Steve
“Hey,” he says. I was sitting on my window pane as his hand feels for a secure surface to place our favorite coffee mugs on the terracotta, “I thought you minded for some beer when I got to the kitchen to get some food.”
“There isn’t any at the ref.”
“I knew soon enough,” He said, and I was well aware though I couldn’t see him, he was grinning, “You had a liter and a half bottle of 7-Up in your cupboard and I thought we could toast to that — here, get the darn plate and help me out, will ya?”
“What’s with all the food?” I asked as I reached for the plate. It was funny seeing his hand probe out of my window like an eel out of its cave, hunting for prey. There was a slab of tuna pasta doused in olive oil, the kind you’d usually see in a ten-minute cooking book for full-time workaholics. I mentally scored him an A+ for effort, but what would be the point for grading him for such, he was my best friend, Steve. You don’t rate performance if that’s the case; thoughtfulness was sometimes already presumed in the job description.
When everything (even the condiments: Parmesan, oregano and parsley) were already laid out on a roof tile less slant than most of them, he had already climbed up, “We haven’t had dinner yet,” he explained even without me asking.
I slurped on a noodle; admittedly, he just didn’t cook deliciously… he was also a delicious cook.
Condemnations to humanity
The cosmic discos is not an entity so magnanimous to mind the meager meanderings of men. We are the prisoners of the earth, and to liberate ourselves from the tragedies of the world, or at least we attempt to, we have gone far enough to fool ourselves that the positioning of the stars, or the moon, or the sun define where we are. But we never know where we really are. The limitation of humanity has lead us to designate mere coordinates in a topsy-turvy Cartesian plane, a finite canvas of materials, space, and time. Specks in the manifestation of poor souls and specks we will return to by poor death.
Good Lines
One time, at the gym, I was about to do my triceps pushdown for four sets and ten reps — with around seven or eight blocks of weight attached to the handle — when this woman smiles at me and delays my routine. Usually, I wouldn’t let anyone, particularly a girl, particularly because I’m gay, to stop me from a work-out, but she did. It wasn’t a matter of choice. It was a matter of respect because about that quick moment I’d be able to pass up the chance to talk to her, and do my darned pushdown, she was all ready in front of me and said, You dance?
I asked her what made her prompt that question.
And she pointed at my feet and said she saw me doing some turns and a pirouette, a failed pirouette. But that doesn’t matter! Really. She says quickly, as if not to make me feel bad that I failed in pirouetting. It’s only seldom she sees someone do ballet when it’s not on a proper ballet rehearsal room.
Oh, you saw that, even though I was at the corner?
I was at the corner too! Doing my stretching.
Do you dance too?
Well, she pauses to think hard, as if she couldn’t quite tell if she did know how to dance or didn’t. I can’t exactly point my toes the way you point yours. She tells me I have strong toes.
Personally, I’d rather have strong arms, I’d kid around, but I also told her it’s not especially the toes that are important. A person’s gastrocnemiuses would be the one to hold your legs in that pointing position. I let go of the handle bar, and point my toes, and flex my legs. See?
If that’s the case, why are you doing pushdowns and not calf-raises?
Why shouldn’t I be doing pushdowns for calf-raises? I wasn’t a ballerina.
Because you’re a boy?
No. You have ballet-dancing male dancers, but I’m far too short. Ever seen how tall and slender people are in Swan Lake?
You mean Tchaicovsky’s Swan Lake? she mentions the name of the composer, my dead friend. Anyone who makes music elegant was a friend of mine, sure he did. Ah! You could be the duckling! She suggests.
One cannot sleep with the shadows
It had been fifteen minutes after the deed, but I was yet to hear my boyfriend’s snoring. He was still awake. I could see though he tried his best to drop dead and have a good night’s rest after some rigorous sex by staying still but it wouldn’t do. When I heard him sigh, I pecked him on the cheek and advised him to breathe deeply and slowly, “It’ll relax you…” I say in a hush. When done properly, it always does the trick.
“Nonsense, it doesn’t work for me that way.”
“Hey,” I turn my neck to his side and reaches to plant my lips on his for another kiss, “At least it’s more reliable than counting sheep.”
I am a Monster
Monster. Monster they cry. Monster they call me. Misshapen I am: swollen and bruised, beaten until black and blue fade into black and blue again. Matted hair and dirty features.
Monster they call me
My voice sounds as gravel, and I bring more fear in speaking than my visage does. My eyes appear as coals, deep and dark.
I am a Monster.
There are MONSTERS, but then there are also monsters. I’ve seen them; they prey on the innocent, the rich upon the poor, the cruel against the weak: bad men upon unfortunate women. And little is ever done. Business as usual, they say.
I live in an old building on the outskirts of town. I have always been here, as long as I can remember. I may have been born here. I remember (or perhaps I imagine) dirt clad peasants screaming at the sight of me, and I remember a woman yesterday screaming when my shadow came across her path. I don’t think much has changed— perhaps I remember forever, or perhaps I’ve only blocked it out. I know I remember the monsters. I see them; they are the first to see me. I make then afraid for some other reasons, perhaps because I’ve watched them, and I never forget.
One cannot sleep with the shadows
It had been fifteen minutes after the deed, but I was yet to hear my boyfriend’s snoring. He was still awake. I could see though he tried his best to drop dead and have a good night’s rest after some rigorous sex by staying still but it wouldn’t do. When I heard him sigh, I pecked him on the cheek and advised him to breathe deeply and slowly, “It’ll relax you…” I say in a hush. When done properly, it always does the trick.
“Nonsense, it doesn’t work for me that way.”
“Hey,” I turn my neck to his side and reaches to plant my lips on his for another kiss, “At least it’s more reliable than counting sheep.”
Striped Panties
He had this predilection for striped panties that whenever he saw some, he swears life had a different mood, and his room had a different smell. It was a very particular smell, a smell that wasn’t found anywhere else but in bedrooms, or in rooms that weren’t necessarily bedrooms but where people lie down anyway… you know… where people mingle horizontally. But only with striped panties does he feel this strange feeling of delight, of liberation because it’s not very often he sees striped panties anywhere. Most panties were in lace, or in Lycra, or in naturally, allergy-free scented fabric. Certainly, he liked them striped, specifically stripes that were thick, bold, and gaudily chichi.
Yep. He was crazy for striped panties. Especially when he begins to slip them on himself, and feels intense, consummate pleasure with the slapping of the garter on his muscled waist.
One cannot sleep with the shadows
It had been fifteen minutes after the deed, but I was yet to hear my boyfriend’s snoring. He was still awake. I could see though he tried his best to drop dead and have a good night’s rest after some rigorous sex by staying still but it wouldn’t do. When I heard him sigh, I pecked him on the cheek and advised him to breathe deeply and slowly, “It’ll relax you…” I say in a hush. When done properly, it always does the trick.
“Nonsense, it doesn’t work for me that way.”
“Hey,” I turn my neck to his side and reaches to plant my lips on his for another kiss, “At least it’s more reliable than counting sheep.”
The Couturier
It was half an hour past twelve when my client, Luce, came inside my shop with ease. Such gentleness was rare to find, even if there were other dozens of rich, illustrious women who come over for my services. Most present themselves a refined disposition from that moment they enter the shop until that moment they leave, soft-spoken and delicate in their movements, even from the manner they gulp – the rising and falling of their throat muscles – or when they turn their heads once I call them for tea. It was all well-rehearsed, and one could tell these ladies lived by with many rules. In the first place, they needed to look beautiful always, and this is where I come into the picture. And mind you, coming to the picture meant always having something in mind when these ladies go visit my little shop twice a month. Thrice even, when it’s Christmas.
But of course, this isn’t December, and there were no yuletide balls to attend to. Business was bad these times. Nowadays, I seldom stand up from my seat to greet a middle-aged woman wrapped up in a Pashmina shawl, nor do I find myself too preoccupied thumb-tacking fabric on canvas mannequins. Luce was different though, she was. She’d go here thrice a month — it doesn’t matter if there are holidays or none — asking for a couple of sketches, and she’d need them… “hard-copy” the week after. Some time, she requested for a bustier, a skirt and a sundress for a lunch house party with her husband’s colleagues, she shares to me once while we were having tea. I could have spilled my English Breakfast when she mentions about her spouse for the first time because she didn’t even look old enough to know what having a spouse meant.
Garden flower on a Pilates mat
Are you familiar with such cliches when rooms suddenly cave in towards you in the peak of nervousness? You cannot breathe, or at least when you try inhaling air, you end up swallowing it. The gulps are audible, and people, a good approximate of twenty men and women of variable age look at you in irritation because it is supposedly a quiet place — the yoga room — and you’re not very well contributing to the environment.
Such is my feeling.
The mat laid on the floor is usually soft, but by this time when the lights grow dimmer than usual, I freeze. Ironically in perspiration. This time, the mat is hard like my cock. And it is such an embarrassment to be completely aware it is inconveniently placed sideways and if he stands up, everyone will, including me, and then people might notice.
But we aren’t moving, not yet. He hasn’t told us to change positions. The lotus is most basic, and as he assumes this stance the longest, so do we. A couple of times, he instructs to constantly take and release air through my nasals in four second intervals, and I happen to follow him perfectly.
What I cannot do, however, is always his first instruction: to close my eyes while we sit still. He begins and everyone imitates him. Everyone but me. I’d peek very often to marvel his trance, and the knowing he is unaware of this excites me very much. No one knows how long his eyelashes really are when his eyelids are completely closed, how his lips coil slightly in speculation to hear my breathing so different from the rest, how his leg muscles show and flex when folded, nearly resembling a frog’s. No one knows.
Not a single soul in this room had ever seen his peace.
