time is capable of doing. Things and people that have gone through a long span of time suggest more interesting stories than anything or anyone could in a lifetime.

I lunged in the coffee shop and to my surprise, there he is, stilled. His eyes locked in my direction, looking at me from head to toe, and then finally meeting my eyes. An internal startling overwhelmed me for a moment and I felt as if I’m an ice slowly melting into a small puddle on the ground. Why? I quickly found a table and grabbed the chair facing the opposite direction where he is located.

Oh, man. I didn’t order anything yet. Stupid. I left my satchel as a mark that someone has already taken the table and brought my wallet with me as I ramp towards the counter. I didn’t take a second look at him but I could sense from my periphery that he’s looking at me. Or it’s just a hopeless romantic anticipation. Either way, I know that I’m not comfortable in this whole situation.

“Hey.” A familiar voice from behind lingers the air that makes me want to choke my soul out. I just turned side-face without looking at him. “Hey,” I muttered. I could feel him near me aback like I can sense his aura through my spine.

“Are you with someone?” he asked with his brows meeting together and eyes shrunk small as if he’s confused.

“No, I’m not. How about you?” Still not looking at him while getting my order in the counter.

“No, no. I—uh—just hanging, you know, typical Saturdays,” his attempt to make the conversation a bit inviting.

Finally, I grabbed my Caramel Macchiato, smiled at him, pointed my table by which I’m telling him that I’m good to go, and sprinted to my place. I started skimming through my phone, looking past all the read messages, all my social network accounts, and everything else just to kill the time and escape from the awkwardness that has been surrounding my knees and fingertips. Until he walked in and sat on the chair in front of me. That was then I realized I should’ve leaned on reading a book I brought with me rather than sticking with an immediate-remedy-for-awkward-people device. At least, he would have not dared to bother.

“So, how’s it going?” I can’t arrive to any sentence, not even to a single word to get back at him. There’s this impulse of me wanting to talk to him yet all I could manage to hear and feel is my irregular heartbeat.

“How’s it going with what?” Excellent, Scarlet Jane Hernandez, excellent.

“How’s it going with you? Everything about you,” he patiently answered even if he’s obviously puzzled of my response.