I fought with my best friend tonight.
Should I even write about this? A few paragraphs is better than finishing off a pack of Marlboro Lights. We were in this bar in Greenbelt and she started talking about this guy she's dating. That was fine, but the guy really rubs me the wrong way. I couldn't really sympathize with her giddiness.
If you read this--hey--then I'm sorry. God, this is so showbiz.
To make a long story short and bearable, we stopped talking, finished our smokes and drinks and said goodbye to each other. She had a car, and I had a taxi cab waiting for me.
I didn't want to go home yet so I told the driver to bring me to Rockwell. I went to a bar there and downed a White Russian and proceeded to Fully Booked. I had to take my mind off things. Afterwards I went out of the mall and walked to Starbucks.
My phone buzzed in my handbag. A text message:
It was so easy to reply then, but part of me didn't want to. There was so much I wanted to say and it won't fit in a text message or make sense through a phone call. I had to be face to face with her, my best friend, with my facial expression and my hand gestures and arm-waving.
And it's not just about the guy. It's not about the guy at all.
It's just that I want so much more from our friendship, like the way we used dream about when we were in high school. All those promises and dreams of being friends forever. I've seen it happen. One by one, our barkada disappeared behind a wall, getting married, getting pregnant, becoming super moms, with house loans and car payments and children's parties and family trips to Splash Island.
We used to dream about living in a big house somewhere, remember? An old house with a friendly ghost and a dozen rooms. And we would take in stray cats and stray dogs and friends who have nowhere else to stay. We would have our own business: a sari-sari store and cafe and bookstore downstairs, from a converted garage; our own fashion line, including accessories and shoes; art classes every weekend, for kids; a mushroom farm beneath our house. And more.
And you were supposed to be a photographer, remember? And not an account manager?
And our husbands would live with us and love us and our kids would grown up together in the same house. And we would be buried in our own backyard, beneath a big mango tree. As angels, we will watch our kids grow up, watch them make the same mistakes we did. Watch them get hurt and cry and laugh and be amazed at the world.
Remember all that?