true stories

For emoteras.

The music man croons songs that make the young woman's hair crinkle, curl. Shivery.

A young wife grips a steaming mug of coffee at recess. To keep warm, and to stay awake.

Suddenly, all the tables at a bistro seem so short. We did not, did we, grow tall?

The nanny banters with the townhouse caretaker from next door, the one who allegedly looks like a movie star.

Suddenly, three friends talk only in straight Filipino, eliminating English entirely from the repertoire. One girlfriend needs to internalize a foreign tongue, now home.

My love does not think of me nor I of him. Perhaps, tomorrow. Or the day after that.

On automatic, the booster pump comes to life at every toilet flush and open faucet, sending my electric meter spiralling into the universe. So then, I turn it off. But what of it being automatic in the first place?

I mustn't rush headlong. Lest I forget to feel, to touch, to smell. To enjoy.