Saturday, May 22, 2004
WISP
You gradually puffed the smoke out from your menthol cigar, creating circles before they slowly morph into vague images of men, playing.
I noticed you smiled as you stared at your male smoke figures. Somehow, I got the impression that you’ve given names for each of your distorted Adonis: Roby, Greg, Polo, and the list goes on.
You were so engrossed with the smoke that you hardly noticed you’ve already consumed your stick. You screwed the butt against the glass ashtray beside the plastic rose ornament, both over the table next to our bed. Still, your eyes remained at the smoke until each male figure was but a wisp of dark cloud.
You looked at me, and stroked my hair gently. (I loved it when you did that.) Then you turned your attention to our clothes randomly placed on the parquet floor.
I didn’t see you head to the bathroom—all I noticed was a slight thud of the bed.
After a while, you went back; now with a white towel wrapped around your perfectly framed body. You brushed your shoulder-length hair against the stand fan on the other side of the bed, on my side.
I remained motionless—still pretended to sleep.
You tapped my left shoulder, beaming that same smile while you were playing with your smoke figures. You kissed me once more, but it wasn’t as passionate 30 minutes ago.
We were just probably tired.
You handed me my clothes before lighting another stick of your favorite menthol. I turned around. I put on my pants and shirt, leaving my right eye on your exquisitely curved silhouette against the dimly lit room.
You gradually puffed the smoke out from your menthol cigar, creating circles before they slowly morph into vague images of men, playing.
You flashed that same naughty grin as you introduced a familiar guy to the group.
I saw my name etched on his forehead.
LSGH, 5:30 pm
(08/13/01)