The End
How are you? He would always ask. Always, I would just look at him…. and smile.
That’s how it was. The squinting of my eyes, the movement of my lips, the way my shoulders fall were so telling that he is able to know how my day went. He knew me that well. Or maybe he didn’t, he just probably always guessed right.
Except for the snoring of an elderly Chinese couple seated in front me, it’s pretty silent in this side of the airport. Just a while ago, someone asked me if I have other luggage to check in. Funny question I thought. If I need to check in the things in my head and my emotional baggage, the airline would most likely advice me to take a chartered flight instead.
I turn to the windows and watch the traffic on the tarmac outside. The terminal is sound proof. Not even the rumble of jet engines punched through the glass.
It’s a gray still sky, as if on a verge of rainfall. Would it still be silent if the rain poured down in heavy droves?
I sometimes dream that the end of the world would be like this. Still and silent. We’d still be alive though. But there’d be no more words or stories other than the ones in our heads. But we don’t get to tell these stories anymore. We’re all frozen. All there is to do is to keep inventing pointless stories in our heads and then forget them as quickly as we can. That way, we never run out of stories tell ourselves.
How are you? He would always ask. The last time he asked me this was three hours ago, when I dropped by his office on my way to the airport. Maybe it’s the last time he ever will.
After checking in and clearing immigration, I took a seat closest to the boarding gate—to get inside the plane, as quickly as I can, fasten my seatbelt—before my mind changes.
I watched those bright red numbers of the digital clock. For the most part, the digital display remained still. Sometimes they’d take so long to blink that I was tempted to wonder if it had finally stopped. I actually wish that time would stand still at hi and hello. Especially if you’re meeting someone who you can seriously be hooked to. At least at that point, complications are still at a good distance. All that matters are the eyes and the smile. Wouldn’t that have made things much easier?
Then my phone rang. I pulled it from my purse—it was him— and answered.
There was silence on the other end. The soundproof glass must have been distorting the signal. Was it really him I was speaking to? What if someone stole his phone and decided to call me? How are you? he then said. No, it definitely was him. Again, I could only respond with silence. I forced myself to smile, but would he know?
I see your flight is delayed. Yeah, I answer, my smile widens. He knew me all right, —and probably even had a mental picture of how that smile looked like.
You must be drafting a complaint to the airline company for making you wait, ‘di ba? Probably, I say, grinning.
Then silence. I feel my knees shaking.
This would have been our last conversation. Yet we spend most of it exchanging silences and unseen smiles.
He asked me if I opened the envelope he had given me. Not yet, I said. You don’t need to yet? I guess so. What would be the difference if you open it now, on the plane or at your destination? Very hard to say.
Eventually, we had to say our goodbyes. My plane had arrived. Like always, we waited for each other to put the phone down first. Neither of us would. As usual, I blinked first.
I look at the envelope he gave. In bold, black ink, he wrote “Open this when you need to.” How would I know if I need it when I have no idea what is inside. Just like how I have no idea of what we really think….Of how we truly feel.
Reluctant farewells. Necessary narrative endings. What were we not saying to each other?
Maybe I don’t need to know.
I tear the envelope with its contents and leave it on my seat.
I take a deep breath and begin walking to the boarding gate.
(Written at the height of madness, the narrative functions two ways: One, to echo Baryon’s blog. Two, in its final form, to relate how I bid the relationship I would’ve gladly gone to hell for,adieu. )
