23rd February Monday 8.40a.m “Bloody tired”
[This has got to be the bluest Monday blues that I’ve ever gotten in my entire life. I don’t understand why she has to cry so uncontrollably over that insensitive creep. At 2a.m!! That guy’s not worth it, I told her. But she wouldn’t listen, would she? Got herself sunk right in and now she’s running to me to cry. What’s the shit use of that, other than to disturb my already fragile circadian rhythm? Why can’t she see that it is impossible for a guy like him to fall for a girl like her? Besides, he’s a playboy, for heaven’s sake. That imbecile doesn’t have an ounce of compassion in him, telling a girl to buzz off like that. I’ll have him-]
A baby blue diary slipped off her lap and landed on the floor with an ugly thud. The sudden jerk of the bus sent a few water bottles rolling merrily across the bus while the standing passengers temporarily lost all sense of balance. A few muttered “sorries” made the crowded bus even stuffier. Gathering herself to equilibrium, she saw a polished boot standing atop of her diary.
“Damn!” she frowned a most disapproving frown. Pinning her low-cut blouse to her chest, she bent down to pick up her diary.
“I am really sorry Grace. I didn’t mean to dirty your book,” a male voice, dripping with sincerity, blew over her hair, as he returned the book to her lap. There is a strange familiarity to that voice.
“Thank you,” Grace breathed a word of formality and abandoned the deep voice, checking her diary for any devastating dents. After a few minutes of meticulous scrutiny, it occurred to her that Mr. Nice Voice had called her by name. It wasn’t in her genetic makeup to take second glances at strangers, but this time, her curiosity triumphed. She looked up at the owner of the voice.
She was sure she had seen that face somewhere before, though she could not put a name to it now. Subconsciously rolling her eyes while she attempted to retrieve any memorial impression, she found it difficult to remember anything on a hot Monday morning such as this. Usual circumstances would have her ignore this ten-second frivolous curiosity about a stranger, but she heard herself say, “Erm, do I know you?” instead.
He smiled. It was at this moment that Grace noticed he had a pair of charming eyes so deep, she could get lost in them if she wasn’t careful. His short hair, neatly trimmed, was combed back to reveal his strong brows. His nose descended in a sharp angle to his lips, which curved so beautifully into that smile.
Grace snapped out of her examination when she saw him widen his smile. Her eyes reverted back to his eyes, waiting intently for an answer. She was about to apologize for her sudden pickup-line-like question when he said with an unmistakable keenness in his voice, “I was hoping I’d bump into you today. You dropped this during lab last Friday,” he said as he dished out a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to her, “Did you write that yourself?”
Grace robotically pinched the paper from him and looked at it. It was a poem she had written, a product of unbearable boredom and chronic inattentiveness. Oh, Grace recalled, he was the guy who sat two tables behind her during biodiversity class, the one who broke an arm off the preserved starfish she was transfixed on. She remembered how he had scratched his head sheepishly after closing his gaping mouth, looking obviously horrified at what he had done.
She smiled at him in acknowledgement and turned once again to the window, not noticing the lingering look on that man's face.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
[This has got to be the bluest Monday blues that I’ve ever gotten in my entire life. I don’t understand why she has to cry so uncontrollably over that insensitive creep. At 2a.m!! That guy’s not worth it, I told her. But she wouldn’t listen, would she? Got herself sunk right in and now she’s running to me to cry. What’s the shit use of that, other than to disturb my already fragile circadian rhythm? Why can’t she see that it is impossible for a guy like him to fall for a girl like her? Besides, he’s a playboy, for heaven’s sake. That imbecile doesn’t have an ounce of compassion in him, telling a girl to buzz off like that. I’ll have him-]
A baby blue diary slipped off her lap and landed on the floor with an ugly thud. The sudden jerk of the bus sent a few water bottles rolling merrily across the bus while the standing passengers temporarily lost all sense of balance. A few muttered “sorries” made the crowded bus even stuffier. Gathering herself to equilibrium, she saw a polished boot standing atop of her diary.
“Damn!” she frowned a most disapproving frown. Pinning her low-cut blouse to her chest, she bent down to pick up her diary.
“I am really sorry Grace. I didn’t mean to dirty your book,” a male voice, dripping with sincerity, blew over her hair, as he returned the book to her lap. There is a strange familiarity to that voice.
“Thank you,” Grace breathed a word of formality and abandoned the deep voice, checking her diary for any devastating dents. After a few minutes of meticulous scrutiny, it occurred to her that Mr. Nice Voice had called her by name. It wasn’t in her genetic makeup to take second glances at strangers, but this time, her curiosity triumphed. She looked up at the owner of the voice.
She was sure she had seen that face somewhere before, though she could not put a name to it now. Subconsciously rolling her eyes while she attempted to retrieve any memorial impression, she found it difficult to remember anything on a hot Monday morning such as this. Usual circumstances would have her ignore this ten-second frivolous curiosity about a stranger, but she heard herself say, “Erm, do I know you?” instead.
He smiled. It was at this moment that Grace noticed he had a pair of charming eyes so deep, she could get lost in them if she wasn’t careful. His short hair, neatly trimmed, was combed back to reveal his strong brows. His nose descended in a sharp angle to his lips, which curved so beautifully into that smile.
Grace snapped out of her examination when she saw him widen his smile. Her eyes reverted back to his eyes, waiting intently for an answer. She was about to apologize for her sudden pickup-line-like question when he said with an unmistakable keenness in his voice, “I was hoping I’d bump into you today. You dropped this during lab last Friday,” he said as he dished out a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to her, “Did you write that yourself?”
Grace robotically pinched the paper from him and looked at it. It was a poem she had written, a product of unbearable boredom and chronic inattentiveness. Oh, Grace recalled, he was the guy who sat two tables behind her during biodiversity class, the one who broke an arm off the preserved starfish she was transfixed on. She remembered how he had scratched his head sheepishly after closing his gaping mouth, looking obviously horrified at what he had done.
She smiled at him in acknowledgement and turned once again to the window, not noticing the lingering look on that man's face.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
1 comment:
There is(was) a strange familiarity to that voice.
Angel had always complained about being able to talk to people over the phone, and yet fail(failing) to locate her tongue when she meets them face to face.
Some mistakes, I think.
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