Young Writers Society

Rendezvous was at the faint, antique coffee shop at the heart of the suburbs, in the middle of the lair of the yuppie. The time, half past five in the afternoon. Rush hour being as it is, with people walking back and forth outside the shop, cars working their way towards the feet-filled street of the villa, where nothing else is new every four, five in the afternoon. Nothing was new, not even exciting, enticing enough to deserve a second glance.

But there was something about the shop, the doors, the mural – all told a story about something, anything which one cannot possible perceive. Of course, perceptions beget imagination, and in this case, imagine being inside an ancestral house passed from one owner to the other, with all the previous owners shedding a touch of their skin to the whole legend of the bricks and cement. The cracks on the wall could, possibly, be man-made, and the Molave chairs, all dozen of them, hand-painted to the finest, except that they have endured different weight distributions, some legs, screaming for a much-deserved repair, and the others, too damaged to even endure one. The tables, wicker and moss, laced and dried, once beautiful and magnificent. Once.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

She sat herself across the table, carefully placed her bag within reach, opened it and checked her mobile phone for messages. “What time did you get here?”

“About twenty minutes ago. I got off early, so I decided to just come by and sit by myself for a while… “

“You should have told me,” she smirked while fiddling with her phone. “I wasn’t doing anything by four.”

“Well, I figured I could use some time alone.”

She browsed through the menu, flipping her hair as she ordered her cup. “Decaf? When did you start drinking decaf?”

“I’ve been having palpitations. Doctor said I should cut my caffeine intake, hence, decaf. And you?”

Smoke provided the perfect screen for the most unexpected grin. “Latte. It’s always been latte,” as the sky suddenly roared, light cutting across the dim canopy spread vastly for the passers by to see. There was a sudden desire to order French toast – like a brushfire, sweeping across a drifter’s belly – and the waitress, dainty creature that she is, was nowhere to be found. One of those working students, a distant cousin of the shop proprietor; only difference being, she was the only waitress that afternoon.

And where was she? Perhaps tending to the needs of the other customers, could be preparing the orders herself.

“So… “

“So… “

“Well?”

“Well?”

They say a smile could hold different meanings, and in this case, it would have been much welcome, if only to have anything fill the gap. “I told you I’m not much of a talker.”

“That’s fine. Me neither,” as the smoke puffed a vague picture, too vague that if one tried to get up and leave, there would be no way of knowing where the other had gone. “We could just sit here and stare at each other.”

“Nah. You talk. I’ll listen.”

“I’ve nothing to say, really. You go ahead.”

“No, go ahead. You’re older than me. You decide,” she said, in jest. But there’s nothing funny, let alone, bearable, about age and numbers. They are just that; all mathematics, equations of what is deemed as essential to one’s human progression, like age is supposed to be a matter of grave consequence, apart from acquiring a marriage license and participating in the polls.

“Alright. How’s work?”

“Can’t skin it off me, apparently. I left work and now you ask me about it.”

“You said I decide.”

“Work’s fine. No, toxic, since you asked. I’m bombarded with too many projects, and I don’t know if I can handle everything. I’m not happy about it, you know. I don’t like the company and the job.”

“… and you’re doing it to pay the bills.”

“Yeah. And for my mom.”

The word “mom”, when brought up, is as universal as water, which makes perfect sense. Mothers are like water. Serene, tranquil yet deafening, a mother is the new ocean, kind of like the Pacific Ocean being anything but pacific. “Mothers are mothers,” as a couple walked in and sat themselves at a table for two, nearest to the door. Six in the afternoon meant traffic and happy hour for the yuppies. Those kids who finish work by half past five, at times six, would lounge at the nearest bar and wait ‘til the rampages of everyday life – as exhausting as it is, and they never get sucked by it – turn into a brightly lit mush, courtesy of the soul of the metropolis.

“Oh, don’t start with me.”

“Moms are… you know what, let’s just talk about something else…” and the mere mention of ‘something else’, however form it may take, breeds interest.

“How have you been? Busy?”

“I have been busy, yes. Busy saving the world.”

An all-knowing curve suddenly gleamed, and creepy, but it was there to stay. It was a trap. It was a trap that could capture one word after the other, as the periods and the commas, the tone and kinesics fell in line, ready to take the plunge. Nevertheless, the words would always come out first.

“You like playing the hero very much.”

“They say to whom much is given, much is required.”

“Just do your best. That’s what matters.”

And then, the second streak of lightning cut the sky open, might as well be a spatial jungle, with a lion prowling on a poor beast. It was that fast, that loud. It was nothing discrete, and if all complications-galore would be that flamboyant, no one would even think of getting married.

“It’s not always about your best. Most of the time, it’s about doing what is required.”

“I keep forgetting that it’s hard to be you.”

“I keep forgetting that you want to be me.”

Three other college kids came in, a girl and two guys, with their textbooks, phones and bags. The lanky, nerdy guy went straight to the men’s washroom, as the other two sat themselves near the big clay pot with a cactus plant. Plain Jane was busy searching for a lighter inside her handbag as the Bob Marley-wannabe played with his cigarette. A smoking haven, mood inducing, booze and caffeine factory… stereotypical of any coffee place within the city limits; Ironic, since when did progress ever had any limits?

And the poor cactus plant, ill-fated as Beth March, dear, withering as it was like a snowflake on the first day of summer, became a lowly ash tray; like being a plant with spines was a bad enough role to play, a cruel joke to remind human beings that God has a sense of humor, just like how the platypus came to be, only, no one’s laughing,

“I leave for Dumaguete next week.”

“Oh yeah? You made it?”

“Yeah. I got lucky.”

“I don’t know about that. Luck has nothing to do with it.”

“I just got lucky, I guess. Or could be that the real good ones are not up for it this summer.”

“We make our own luck.”

The waitress came by with the cups, that stubby, senile looking waitress with the china and cubes of sugar atop the brown, plastic tray, almost swaying to the sounds of the Latin beat inside that dingy shop – where nothing is new, except the people - as the conversations come pouring in, mostly in whispers and whims.

“I don’t really feel like going. ‘Been thinking about it for days now.”

“Why not? It’s your dream. You have to go.”

“I don’t feel like going alone.”

“I thought you like being alone,” one cigarette stub after the other; then, God created a chimney, and lo and behold, took the form of nicotine in packs. Smoke filled the entire section, clouding the air between them, but there was no stopping the stale smell of dust across, one finger laced with another, one hand gasping for air.

“Not this time, I don’t.”

And on the second day, the waters above separated from the water below, and Dumaguete sprang forth, mild yet addictive princess of the south, attracting one marauder after the other. Sleepy, peaceful but one should not be betrayed by what the eyes can see. Sometimes, the senses do deceive.

“I still think you should go.”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Half past six. Another streak of lightning flashed across the sky. An impending rainfall right around the corner. People half-running towards their cars; the others, as fast as their feet could carry them. Lights inside the shop started to flicker, and the three college kids scrambled like rats out in the open, exposed for the cats to pounce on.

“I should get going.”

“Yeah, we should. Let me just pay for these.”

“I had a nice time.”

There was only a nod that met a gaze, an acknowledgment of an extinguished flair, long been discussed and schemed for the last month or so. Summer had not been successful, after all.

To exit the shop is to leave a parcel of history once laden with rumors, perhaps, regret. The walls, tables and chairs, the tea cups – even the cactus plant that became an ash tray – a story, could be, of twelve, seventeen faceless, dim nights; and cigarettes and empty mugs, all too careless to even utter a breathing wish.

She held out her right palm, and as a raindrop fell on her hand, wetting her skin, she continued to stride past the faceless crowd, blended into it, and suddenly drowned in a sea of people who knew nothing of the stories she spoke through a coffee cup.

And there came Dumaguete, only it was not there.