Why Marlboro Menthol replaced Hope Menthol as my favorite cigarette

A dark and overcast sky had hidden the sun behind layers of gray since earlier that day, and presaged the season�s daily afternoon shower that now fell upon the church grounds. The musty scent of wet grass wafted through the cool breeze from the fresh, newly drenched earth. Apart from the sounds of the drizzle on the roof, silence prevailed within the unoccupied church, and on the nearly deserted campus grounds.

My research partner and I stood side by side, just outside one of the church�s entrances. The breeze drafted away the curls of smoke from my Hope menthol cigarette, as I shielded my camera from the fine spray. Beside me stood CJ Fonacier, a classmate from my Visual Arts class. She had tightened her white sport jacket over her red shirt in protection against the chill.

The hard drizzle drenched the gardens and sculptures outside the church with thousands of minute diamonds. We continued to watch the sight from under the eaves, with the wall of raindrops separating the dry marble under our feet from the wet earth outside. The emotionally laden scene beckoned for me to take its picture. A quick glance at my camera told me that I still had one shot left. I shook my head in response to the call of my photographer�s instinct, knowing that the last piece of film was reserved for a picture more beautiful than any melancholy vista in the world.

�You okay, Jess?� CJ had seen my quiet gesture, and I tried to assuage her worried look. �I'm okay, CJ. I just thought that it might take a while before the rain lets up. Too bad I forgot to bring an umbrella, huh?� She nodded, and then gave me her sweet signature smile that never failed to make my blood pound and turn my insides into jelly whenever I saw it.

We had only become acquainted that semester; the single general education class brought us together despite the all too evident differences between our courses. I never really got to know her because our intermittent discussions usually never strayed from academic topics. Since that first day, her neck-length tresses and charming chinita eyes had captivated me and held me in a trance whenever we met in class.

I resolved not to pursue her affections, primarily because of the difference in our social standing. Her fashionable clothes and accessories attested to her affluence and confirmed her sense of sophistication and style. I sighed dejectedly upon recalling the faded shirts I wore to class, and my rather underdeveloped physique. My friends took pleasure in tormenting me, citing my �torpe� attitude and personal insecurities as the primary reasons for my vacillation, instead of my physical attributes and financial condition.

Jess is a big, wet hen. Buckbuckbuckbuckbuckbuckaaack.

She had approached me during one of our classes and asked me if I would be interested in becoming her partner for the class� requisite research project. Our Visual Arts instructor had decreed that we group ourselves in twos and present a report in class about an example of Philippine modern architecture. I readily accepted her offer, knowing all too well that I didn�t have the heart to deny any of her requests.

We had decided on the marvelous round church at the sister campus for the subject of our investigation. My camera and experience in taking pictures of the campus� Lantern Parade moved me to volunteer for the photography while she obtained an interview with the parish coordinator. We had just finished procuring the material for our report when the fierce rain welcomed us before our exit.

The fury of my raging emotions rattled within me as I beheld her fleeting smile, adorned with those lovable retainers. Another puff from my cigarette introduced the warm wash of nicotine that warded off the chill and eased my trepidation. Before I started to take photographs of the church�s inner cornices, I vowed to reserve the final shot in my camera for me to take a picture of the lovely CJ Fonacier as a memento. This was probably our last semester together, and my photographer�s instinct ordered me to immortalize in film that which is divine and eternal and true. Her departure from my life after the semester�s end was expected; her majors would revolve around the Humanities building while my majors would limit me to the corridors of the Institute of Chemistry.

Jess is a chicken. Buckbuckbuckbuckbuckbuckaaack.

�Thanks for the photographs.� Her husky, bedroom voice snapped me out my reverie. I inhaled deeply and steeled my resolve. It was now or never, I thought. Carpe diem. Seize the day. After all the years of taking pictures, I knew that the photographer usually only has one chance to take the perfect shot, the one shot that will carry all the evanescent feeling of the moment for all time.

�Um, CJ...,� I said, awkwardly. �You know ... it�s kinda ...�

�Pardon?� She looked at me intently, trying to guess what I was about to say.

My fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on my camera as I explained. �You see, I still have one shot left in my camera, and I was wondering whether you�d like to ... whether I can ... whether I may take your picture or not. So, CJ, if it�s ok with you, I would like to take your picture.� My breath exhausted, I tried to slow down my speech, which had turned to gibberish in my nervousness.

�Why?� Her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

I racked my brains for an answer but my heart had already found one. �Oh, nothing. I just wanted to, I guess.�

Her widening eyes registered her surprise. �Why me?�

Because I have this big crush on you, I replied in my thoughts. Because your witty comments in class and fun-loving nature endeared all the more. Because you�ve made my mornings all the more beautiful twice a week. Because your beauty enabled me to see the beauty in the little everyday things of life. Because it�s my job as a photographer to immortalize in film that which is divine and eternal and true. A thousand reasons clamored for my attention but I chose the simplest one.

�Oh, nothing. You�re from that wonderful Humanities course whereas I'm a Chemistry student, so that means we probably won�t see each other again after the end of this semester. So, uhm, may I?�

A moment of silence prevailed, as she stood, with her arms akimbo, her eyes rolled up in mock deliberation, before she gave me her cheery yet monosyllabic answer:

�No.�

�Oh.� With my monosyllabic response, I let the conversation drop and focused on hiding my dejection by taking another puff of my cigarette. There was a tone of finality behind the gaiety in her voice, which warned me against pursuing the subject any further.

Jess is a spineless, wishy-washy torpe. Buckbuckbuckbuckbuckbuckaaack.

"Why Marlboro Menthol...", part two

Why Marlboro Menthol replaced Hope Menthol as my favorite cigarette

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