By Lawrence Ypil
dog-ears in the wrong notebook

WHEN one is forced to have lunch alone, one is left with a number of possibilities: read a book (in between porkchops), fiddle with one’s phone (and pretend that one has been stood up by one’s phantom lunch date), or do what, perhaps, could be the most productive alternative of all (other than skip the soup, dive into the meat, and leave): eavesdrop.

Today, there’s a group of college kids at the next table and although I am usually wont to respect privacy and decorum (fiercely guarding my own my self and to the teeth), this time I cannot help but listen.

It is, of course, and as expected, simultaneous chatter. One girl is complaining about her weight (in between what I believe are huge spoonfuls of bangus). Another confesses that she feels that her teacher hates her (“She, parang, never says hi to me in the corridors!”).

A guy at the other end of the table is talking about his dad. While his friend launches into a mini-lecture on his brief life as a writer, explaining how he finds it so hard to write, that is until a good idea hits him. (Part of me, of course, is fighting the urge to hand paper and pen to him, as a form of challenge.)

There is, of course, talk of sex. Who’s doing it with whom. Who’s cheating on whom. Who’s gay and who’s not. Who’s homophobic or who’s not. Who has been dying to have something happen to her life (meaning, in this case, for her boyfriend to make the move).

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By Michelle Tan Ferraren

I HAVE been going through the most unnerving ferries-wheel of an emotional ride of my life. And to how long this will end, I cannot tell.

My favorite best friend and cousin has been through countless bleating sessions from me that every time I blurted out, “The wedding is postponed,” she just rolls her eyes and quips: “I bet she’s going to be back on her feet tomorrow again rattling about how she likes her dress to look like and how she wants her hair done.”

Indeed, the next day, it happens true to my cousin’s hunch.

When my brother asked how I am doing with the preparations, I gleefully announced the date. “Is that final this time, Tweedle?” Or so the response I get comes as good as a shrug.

“Oh, yes,” I blabbered, breathless about my recent visit to the flower shop and how much the arrangements will cost. I droned on about the make-up artist and the photographer.

So when I finally sat down and wrote the guest list one late afternoon, I was not alarmed at how short the list was. The truth is there would have been a long list if I got myself carried away. But with a personal history such as mine, I have become defensive in my hopes for a party attended by all of my friends and families.

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By Darwin John Moises and Michelle Mendez-Palmares
Singlestalk

Michelle: The red alert raised every month puzzles men to no end, I’m sure. PMS is a good excuse for bad hair days, bloated tummies, flaring tempers and a dour and sour attitude. Sometimes I pity men when they’re under attack because it’s that time of the month once again!

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By Lawrence Lacambra Ypil

Slowly she threads the soles
back together, holds intently
the needle that will pierce
through and out of the rubber.
She is not to prick herself.

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By Jovenir F. Bataican
Open Windows

BACK when I was still seven or eight years old, the sight of my aunts, who were then already in their late teens, cleaning and rearranging the entire house meant only one thing: guests were coming. Male teen guests, more specifically. Not to forget boyfriend material type of guests.

And there we were. Bunched up with my siblings and my younger aunts, half a dozen brats in total, we would welcome these visits with mixed feelings. Why? Well, for one, we’d never see those visitors. We’d never be introduced. Worse, we’d be locked up in the biggest room and asked to stay on mute mode until the visitors had left.

To make things sufferable for us, we’d be “bribed” with candies and food intermittently thrown into the room from a vent high up on the wall to keep us quiet. We’d stuff ourselves full. And whenever found wanting of food and drinks again, we’d start stirring and creating noise until “manna” would rain once more in our “detention room” which by the way, was also kept dark (the latter our way of telling our “patrons” that we were cooperating fully). We played the role of the “invisibles” to the hilt. At a time when the likes of Bantay Bata and anti child abuse crusades were not as active, we hardly complained.

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