But, Could You?

It's From Cebu

Only after twenty minutes of the quiet taxi tour and another five minutes of choosing-and-ordering did they have finally looked at each other.

"How's your work?" Citra asked, propping her left cheek up on one elbow.

"Excellent."

"Tell me about it," she demanded.

So he did. Keenan started it by telling her that his first flight with the previous airline he worked with took him from Jakarta to Bali. He said that was unforgettable moment for finally could fly a plane with passengers. Still, every flight felt like the first experience because every flight principally was different he said; wind speed, air pressure, and the weather were never the same from time to time. Though he had taken off and landed his aircraft for nth times in Soekarno-Hatta, yet they were never alike because of those three factors. "So if anyone asks me do I get bored of my work, I'd say no," he concluded.

"Interesting," she commented. "How many countries have you flown to?"

Keenan shrugged, "I don't really know, twelve, or fifteen?"

The girl sitting opposite him clicked her tongue, "Twelve and fifteen is quite far."

He laughed, "How about you?"

"Me?" she shifted her position, arms folded on top of the table and upper torso went straight, "You said you've read my interview."

"Yeah, but I want to hear it myself from you."

"What you want to know?" she questioned then sipped her juice.

"I keep wondering how you went through your life without any relatives beside you in a place where you don't speak their language."

"What?" she let out an incredible laugh. "It's like coming to a new school, being a freshman. You feel foreign, being watched, nobody to clutch to, awkward, all alone. But as the day passed by you'll try to find a friend to spend your days with, search good places to play in, and avoid the things that'll lead you to harm. Then you socialize, and you'll learn from it. That's how I went through all my days these three years. Honestly, I could survive until today because of years of experience. I mean, I've been a solo traveler since I was 17."

"How—how is it when you get sick?"

"Um, I'd ask my guest house mate's help," she laughed sheepishly.

The short-haired guy bobbed his head slowly, "How about your artworks? Where you save them? Do you bring them from a country to another?"

"No. I save them at home. My last two days in each country were always spent to organize my sketches. In the first days I usually checked my society6 page to see if there were people ordered my paintings. If all the requirements of the transaction had completed, I'd pack the ordered works myself—along with postcards I bought in that country—and would send them from that country. If not then I'd give them to my crew at home. The latest days I'd ship all of my works; to my buyers' houses and my home. The remaining tasks of deal would be finished by my crew, so that I didn't have to get occupied with my previous work in the next destination."

"What if you run out your painting tools?"

"I'd ask my staff to ship them for me, though."

"Unbelievable," Keenan shook his head.

"I know, right?" she chuckled nonchalantly.

He gazed at her, pondering at her choice of life. Like she said in the interview, she could've live comfortably in her previous place, but here she was; going through all the hardships only to be with what she loved. The thought of it made the jittery feeling he'd been holding came back to the surface. He pondered to start talking the main reason he came to Cebu, but seeing her tired and pale face made him changed his mind. Maybe tonight, he thought. So instead he asked, "How's your mother?"