After three years, I agreed to meet up with you. I was wearing my casual Thursday while you were in shorts and a tank top. You asked if we could drink in your apartment, “For old time’s sake,” you said convincingly, flashing a devilish grin. At first I insisted for coffee. Yet after a couple of cigarette sticks burnt to their filters and some teasing for my ‘pretentious’ drunken calls, in the end, I found myself walking down the familiar street that leads to your place. “I’m home,” I muttered to myself while you bolted the door shut.
I am finally home
Continue reading “Lost & Found”
I have been, and always will be, a sucker for romance: the cheesy text messages sent after three in the morning, the occasionally intellectual and naughty banter over wine, the footsies, the reckless and the brave “I like you and I would love to see you again” and “I would pin you on the wall and kiss you on our second date.”
That’s why I suggested that we go to the National Museum, told him it was free for the public during APEC week. I was not sure if museums and conversations in the gutter and long walks are his thing, but he said yes, anyway, and I thought that a museum date could salvage any romantic bone left in me.
As we walked past dozens of art pieces, I swear I could hear the narrator of 500 Days of Summer somewhere.
This is a story of boy meets girl, but you should know upfront,
this is not a love story.
Only he wasn’t Tom. Only I wasn’t Summer. And long walks are no longer my thing. And he couldn’t be naughty and intellectual as I expected. I got an Uber and never saw him again.