One day, I will also bring flowers for you, like it’s a normalcy, like I just passed through a floral shop earlier after I went to the grocery and I remember you in their scent. This came, amidst digressions from Andre Dubus’ House of Sand and Fog, like what the Persian, ex-officer did to his wife, after he bought a new bungalow for the family.
Then we will have a bungalow too, the neatest, the brightest as it faces the sunrise at 05:55, and the placid sea all time of the day. There will be countless chances to walk through the warm sand, and evening bonfires with curtailed smoke and redefined daydreaming, and wondering about mice and hippopotamus and the coconut trees’ alignment. And I will write your name in the sand, the way I won’t write them here, because you know, we are all cowards, utilizing poetry and metaphors and tv screens and jokes and alibis to shroud the things we will not tell right here.
There will be a cafeteria nearby and I will bring you there every Sunday morning, every fragrant, pleasant 7:04 Sunday mornings. We will have a car, a Beatle, a light green Beatle with a good jazz music playing inside it every time, and we will listen to it, for twenty minutes or so, before we reach the cafeteria, before we meet good, old and mild-natured Granny again. That is what we call the old lady selling coffee, making coffee, heartily smiling at every customer perhaps because that is the only thing she can do well with her age. We will sit on the corner, the one nearest to a Rivermaya poster, oh the good, old days, the late 90s when we were still stuck at school pants and bulky backpacks. You will glance at the old four who perhaps sang to you when you got depressed in 2005 or something, and you will do that like for a minute, until I call you and say uy, kape mo.
You are good at coffee that is pure coffee, proving to Zizek, the old guy our friends used to love in college, that there are still people who are after the substance of the substance, the thing that makes the thing itself. You will stir your coffee, very, very lazily, while still looking at Japs Sergio; like in the old days when you will lazily stay in bed because Mondays are commonly lazy, and you will prod me to hit the bathroom first. And mine, mine would be the perfect combination of liberal sugar and a morsel of creamer, coffee ought to be sweet for me, unless I am planning to read Shakespeare or Dante in the night. And I will look around the cafeteria, and will see no one familiar; in universes that we have been through, it seldom happens that we were strangers to them, only two people who happen to like to stroll and smell polluted air and share breaths with tens of others, sightsee 7/11’s new products, or vintage shirts sold in the street.
In the end of fiction, what is next? Murakami killed Toru in page 607, or did he, really? Perhaps he went on waiting for Kumiko, perhaps he went on drinking beer at 8pms, perhaps he went on playing idly with Mackerel before lunch. Fictions live in us, my teacher once said that she would read fictions several times at different points in time, the first during 1999 and the next on February 2003, the next on July 2003, and every reading will give her something new. Is fiction hermetic as empty jelly containers that kill flies trapped in them? I look back at the cafeteria and the Beatle and the bungalow and without having to cross my fingers, I know we will still live, and outside fictions, and I, sometimes will want to come to you to make real things happen.