Morning Crush (Second Draft)

The following is a work of fiction. 

The Metro Manila public transport system is not for the faint of heart. Traffic snarls are common rush hour occurrences. Buses are notoriously undisciplined. The overloaded elevated rail system, the MRT, is packed to the brim during the morning and afternoon crush. To beat the traffic (both foot and vehicle), I park my car in one of those mammoth malls adjacent to a rail station, then ride the train all the way to the Central Business District.

Music is a constant companion during those oft-monotonous sojourns. I've been enamored by Edith Piaf the past few months, with her songs being on constant repeat. Although I don’t speak French at all, foreign-language records have a certain exotic, almost mesmerizing allure. One feels the song through the impact of the singing alone, without necessarily comprehending the words.

It was a Monday when I first saw her. Her car, one of those late-model hatchbacks, was ahead of mine on the parking queue. From afar, I saw the way she flicked through her stereo switch with one hand, as she brushed her long hair with another. She took the parking slot opposite mine. As she stepped out of the car, she glanced towards my direction, attracted to Piaf’s “Hymne a l’amour,” emanating from my car speakers. I swore I saw her smile faintly, as if mildly amused at my Monday morning soundtrack.

The statuesque stranger walked away, with me following a few meters behind. I wanted to strike up a conversation, but was too shy to make an overture. Morning commutes are private affairs. I did not want to appear invasive. I hid under my own cocoon of indifference, putting on the earphones of my MP3 player.

There was a long, crawling line at the turnstiles. Thanks to the rainy season, the usually atrocious humidity was a tad less stifling. I chose the coach the farthest away from the queues, as it tended to be less crowded. I fell in line, like the rest of my fellow, nameless commuters.

When the doors slid open, there was a lot of hustle and bustle amongst the eager ones wanting to grab a seat. Luckily, I got one of the last available spots, much to the chagrin of the heavyset man whom I beat to the tape. Comfortably seated, I replaced my eyeglasses with a pair of shades, preparing to doze off throughout the thirty-minute train ride. I glanced around for old ladies, senior citizens or pregnant women to offer my seat to, but found no suitable candidate.

Before the doors closed, a tall figure hurried inside the coach. The girl from the parking lot was standing right in front of me. I glanced up at the beautiful stranger. Her eyes had that gentle, comforting allure. She wore light makeup that accentuated the glow of her porcelain skin. Her shoulder length hair danced softly as the train made that bumpy, shaky acceleration to full speed.

I stood up and offered my seat, politely gesturing with my free hand for her to sit down. She flashed that shy, unassuming smile of hers, albeit this time I was considerably closer. 

Thanks to my dark glasses, stolen glances from my vantage point were common. She had earphones on, which she took out once in a while to change tracks. Her slender fingers nimbly negotiated the touch screen keys of her music player.

As the people piled up inside the train, we drew closer. Someone bumped me from behind. My left leg hit her right knee, her music player almost falling from her grasp because of the impact.

“Sorry,” I said as I muttered a muted apology.

“No worries,” she replied as she glanced up. Our eyes met, this time a bit longer. She opened her bag to put the gadget safely inside.

Halfway through the commute, she herself offered her seat to a white-haired old man. She stood up clutching her handbag in front. I could not help but inch towards her a bit closer. Amidst the harsh, everyman smell of the crowded MRT coach, the scent of her freshly shampooed hair was refreshingly welcome. I found myself closing my eyes, imagining the feel of her flowing black hair on my fingers.

I deliberately turned off my music player, hoping to listen on the music she’s playing. The familiar timbre of Edith Piaf was barely audible, as well as the notes of one her most endearing songs, “L'hymne à L'amour.”

As the train approached my station, she took off the ear buds.

“That is my favorite Piaf song.” I said, oblivious to the reactions of the other commuters. “Even if I don’t speak a word of French.”

“I like it too.” She replied, seemingly unsurprised at my sudden comment.

We alighted from the coach, like the other nameless and faceless commuters the world over - muted strangers who follow the same dreary morning tune. We walked away from the hustle and bustle, and talked.

When Sparks Flew

I can still remember that warm summer night. The sky was almost cloudless as the moon shone on the two thousand strong crowd assembled at the Bellarmine Field. More than four years have passed, and yet I could still feel the butterflies in my stomach prior to making my move – and the triumphant exultation that followed afterward.

University tradition calls for a final grandiose batch party tinged with nostalgia, where graduating seniors gather, carouse and booze for the possibly the last time as a solid unit. The climax of the Blue Roast, as the event is called, is the giving out of aptly named Blue Roses to one’s college crush.

I was a naïve, oft-cynical twenty-one year old back then. I’ve never had a girlfriend (I still don’t). I was bereft of good fortune and the so-called “moves.” Each and every single foray into romance seemed destined for failure. I was resigned to my fate, content with wallowing in self-loathe. I channeled my energies towards more productive pursuits. All throughout four years of University, I was able to do well in my studies whilst juggling my responsibilities as a student-athlete. Looking back, I can say that I did relatively well. But deep down, there was a gaping hole.

I thoroughly enjoyed the night, as I split my time between several circles of friends. And yet beneath the stupor of alcohol, I was at a loss on whom to give my solitary Blue Rose. On one hand, there was my college track & field teammate. Things were awkward between us, thanks to my pitiful excuse of an overture. On the other hand, there was my Philosophy classmate. I tried to get close to her during the times we shared a class, but as usual, I was too stumped to ask her out.

Since I already gave the former flowers for Valentine’s Day 2006 (an experience I’d most rather forget), the latter seemed to be the obvious choice.

I had the entire night to muster enough courage to give the rose. There were windows of opportunity, because we shared a few common friends and were bound to bump into each other. We did not have much to talk about aside from the proverbial small talk. I was too scared to even try and hand over the damned Blue Rose. As the night drew to a close, the rose lay immobile and almost forgotten at our table. Amidst the festive atmosphere, my heart sank slowly – hauntingly – down to the deep bottom of regret.

On my way back from a washroom break, I saw her group leaving the party. I waved a lethargic goodbye from afar. She returned the gesture with a bright smile. Then we walked past each other.

My good friend and track teammate gave a mighty inspiring, now-or-never pep talk. This was my last chance to the give the Blue Rose, he said. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, putting on my game face. I felt my chest tremble and knees wobble as I reversed direction and made my way towards her. This was worse than pre-competition jitters, I thought. But I soldiered on, hiding the Blue Rose in the small of my back.

Fortuitously, she and her friends stopped to take pictures. In my best gentlemanly tone, I offered to go behind the camera. Amidst my inebriated state, I heard one of her friends utter “Wow, what a superman [referring perhaps to my timely arrival].” When I handed the camera back to her, I took the Blue Rose from my back pocket. I was oozing with a feeling of confidence previously unknown when dealing with the ladies.

I gave her the rose and we parted. There were no fairy tale twists in our non-existent story. The fireworks did not light up on queue, nor did the string quartet whip up a mean rendition of “The Way You Look Tonight.” But when I went triumphantly went back to my friend, I felt like the king of the world.

I haven’t seen her since that summer night. I am content to merely look back on the sparks that flew, however faint or brief.