That Day

One, I am not riding the Feb. 14 bandwagon. Two, I was just forced to write something about it. Lastly, it’s not V-day anymore.

So today, I resent the idea of that day because unfortunately, nothing special happened.  February 14 has gone beyond what I have always least expected because, let alone the day itself, it is just a normal Tuesday.

I was thought that February 14 should be celebrated, but that is not to say that it should be celebrated in a grand manner.

A year ago, I was bugged by my friend to gave her a flower on the 14th. I was never her lover, nor having the slightest ‘something.’ Despite my will and so just to fill the breach of her desperation to receive flowers, I promised to give something or do anything on that day.

However, days before the V-day, an argument arose between us. My Feb. 14 plan was trashed and I spent the day like all normal days go—watched cat videos on YouTube.

Obviously, I felt alone and that left me quite a hope for new romantic story, but of course, not today, not for me. My friends thought that I was cheated by love and unfortunately deprived of a true happy ending story. Well, that’s life.

Anyhow, we never talked in a month or so. Of course, everyone assumed to feel innocent until one was proven guilty.  I knew that my promise sent a wrong message, and she was mad about it.

I deemed for reconciliation the next time we met. She said that I was wicked, firm and heavy-handed, oppressive, harsh, blah.

***

This year, I thought of doing something special that just ended up in sleeping. When I woke up that night, I knew that I should do something.

After contemplating, I grabbed my phone, checked if her number is still there, made a message.

Message sent.

Happy Valentine’s Day! Sino ka-date mo tonight?

Sorry. Aliens chased me last night.

She's Out of My League

It was in the same manner as a movie (a romantic movie usually) goes, the guy must say. An average Joe meets his perfect woman. Typical, average, traditional, blah.

However, in every story, as a matter of fact, there is still something special. Of course, it is theirs. Or it is his. What matters is that at least he has one.

***

“She is insensitive,” he says.

“What insensitive? She doesn’t even know what you’re up to,” a friend notions.

In the sphere of his silence, he felt like he is in a field of crowded thoughts, which he strongly agrees.

“How can a 10 go for a 5?” his daily mantra says. His inferiority complex is a dragging hell.

One day, he hopped in the elevator with her. The downward tour lasted for exactly 18 seconds. He in fact calculated it due to only two reasons:

A. How long will he cast away the moment every time he is with her.

B. How long will he endure the agony every time she’s with him (the other guy).

Despite this daily anguish, he knew in the very start that she would never tolerate her boyfriend’s mid-life crisis, or vice-versa.

They broke up as he wished. On the other hand, the extent of his gladness was not far too long.

“How can a 10 go for a 5?” he once again brought up.

Indeed, how could a 19-year-old clumsy, little rag guy win someone’s heart?

Days passed by. She left. He moved on; he dealt for the “right” of her absence.

But this “right” thing knocked his head. He clearly misunderstood the absence of sunny, yellow background and moving in slow motion.

It is extremely touching.

***

There’s nothing really special about that story. Perhaps, that makes the story untypical. It’s just quite a thing.

Aren’t you tired of having such fate? Sorry to make you realize that last night, my bad! Anyhow, are you happy? I feel real bad about that recent ‘thingy.’ If I were him, I will not have much patience with ‘katumalan‘ at this point. I just wish they have shown much more compassion for you than you have for them. I don’t know you but, of course, you don’t deserve this. Should I feel sympathetic? Ah bahala ka na nga dyan.

Knew this Murakami story years ago; been the same feeling I had the first time I read this. Perhaps, this would be a perfect time to re-post it. It’s April, anyway. 

***

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either – must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl – one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers – or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.

“Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl,” I tell someone.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”

“Not really.”

“Your favorite type, then?”

“I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her – the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. Strange.”

“So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?”

“Nah. Just passed her on the street.”

She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and – what I’d really like to do – explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

“Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?”

Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman.

“Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?”

No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.”

No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and that’s what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can’t bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She’s written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she’s ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She’s lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don’t you think?”

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

“This is amazing,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you’re the 100% perfect girl for me.”

“And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I’d pictured you in every detail. It’s like a dream.”

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It’s a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one’s dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let’s test ourselves – just once. If we really are each other’s 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we’ll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.”

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other’s 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season’s terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence’s piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don’t you think?

Yes, that’s it, that is what I should have said to her.