Remembering Baguio

Leo and I reached Baguio at around 11 in the morning. I purposely did not answer Marga's texts about rescheduling our coffee date, as I wanted to surprise her. Okay, call me stupid (again) -- but I thought she would pleasantly taken aback at my showing up and reward me with something other than a karate chop to the heart.

Leo and I got to the place our company rented for the week. I bumped into one of our clients -- a lady who "overshared" way too often -- and asked if she knew where Marga was. She went into an excited giggle and started talking about Marga and Butch. She used the word "nagkaka-igihan" several times, her face taking on exagerrated spasmic expressions.

Right there, I should have grabbed Leo by the neck and jumped off that mountain. But I didn't.

We found Marga in the restaurant. Having lunch with Butch. They asked us to join them and being a sucker for torture that I am, we did. Leo fuelled the most protracted small talk session in the history of the world; while I watched Marga avoid my eyes.

Marga and I finally did get to talk later that afternoon. Somehow, what I saw at lunch made the set-up that I had played in my head feel wrong. Nonetheless, I spilled my guts -- the way many men in this country have to in the spirit of "ligaw". She waited for me to finish and then she ... cried.

I knew I was fucked. Anything other than her smiling and screaming "I love you" back, meant I was fucked, big-time.

Apparently, the night before, Butch took her under the chilly Baguio moonlight and asked if they could see each other exclusively. Marga admitted she said "okay" -- not before telling me that she was painfully conflicted. She has had a thing for Butch for soo long (that much I knew), and she went with what she knew. She expressed she did not know how to process all the unfamiliar feelings she was having for me.

Maybe it's the realistic engineer in me. But I think when a polite lady says she's 'confused', she actually is not. She just hasn't found a nice way to say what she really meant.

Going home, Leo volunteered to take the wheel. I was too emotionally drained to object; so I handed the keys of my immaculate car to a driver who's had six accidents in a year and a half. For most of the drive back, my astute law student friend entertained me with ideas on how to kill someone without getting caught or going to prison. I laughed inspite of my misery.

I am a "Kuya" again. Fuck.

My Cool Sis

A week or so after London, I came home Sunday for a much-needed Mama-style lunch -- which my small family always shared with Tita Fides and Marga. I wanted the food; but I dreaded the expected uneasiness between Marga and me. I also anticipated Joanne to drag me into a corner and give me shit about what I did or didn't do. My worst fear was for Joanne to mention it in front of the moms and make my recurring nightmare a reality.

My strategy to keep my dignity intact was to stuff my mouth with shrimps for the entire afternoon. Freakishly big shrimps.

So it was a touching surprise how my sister practically worked up a comedy routine to keep the mood light that Sunday. No mention of Jeff's long-time love for Marga. No reference to Baguio. No talk of the pagka-busted. Saying I was relieved would be a horrendous understatement.

I was getting into my car, when Joanne embraced me. "The guy's a prick. My money is still on you. And that's not because we share DNA."

Cool sis, huh?

Freedom and Nausea

I started writing this web log with the intention of purging myself of an obsession. Instead, it immersed me deeper in it.

I thought talking about how I felt would make the yearning go away. Instead, it made me see what I wanted was within my grasp, if only I was brave enough to reach for it.

I had hoped a man's friendship, loyalty and devotion would be enough for any woman to fall madly in love with him. Instead, I have been educated in the harsh reality of love ... unrequited love.

Fuck honesty. Rejection reeks.

I have officially "set her free" -- the easiest decisions are ones where you don't really have a choice. I am now working on seeing Marga as I used to -- one of my oldest friends, a kindred companion to my baby sister, part of my extended family. More diligently, I am trying to bury my secret dreams of having her as my wife, as the mother of my children, as the woman I was going to grow old with.

The reality is I will probably have romantic love for Marga forever. But of course, I will now downplay that fact (er ... lie my ass off) should the subject ever come up -- if only to maintain a sliver of dignity.

In a way, I have also set myself free. The idealistic career plans I made years ago have been reincarnated. My desire to dig up my acceptance to an MBA program in Pennsylvania has been renewed (I ought to be able to make the fall 2006 term). Beautiful women who have, in no vague manner, shown interest in me are beginning to look strangely appealing. My mind's engine has been busy consoling me with all the good things in my life in its attempt to drown that numbing feeling of being emotionally castrated.

Non-Disney ending considered, I have no regrets. I would do this all over again in a heartbeat. And as soon as I find my balls, I can probably even write about that last nauseating trip to Baguio. By then, perhaps you guys can help me answer my questions about the words we exchanged, the fears she spoke of and that venonous snake bite of a kiss! For now, I can disclose that I have, since that fateful Saturday, been haunted by dreams of Butch (bound and gagged), a windowless room and many, many instruments of torture.

Oh and be a human being -- no fucking "pity" comments please. If you really want to help me out, set me up with a girl.