So in the next few years of my life we shall spend in silence? Like minding ourselves be sucked in our respective worlds, watching our own interests in a nook called a mobile phone? What about the conversations that I used to have? He does this every time! Every time that I talk to him...He buffered it with GenX jokes that are not really funny for a millenial? And when I tried to engage in sharing stories, he jests at it again with humor that isn't funny anymore, especially when it gets repetitive, a routine unconscietiously performed after days—fuck it, months—of absence? It feels convoluted, meeting this person. Does this mean that I learn to settle in this dynamic that bears no joy, not even a high, at the moment?
Wait, am I thinking about ending things? How many encounters have I counted in my mind, thinking about an ending?
As I take mental notes and as I journal the introspection on the window side of the bed, he watches a youtube about idiotic people challenging boxers. It feels weird, when I want to be cerebral about things, he wanted to simplify otherwise. Does this reflect our daily realities? I understand that I became an automaton in #TheBank, while he is totally focused in the ER, akin to a workaholic attitude of a corporate slave.
He gets up, went to the toilet, all in silence. I don't know what he is thinking at the moment,or if he is even aware that I'm writing.
I have a book with me, but I am a bit demotivated to read. It's about the probability of Love, hitting the quota only one out of five. Am I part of the quota, or am I part of the other side of the norm? I don't know, perhaps I am both. Meanwhile, my tummy still feels full, after chomping the baby back ribs, five hours after I woke up today. He jolted me awake earlier. He called at high noon, asking if I was ready to go. I was ready (but sleepy), all the while thinking that we'll only spend a late lunch via take out, taking the sentimentality of a stolen time in the middle of this Pandemic.
Lo and behold, we are a moving bubble that has moved a bit outside of a bigger bubble, invoking the "Do Not Delay" card and reaching a reclusive space where no other guests are checking in overnight. We are one little bubble secluded outside the bubble.
I hope that we can keep the bubble safe. After all, he mentioned that we are not the usual impulsive jejemons of the before; we are a couple one notch up. Not sure if that even means a term of mutual understanding, or a socio-economic strata.I remember Mama told me, that we are not part of the biblical verse stating "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." And true, no matter how much downplaying I do, I am not a part of the urban poor anymore. I maybe part of a working class, but—anyways, this working class is a huge chunk of category for me. It also includes the underground economy, the corporate slaves, and people managers who can afford housing and healthcare. Petit burgeoisie is also incorporated in this classification. Hmmm, maybe mama is right. We are a petit-burgis couple who opted to be childless, because we cannot afford to be poorer than our established comfort zones. We are slaves of our respective professions. Vulnerable walking time bombs: too liquid for offers of a Life Insurance yet too insolvent once Covid hit our respective bodies. Good thing he's fully vaccinated, he has his additional protection. I wonder when will I be fully vaccinated? Why does this Pandemic go on and on, and people are dying day by day? Facebook becomes obituary, Twitter becomes a prayer rally, Instagram becomes, well, being instagram. A long display of a seemingly-decade-ago luxury?
I have too many things in my mind and I still feel agitated at this simpleton beside me...Why am I having this again?
In any case, he invited "One g!" and when I answered back "I am writing, wait." He went back to his phone again, now browsing about luxury motorcycles, to which I don't even know if he can afford to buy one without a proper medical insurance.
Maybe this is what a couple looks like.
America Is Not the Heart by Elaine Castillo
