Prosaic #8 in G or Ann Is Bum’s Girlfriend. You Want Pictures of Us Together? Not Now, Definitely Not Here.
Was it Tanya Garcia I saw ambling, looking around across the literary section of a bookstore, picking a Murakami and putting it back after ten seconds, turning her head on me in a jiffy before picking another Murakami, some lazy afternoon? I don’t know, I should have asked. Why was she wearing thick sunglasses? I suppose she continues to languish after Mark Lapid failed to defend his post in Pampanga against a vitiligoed priest, and, failed further to become a father to her newborn child. That makes her cry every night, that makes her eyes swell every morning. That makes her wear sunglasses. Along with that, depression makes her anew; it introduced to her, no, not booze and joint– she already knew those–books; the solace of fiction, the taste for art. And I really hope I was not mistaken. It was Tanya Garcia on a skimpy pink satin dress. She better not become another broken angel; like Farina’s Carlson or Kenndy’s Monroe, just to name a few. I think of her, I think of this now: people in power get the girl(s) they like, get the guy(s) they want, for a fuck, that’s a fact. But for love, so seldom. And in my glooming life comes Ann, she comes from a political clan, not in Aklan. She said mariage to her family is but a business; an integration of assets, never merely a union of souls. Every dynasty wants to grow, that sometime it prohibits the heart to choose. I know, at first she just wanted to defy such custom. But as we moved on, so suddenly she became the lightning that stroke a fierce protest, then followed the thunder that sounded like: BUM!
