For three days now I’ve locked myself up in my cramped, dingy room. I am certain that the campus will be oppressively crowded and noisy for the rest of the week, no thanks to the Fair. My banal space in room 401, just beside an ill-placed window where everything seemed perfect, will never be conducive to writing.

So I retreated to the discomfort of our house. While summoning my muses to aid me in crafting an angsty, existential opus for a mainstream youth mag, my phone trembled. It was a message from her. “Pst.ano gimik mo sa thurs?fair tayo.ü” It took only a few exchange of terse communication for me to relent.

And now I am wondering what apparel I should wear. Red would appear redundant especially on V day. A tight-fitting shirt would look too sensual (or horrible, with all the flabs on my non-existent abs). Bracelets seem too artsy. Most importantly, a Mao cap begs reminiscence.

Like during those days of decadence, when, smashed and high in alcohol and dooby, we would skulk around the Fair grounds, scream out all our rage against love and life and all its cruelties, amid the screeching sound of playing bands or the gentle whirr of all those machines. Memory is such a treacherous enemy.

For now, I resolved, subtlety is the best of all virtues.

I settled for a black Fair shirt, given free to members of this office (thanks to Archie, who designed the shirt), cream-colored pants, and a pair of brown Chucks. Like a bubbly high school boy all agog at the prospect of finally going out on a date with a long-time crush, I ironed every fold and crease of my clothes, brushed every corner of my shoes. I took out the rest of my week’s allowance; this had to be on me. (Call it feudal, for all I care.)

I imagine what she’ll be wearing, what things she’d like to do. Perhaps we could just sit on the grass, enjoy a nice chat while she sips on her favorite avocado shake and I, nibbling on a caramel-flavored popcorn. Perhaps she’d love to ride the Ferris wheel, take a shot at wall climbing. For sure she’d smoke like crazy; to be safe I’m bringing two packs of her Winston lights. Then, if she feels like it, I would walk her home to her apartment. Exactly like during those days, perhaps.

I figured I should stop this obsession with days long lost, pining for things we held on to with the most violent of our passions and yet so effortlessly lost, as if it never happened, as if all were just a dream, as if there was never an us.

Oh well. Perhaps I should just wait until tomorrow. If the universe doesn’t conspire anew against us, things could go well. Perhaps. # Philippine Collegian

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