I felt pain in one of those hazy nights, lazing through the smoke and the alcohol, making out shapes in the misty, dim-lit room. The soft chimes of the piano keys floated in our midst as I slouched over to make out her face.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the chest clenching pain. I wasn’t sure why it felt like my stomach just dropped down. I tried my best to hide it though and I don’t think she noticed me wince.
“That’s right. I like him, but I don’t think he’ll ever like me back” she gave her reply to my request for clarification.
She likes another man. Apparently, it’s a one side of thing. What was it called now?
“I hope you’re not judging me or something…” her voice trailed off. She looked down with a timid expression, probably because she just disclosed her deepest secret.
I tried to reach out, but my hand was trembling. Out of anger? Out of sadness? The piano was now doing a sonata. I held my hand back and let it fall on the table. I tried to be inconspicuous, by making it as if I was reaching for my coffee cup, but I just looked stupid and awkward.
I reassured her and told her that it’s fine. That people always undergo these sort of one-sided relationships (for which the actual term escapes my head at the moment). I told her that maybe if she could spend more time with him and get to know each other. The usual stuff. You know.
She was a shy girl anyway. Maybe these little moments of minute courage may help her to convince him to reciprocate his feelings. Maybe she can go ahead and live a happy life with this guy. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about her. Maybe then I’ll stop feeling this stupid pain in my chest. Maybe.
This guy who’s playing the piano is terrible. He’s playing the keys too loud now. I don’t think you’re supposed to slam your fingers on the keys.
She smiled. It was a peculiar smile out in the dimness and the fogginess of my mind. She smiled and thanked me and I said it was alright but she thanked me again and kept smiling. She smiled with those pink lips accented with a dab of rouge. It just broke my heart.
I told her that it’s alright to share these things with your close friends once in a while.
“What was that?”
Damn this piano. What does he think this is? An orchestra? You don’t need a damned crescendo in a café.
Nothing.
“Oh” she gave me a frustrated look. She doesn’t like it when I say that. Usually she would pout, but this time she remained silent for a while.
I rubbed my temples with thumb and index finger, trying to sort out my mind but the fogginess and loudness were preventing me from doing so. Everything felt like a dream that you’re keenly aware of, but not exactly lucid. It felt like I was sitting in the sidelines, watching the events unfold. I wanted to say things and express things, but my throat was dry and I couldn’t get the words out.
You don’t know. Sometimes all this pent up emotions might get the best of you. I’m now talking in a louder voice. My stomach felt funny as I was saying these words and my heart felt like twisting. Somehow I felt more pain. This piano isn’t helping either.
I stood up, knocking my chair over. My hand waved through the mist, through the smoke and alcohol, through the pain, as I made my way outside. She was following me as I dragged my feet outside. I was panting and my ears were ringing.
“Are you alright?”
I told her that I was fine. I then continued: I said that it’s not good to keep it in a one sided kind of way. It’ll hurt you in the end. It’s like a Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. Like Cyrano and Roxanne.
“Unrequited love?”
Yeah that’s what it’s called. Couldn’t think through that loud piano inside.
She smiled her heartbreaking smile again. I wanted to tell her to stop that. I was very close! I opened my mouth but cold air just went in my mouth and through my throat. I coughed and then smiled back at her. I said that it’s going to be alright.
“I hope so.”
I didn’t reply and we waited out in the cold for a while. I was leaning on the wall and she was just right there next to me, shoulder to shoulder, shivering, trying to keep some warmth.
I didn’t want to say anything else, but I wanted my presence known. I’m here. I share your plight. For years I’ve always wanted to say things and share things and express things. This sort of thing is slowly killing me inside. I tried to regain my composure and tried to think again: what if all of this works out for her? What if he reciprocates her feelings? I suppose it would be alright. I wouldn’t be bothered by her anymore. I wouldn’t have think and be tormented anymore. Maybe then I won’t have to worry about this whole Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. The pain welled up inside of me, but I can hear the piano inside calming down.
In the clear, cold, cloudless night, there was nothing but the wisps of our breaths, meandering, and ultimately dissipating into the night.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Mr. Business Executive
Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce lived all his life without the thrill of the hunt or the enjoyment of the game. Not once did he stop to smell the flowers, or at least bask in his own self-created happiness. All his life was about the stocks and the investors. All his life was aimed towards the goal of retirement. Because of this, he never tasted the good food in the expensive restaurants he would go to. He would just suck it all in, too worried about losing money. After all, his company depended upon him and every moment that he’s not in his office, he’s losing some money. After all, this food is just the sustenance that he needs to survive.
He never really went to his son’s basketball games. Sure, he was physically there, but his fingers were too busy typing in calculations and he would keep telling himself that he shouldn’t stay there for too long. It bothers him that for every minute that he’s not in his office, he’s losing a little bit of money. He forgot what a good night’s sleep felt like. Every creak or crash in the night woke him up. Thieves? No, he never thought about animals that would make noises or the wind. It would keep him up at night, ever vigilante for the nonexistent thieves, his revolver in easy reach.
More importantly, he never really enjoyed having sex with his wife. All through the years he was physically there, humping her, but it was the dry sort of humping without passion. His mind was somewhere doing calculations, analyzing stocks, meeting investors, while his body was in between the legs of a woman who told him to stop five minutes ago. Maybe that’s why his wife divorced him. Or maybe it was the little trysts that he had with his secretaries. After all, having sex at work was pretty damn convenient. He never had to leave his office and he can punch in numbers while she smoked in the afterglow. Even then, he was unable to show any passion afterwards, often pushing away his mistress when she wanted to cuddle up a bit more. He hated his wife for divorcing him. He regretted not signing a prenuptial agreement. Now, he’s going to lose a lot of money. That money was supposed to be his, for his retirement that is. But it’s alright. Just a little more time and he’ll be retiring soon.
For one thing, he was proud that he raised an independent son—one that didn’t cling to him and go back to him to ask for money, that is. He’s off doing his own thing, travelling around Europe, playing for a National team, the hell he cares. He heard that his son’s team made it to the finals once and a ticket to the game ended up in his front desk, though he gladly sold it away without a second thought. He was going to work overtime that night. He just couldn’t be bothered.
Someone pointed out that he’s been coughing a lot recently though. Despite this, he kept punching in the numbers, meeting with investors, observing the stocks. At night, he would wake up and start coughing incessantly. In the morning, he would wake up and find blood all over the sheets. Coughing up blood? Maybe it’ll go away soon. Two weeks passed. His shoulders jutted with pain every time he stretched his arms. His chest felt as if someone put a clamp over it; and then the cough. The cough was beyond excruciating at this point—and it was keeping him from meeting up with investors. He thought to himself, what if investors don’t want to meet because they think they’ll catch whatever I have. Begrudgingly, he set up an appointment with his physician.
X-rays, biopsies, whatever. Just give me the pills, doc, so I can get back to work. He said with an impatient tone. He never trusted doctors anyway. Dentists either. They’ll always find something—some sort of God forsaken disease unknown to man and make you buy pills that cost half a human corpse from a man in a lab coat who gets paid too much for counting pills. Well what are you waiting for, doc? It’s been a week now, just give me the news. TB? Some goddamn flu from Mexico? (I knew I shouldn’t have gone there for that fucking waste of time investors)
The physician looked at him with a stern face and told him that he has lung cancer.
Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce looked back at those eyes as if to retort to his diagnosis. Is this one of your scams doc? His voice was rising as he stood up from the chair and began putting in his coat.
The physician clarified and said that if he doesn’t undergo treatment soon, he will die for certain.
No, no, I’m not doing one of your cheap scams doc. I might be sleazy but I’m not stupid. I know how the bunch of you work. He stormed outside and trudged to his car, coughing, covering his mouth with his bloody handkerchief. He finally got in his car, slammed the door and drove out of the lot.
Deep inside Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce, he had a small voice that was telling him: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. Then he said out in a hollering voice (it hurt his throat) that there’s no fucking way. That damn doctor liked to talk to his ex-wife anyway. Maybe they’re on to this together. It’s probably some elaborate scam. Either way, he can’t die now. There’s no way. Despite this, the tiny voice kept saying the same words: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. This time, they were a little louder and they echoed in his mind.
No. It’s a scam. That fucking bastard of a doctor’s sleeping with my wife. They’re trying to take my money. Cough.
These were his last thoughts as his car slammed into a raised flatbed truck, utterly annihilating his face. The paramedics had to pick up the pieces of his brain and skull, which spilled all over the asphalt, and the police had to look for his ID because it was near impossible to identify him. Afterwards, his car was towed away, unceremoniously, and the city’s biohazard crew had to clean up the blood he spilled all over the road, creating backed up traffic. Everyone who got stuck in traffic swore off whoever the asshole was that was the cause of this.
As it turns out, he held his business all by himself through some sort of superhuman feat. His will declared that all of his money be invested back into his business, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea because his spineless second-in-command never really knew how to run the business. Investors fled. The company went under. Bankruptcy was filed.
All that is left of Mr. Richard Ivan Pierce was his corpse in the morgue, with his crushed face and broken body. It lay there, unclaimed and ready to be shipped off to a University for dissections, or maybe it will stay there in the morgue for a while and some funeral home donates their time to give the poor wretch a funeral and bury him somewhere no one will remember. No one remembers him anymore, and he never left a single speck of him ever existing (besides his son and his other bastard children, but they’ll never really know their father). Perhaps he planned for that enormous amount of money that he was amassing to be his monument—his gravestone in the corporate world, in a way, but none of that exists anymore.
He never really went to his son’s basketball games. Sure, he was physically there, but his fingers were too busy typing in calculations and he would keep telling himself that he shouldn’t stay there for too long. It bothers him that for every minute that he’s not in his office, he’s losing a little bit of money. He forgot what a good night’s sleep felt like. Every creak or crash in the night woke him up. Thieves? No, he never thought about animals that would make noises or the wind. It would keep him up at night, ever vigilante for the nonexistent thieves, his revolver in easy reach.
More importantly, he never really enjoyed having sex with his wife. All through the years he was physically there, humping her, but it was the dry sort of humping without passion. His mind was somewhere doing calculations, analyzing stocks, meeting investors, while his body was in between the legs of a woman who told him to stop five minutes ago. Maybe that’s why his wife divorced him. Or maybe it was the little trysts that he had with his secretaries. After all, having sex at work was pretty damn convenient. He never had to leave his office and he can punch in numbers while she smoked in the afterglow. Even then, he was unable to show any passion afterwards, often pushing away his mistress when she wanted to cuddle up a bit more. He hated his wife for divorcing him. He regretted not signing a prenuptial agreement. Now, he’s going to lose a lot of money. That money was supposed to be his, for his retirement that is. But it’s alright. Just a little more time and he’ll be retiring soon.
For one thing, he was proud that he raised an independent son—one that didn’t cling to him and go back to him to ask for money, that is. He’s off doing his own thing, travelling around Europe, playing for a National team, the hell he cares. He heard that his son’s team made it to the finals once and a ticket to the game ended up in his front desk, though he gladly sold it away without a second thought. He was going to work overtime that night. He just couldn’t be bothered.
Someone pointed out that he’s been coughing a lot recently though. Despite this, he kept punching in the numbers, meeting with investors, observing the stocks. At night, he would wake up and start coughing incessantly. In the morning, he would wake up and find blood all over the sheets. Coughing up blood? Maybe it’ll go away soon. Two weeks passed. His shoulders jutted with pain every time he stretched his arms. His chest felt as if someone put a clamp over it; and then the cough. The cough was beyond excruciating at this point—and it was keeping him from meeting up with investors. He thought to himself, what if investors don’t want to meet because they think they’ll catch whatever I have. Begrudgingly, he set up an appointment with his physician.
X-rays, biopsies, whatever. Just give me the pills, doc, so I can get back to work. He said with an impatient tone. He never trusted doctors anyway. Dentists either. They’ll always find something—some sort of God forsaken disease unknown to man and make you buy pills that cost half a human corpse from a man in a lab coat who gets paid too much for counting pills. Well what are you waiting for, doc? It’s been a week now, just give me the news. TB? Some goddamn flu from Mexico? (I knew I shouldn’t have gone there for that fucking waste of time investors)
The physician looked at him with a stern face and told him that he has lung cancer.
Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce looked back at those eyes as if to retort to his diagnosis. Is this one of your scams doc? His voice was rising as he stood up from the chair and began putting in his coat.
The physician clarified and said that if he doesn’t undergo treatment soon, he will die for certain.
No, no, I’m not doing one of your cheap scams doc. I might be sleazy but I’m not stupid. I know how the bunch of you work. He stormed outside and trudged to his car, coughing, covering his mouth with his bloody handkerchief. He finally got in his car, slammed the door and drove out of the lot.
Deep inside Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce, he had a small voice that was telling him: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. Then he said out in a hollering voice (it hurt his throat) that there’s no fucking way. That damn doctor liked to talk to his ex-wife anyway. Maybe they’re on to this together. It’s probably some elaborate scam. Either way, he can’t die now. There’s no way. Despite this, the tiny voice kept saying the same words: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. This time, they were a little louder and they echoed in his mind.
No. It’s a scam. That fucking bastard of a doctor’s sleeping with my wife. They’re trying to take my money. Cough.
These were his last thoughts as his car slammed into a raised flatbed truck, utterly annihilating his face. The paramedics had to pick up the pieces of his brain and skull, which spilled all over the asphalt, and the police had to look for his ID because it was near impossible to identify him. Afterwards, his car was towed away, unceremoniously, and the city’s biohazard crew had to clean up the blood he spilled all over the road, creating backed up traffic. Everyone who got stuck in traffic swore off whoever the asshole was that was the cause of this.
As it turns out, he held his business all by himself through some sort of superhuman feat. His will declared that all of his money be invested back into his business, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea because his spineless second-in-command never really knew how to run the business. Investors fled. The company went under. Bankruptcy was filed.
All that is left of Mr. Richard Ivan Pierce was his corpse in the morgue, with his crushed face and broken body. It lay there, unclaimed and ready to be shipped off to a University for dissections, or maybe it will stay there in the morgue for a while and some funeral home donates their time to give the poor wretch a funeral and bury him somewhere no one will remember. No one remembers him anymore, and he never left a single speck of him ever existing (besides his son and his other bastard children, but they’ll never really know their father). Perhaps he planned for that enormous amount of money that he was amassing to be his monument—his gravestone in the corporate world, in a way, but none of that exists anymore.
Friday, April 9, 2010
One night I inadvertently felt pain.
I felt pain in one of those hazy nights, lazing through the smoke and the alcohol, making out shapes in the misty, dim-lit room. The soft chimes of the piano keys floating in our midst as I slouched over to make out her face.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the chest clenching pain. I wasn’t sure why it felt like my stomach just dropped down. I tried my best to hide it though, and I don’t think she noticed me wince.
“That’s right. I like him, but I don’t think he’ll ever like me back” she gave out her reply to my request for clarification.
She likes another man. Apparently, it’s a one side of thing. What’s it called now?
“I hope you’re not judging me or something…” her voice trailed off. She looked down with a timid expression, probably because she just disclosed her deepest secret.
I tried to reach out, but my hand was trembling. Out of anger? Out of sadness? The piano was now doing a sonata. I held my hand back and let it fall on the table, attempting to be inconspicuous, as if I was reaching for my coffee in the first place.
I reassured her and told her that it’s fine. That people always undergo these sort of one-sided relationships (for which the actual term escapes my head at the moment). I told her that maybe if she could spend more time with him and get to know each other. You know, the usual stuff.
She was a shy girl anyway. Maybe these little moments of minute courage may help her end up with the person she likes. Maybe she can go ahead and live a happy life with this guy. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about her. Maybe.
This guy who’s playing the piano is terrible. He’s playing the keys too loud now. I don’t think you’re supposed to slam your fingers on the keys.
She smiled. It was a peculiar smile out in the darkness and the fogginess of my mind. She smiled and thanked me and I said it was alright but she thanked me again and kept smiling. It just broke my heart.
I told her that it’s alright to share these things with your close friends once in a while.
“What was that?”
Damn this piano. What does he think this is? An orchestra? You don’t need a damned crescendo in a café.
I repeated what I said: that it’s good to share these things with your friends once in a while.
She laughed.
You don’t know. Sometimes all this pent up emotions might get the best of you. I’m now talking in a louder voice. My stomach felt funny as I was saying these words and my heart felt like twisting. Somehow I felt more pain. This piano isn’t helping either.
I stood up, knocking my chair over. My hand waved through the mist, through the smoke and alcohol, through the pain, as I made my way outside. She was following me as I dragged my feet outside. I was panting and my ears were ringing.
“Are you alright?”
I told her that I was fine. I then continued: I said that it’s not good to keep it in a one sided kind of way. It’ll hurt you in the end. It’s like a Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. Like Cyrano and Roxanne.
“Unrequited love?”
Yeah that’s what it’s called. Can’t think through all that loud piano inside.
She smiled her heartbreaking smile again. I wanted to tell her to stop that. I was very close! I opened my mouth but cold air just went in my mouth and through my throat. I coughed and then smiled back at her. I said that it’s going to be alright.
“I hope so.”
I didn’t reply and we waited out in the cold for a while. I was leaning on the wall and she was just right there next to me, shoulder to shoulder, shivering, trying to keep some warmth.
We talked for a little while and the pain stayed with me. Like I said, maybe if she does end up with this guy, I’ll eventually forget her. I won’t have to regret not saying anything in the first place. I won’t have to think about her… and just forget her.
Maybe if she finds someone else to talk to, I won’t have to worry about the whole Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. The pain welled up inside of me, but I can hear the piano inside calming down.
In the clear, cold, cloudless night, there was nothing but the wisps of our breaths, meandering, and ultimately dissipating into the night.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the chest clenching pain. I wasn’t sure why it felt like my stomach just dropped down. I tried my best to hide it though, and I don’t think she noticed me wince.
“That’s right. I like him, but I don’t think he’ll ever like me back” she gave out her reply to my request for clarification.
She likes another man. Apparently, it’s a one side of thing. What’s it called now?
“I hope you’re not judging me or something…” her voice trailed off. She looked down with a timid expression, probably because she just disclosed her deepest secret.
I tried to reach out, but my hand was trembling. Out of anger? Out of sadness? The piano was now doing a sonata. I held my hand back and let it fall on the table, attempting to be inconspicuous, as if I was reaching for my coffee in the first place.
I reassured her and told her that it’s fine. That people always undergo these sort of one-sided relationships (for which the actual term escapes my head at the moment). I told her that maybe if she could spend more time with him and get to know each other. You know, the usual stuff.
She was a shy girl anyway. Maybe these little moments of minute courage may help her end up with the person she likes. Maybe she can go ahead and live a happy life with this guy. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about her. Maybe.
This guy who’s playing the piano is terrible. He’s playing the keys too loud now. I don’t think you’re supposed to slam your fingers on the keys.
She smiled. It was a peculiar smile out in the darkness and the fogginess of my mind. She smiled and thanked me and I said it was alright but she thanked me again and kept smiling. It just broke my heart.
I told her that it’s alright to share these things with your close friends once in a while.
“What was that?”
Damn this piano. What does he think this is? An orchestra? You don’t need a damned crescendo in a café.
I repeated what I said: that it’s good to share these things with your friends once in a while.
She laughed.
You don’t know. Sometimes all this pent up emotions might get the best of you. I’m now talking in a louder voice. My stomach felt funny as I was saying these words and my heart felt like twisting. Somehow I felt more pain. This piano isn’t helping either.
I stood up, knocking my chair over. My hand waved through the mist, through the smoke and alcohol, through the pain, as I made my way outside. She was following me as I dragged my feet outside. I was panting and my ears were ringing.
“Are you alright?”
I told her that I was fine. I then continued: I said that it’s not good to keep it in a one sided kind of way. It’ll hurt you in the end. It’s like a Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. Like Cyrano and Roxanne.
“Unrequited love?”
Yeah that’s what it’s called. Can’t think through all that loud piano inside.
She smiled her heartbreaking smile again. I wanted to tell her to stop that. I was very close! I opened my mouth but cold air just went in my mouth and through my throat. I coughed and then smiled back at her. I said that it’s going to be alright.
“I hope so.”
I didn’t reply and we waited out in the cold for a while. I was leaning on the wall and she was just right there next to me, shoulder to shoulder, shivering, trying to keep some warmth.
We talked for a little while and the pain stayed with me. Like I said, maybe if she does end up with this guy, I’ll eventually forget her. I won’t have to regret not saying anything in the first place. I won’t have to think about her… and just forget her.
Maybe if she finds someone else to talk to, I won’t have to worry about the whole Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. The pain welled up inside of me, but I can hear the piano inside calming down.
In the clear, cold, cloudless night, there was nothing but the wisps of our breaths, meandering, and ultimately dissipating into the night.
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