I'm sorry. But sometimes, it still hurts.

The Cycle

“I am absolutely certain that despite the odds, I love her.”

She looks at him, with pursed lips and a raised eyebrow while signaling to the obviously eavesdropping waiter to give them an ashtray. “Well, I know exactly how you feel. Although, I still cannot grasp your brilliant idea of ‘fessing up to me when you cannot even find it in your heart to reveal the identity of this muse of yours. You suck.” She opens her little purse that houses her pack of Marlboro Lights and gets a stick.

He lights her cigarette up, and pushes the ashtray to her side of the table. “Her identity is immaterial, mainly because you don’t know her and you cannot, in even the slightest way, contribute to how I can lure her into looking my way.”

“First, you should really stop hanging out with me when you are in love, it’s annoying, YOU ARE ANNOYING. Second, didn’t I just say that I know how you feel?”

“You have no idea.”

“Of course I do. I know the drill. There is a non-guy in my life too. I will give everything, and I mean everything, including my last stick of cigarette on a really stressful day, for him to look my way. But all he sees in me is this girl SPACE friend that he can smoke with and confide to. I mean, you’ve seen him with me, right? We are perfect for each other. He’d hold my hand and I’d hold his, and what do I get? Nothing. I listen to him rant on and on and on about this girl whom he claims to be the one, and I just sit there, nodding while I study his face, his lips, his eyes. I know him, more than anyone can and ever will know him. I know that he shuts up when he’s mad, I know that he does that knee-jerking action when he feels stressed or that he is never ever confrontational. I also know that he purposely never replies so he won’t appear too needy. I know that sometimes, he concocts feelings for other women to conceal that he is head over heels in love with this woman that he indirectly tells me stories about. He pretends to like going out, just so it won’t seem like he is lonely. But I know that he is. He’s not the partying type. He loves to write poetry, to read good books, to have coffee on a perfectly peaceful day. He loves conversations, not the drunken ones, his eyes light up when he is an intellectually stimulating discussion about life. He likes to drink, not to get drunk but to appear as drunk and be free from other people’s expectations of him. I know that when he’s judged, he gets hurt and never forgets. And I am absolutely certain that despite the odds, I love him.”

“You are such a drama queen.” He puts his arm around her, “But believe me, inspite of your monologue reminiscent of an asthma attack, you clearly have no idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

She allows her weight to fall towards him and her body to be enveloped in his arm. “Maybe.” She looks up, her expression softened by his post-ranting evaluation of her. “I’m sure, whoever she is… she’ll come around.”

           

“I hope she does.” He slowly pulls away, “I want her to get what she wants.”

On the other side of the room, the eavesdropping waiter told his peers, “Bill daw nun dalawang pa-fall.”