Wasabi

By : Osiris

 

I never liked Japanese foods. Not like the way you liked them though. Oh sure, I go crazy over the Maki, Ebi Maki mostly. The tempura rocks, especially if it’s from Saisaki. And I really love the Misono Squid.

But the way you eat them? Man, I’m surprised you’re still alive.

Why? One word my dear friend.

WASABI.

Yeah, that little green stuff that comes from a tube alá toothpaste. That green stuff you put into your food like there was no tomorrow.

We’d go out and eat in a Japanese restaurant, and then order. Usually Tempura and Ebi Maki for me and Sukiyaki and Sashimi for you. And even before our order would come you’d ready the sauce. There’s a ritual to it even, and I can describe it to you step by step.

Correct me if I’m wrong ok? But then again, I’m never wrong…when it comes to reading your habits.

First, opening the sauce. If it came in a container, you’d open it with all the solemnity and seriousness that you give to your life. If it would be in a serving bottle, you’d measure about 2-3 tablespoons of sauce and close the bottle with a resounding *click*.

Next, you’d get as much wasabi as you can, usually around 4 inches of the gooey stuff from the tube. Placing it in a circle precisely in the middle of all the sauce, you’d let it soak there for about a minute or so. And then with deft motions, you’d mix, mash, mix and then mash the goo into the sauce, creating a cloudy brown-green substance almost thick enough to look like glue.

Why do you like wasabi? I never liked it that much.

The first time I ever had the misfortune of encountering it, I thought it was candy that came out of a tube. I pushed an inch or two into my thumb and licked it off before I realized what the hell I was doing.

First thought? It burned. But not on the moment it touched my tongue. There was that odd sensation of something not being right, or at least, tasting something very alien to me. Then a smoky feel at the roof of my mouth manifested, making my mouth feel like it was stuffed with smoke, a smoke that was composed of flavor not quite eastern, not quite western, not quite normal. That was the only pleasant part. But then the clincher came when pin pricks of pain started crawling in and within my mouth and throat, making me feel like I ate a demon and it was trying to come back out. Coughing didn’t help, in fact, it made it feel like those little demon claws were clinging tighter to my tongue and my throat. Washing it down with water didn’t help either. It only made the clingy sensation spread to the rest of my esophagus, and worse, to the rest of my digestive system. Then on to linger for a long time.

Come to think of it, the taste of wasabi is so much like you.

More precisely, it’s like loving you.

The moment I met you, I didn’t think too much of it. You were just another acquaintance, just another person in this mixed up life of mine. And then after a while, I grew to realize that whether I liked it or not, we were becoming friends. But soon, there was something every strange happening. Without ever planning to, I got close to you and you to me, the strangest thing because, I’ve been trying to avoid being close to anyone. Add to that the fact that you’re probably the most anti-social person I’ve ever met. But we did get close. Something so strange I never really thought it was normal.

And then I never really planned it, but I grew to need you. I’d wake up each morning wondering if you were awake too. I’d eat my food, wondering if you had eaten yet. I’d run in the rain, wondering if you had an umbrella. I’d look out the window and wonder if you were thinking of me. I’d sit by the phone, thinking you might call me.

I could never really say when it started, but I can say that you needed me too. You started calling me a lot more often than not. From every other week, to every week, to every two days, to everyday. And I’d wait by the phone, patiently waiting for it to ring and for your voice to answer me.

Oh your voice! It in itself is like smoke. Low, a little too low to be the usual, and quiet, like a record that’s rarely played. It always had this raspy feel to it, like you didn’t want it to come out of you. But when it did I’d always cut my chattering and listen. Hearing your voice made me remember that time I was all alone in this courtyard. It was early dawn and I stepped out. No one was awake yet at that un-godly hour but I saw the golden rays of the sun I wanted to see more. And I stepped out from the side of the building. The pigeons flew. In the silence of the dead courtyard, the flight of several dozen birds overwhelmed every sense I had.

When you speak I’d hear those birds take flight from the silence of an empty courtyard. When you speak I’d see their pale gray and white wings spread and flutter in the small hurricane they created. When you speak I taste the early morning freshness of that rays of the sun. When you speak I’d smell the sea air that permeated through the entire courtyard and the panic the birds felt when I appeared. And when you speak I feel those feathers flying around me and landing softly, touching me barely, like a hesitant lover.

So when you spoke, I listened. Not to the words you said but to your voice, causing you to think that I never listen to you or that I’m partially deaf. But you don’t know the half of it.

With you I am stronger than I am with any other person. I am something you’ve learned to cling to and to run to when the tides of darkness come to slam themselves unto your walls. I am something you’ve learned to call when the nights are too long and the day chooses to shove you away into the dark corners. And with you I’ve learned to weather the storms you get dragged though by your suicidal self. And with you I’ve learned that distance is never too far to love. And with you I’ve learned to realize that homicidal threats, especially from you, are never to be taken seriously.

You need me too much to kill me. And I need you too much to let myself die.

But with you I become weaker. It is because I merely something to you. Because once you lose me, you’ll have no more regret than when you lose your pen. I am merely a thing to you. And because of that, or more precisely, because I know that, through all the times you talk to me, there’s always that tiny shard of pain that keeps on inserting itself deeper and deeper into my heart. One day it’ll go in too far and then… I don’t know. Has anyone died of a broken heart?

Then again, it won’t be new. I’ve always been the frail one, the one who always suffered in relationships. This is not like the others but, similar in a way. Something new, something old. My life is borrowed and I’m already blue. I’d kick myself if I could really.

But what hurts the more is the fact I know you belong to someone else now. And that you own that person too. I’ve never realized it but under my nose you fell in love with someone else and forgot about me. Well, not completely. You may not rant about it, but I see it in your eyes. You’re in love. Just like you were, once, with me. Just like I am, until now.

I’ve tried getting rid of it, my love for you I mean. I tried thinking about your bad points, you’re suicidal, homicidal, selfish, self-centered, rough, unnatural, rude, quiet, and you’ve tried to kill me more than once. But I’d always get it back, because I was still in love with you, because you ARE suicidal, homicidal, selfish, self-centered, rough, unnatural, rude, quiet and because you’ve tried to kill me more than once. I’ve tried ignoring you, leaving you alone and trying not to see or hear you. But like a drug addict who couldn’t stand the withdrawal symptoms, I’d always come back just for the vision of the empty courtyard and the birds. If I didn’t, I’d start hearing your name again and again. I’d start seeing your favorite things again. I’d start hearing your songs again. I’d grow crazy for everything would start begging me to at least hear your voice again.

I’ve tried moving on, finding someone else. I mean, as the saying goes, there are a lot of other fish in the sea. Good-looking, single, married, undecided, ditzes, bitches, rude people, loud people, rockers, poppers, drug addicts, suicides, psychos, Joe and Jane normal, tall, short, dark, fair, long…but as I soon found out, I didn’t want fish. I wanted you.

 It’s crazy I know. Crazy and stupid. But then again, no one ever accused me of being a rocket scientist. In fact, you’ve learned to say “stupid” like it was my given name. Maybe it should, considering how much a martyr I am for you, and you never ever realize it. Or even if you do, you don’t care.

Maybe that’s the point, you really don’t care.

And all you want is just that extra comfort that someone does believe you.

And what do I want?

That extra serving of wasabi.