Athletes and me

I was looking at him by the corner of my eye as I drink my usual Frappuccino. Like what weakdays do on a usual Wednesday morning, I can't have my usual fabulous facade as an entree, I wish my shitty look would suffice for his beauty.

I later found out that his name is Jacob. A Football player from the Ateneo, as how all of my exes say it. I find him perfect with composure. How he has this certain control of how he moves, an economy of movement like no other. He's outspoken, witty and with excellent manipulation of history.

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I don't personally know him. But I do remember him on one sunny Tuesday morning. Along the cold corridors of St. Benilde lies this row of chairs, like an airport waiting for its passengers he sat there with his crutches and a bag of burger as he looks at the nearby garden. Serenity was in his eyes and wishing to be stuck there for a lifetime was inevitable.

There was no spark of interest in me. He had nothing special nor does he have any distinct piercing features. I wasn't really sure on why I'm utterly addicted to him now but there's one thing I'm quite sure off, he's one cute son-of-a-bitch.

Seeing him on a weekly basis wasn't surprising. We would see each other up the usual corridor, he had no more crutches with him and he walked gracefully like an athlete. Just looking at his agile figure wants to make a race with him. Sigh. If it weren't for my weak and physically-deficient genepool I would've invited him for a jog. Maybe, just maybe...

I see him at the library browsing for books for his history class, talking to one of our common friends every Thursday afternoon at the cafeteria, and walking by taft as he looks around for something/someone. He was just really mysterious, just like a book waiting to be read and on how that last line was just so cliche. He could be the one, like all of my exes were.

The last time I saw his graceful steps was at the Discipline's office. Like any other student losing his ultimate key to passing our gates, losing this key is one of my habits. Sometimes I leave it, sometimes I don't. I guess this is how destiny works; getting us both in trouble and getting us stuck in the same room at the same day with the same usual bullshit of losing our ID.

With my supreme google-fu at hand, I later found out that he is 20. As I said, a transferee from ADMU as LIT major and a football player. It all fitted perfectly! So thats why he was wearing those crutches the first day.

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I can now see him looking at me. With his piercing eyes passing through me.I felt like melting with just the idea of it. But I was wrong, he was looking pass me, outside the store; where the busy streets of Taft come and go and where vendors yell and bikes trample. I looked in unison to where he was staring and I see nothing but your usual cars, trucks, and jeeps. Maybe.just maybe, over my unbelievable dream-he was looking at me.

I blushed. I flipped a couple of more pages. I looked at him.

Our eyes met and he suddenly moved his head to focus on what he was reading; bundles and dozens of papers from his history books. I kept on looking at him every time I finish a chapter. With his wooden-brown eyes scanning the room every half hour or so, I would smirk in the background while I carry on and read my Prada.

He stood up after an hour and he walked behind me. I moved my chair as I wait for his excuse. His voice came in like expected with a rasping sound of constraint and confusion, "Excuse me."

How I wish it were a Hy or Hello, a friendly gesture that would just sky-rocket this awkward tension. He came back, got to read his papers again and out of nowhere this obnoxious Korean just moved between us. UGH. Perfect! Just what I needed, a Korean sitting between us, covering my view of his beauty.

I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to know his name, how is he, and if he lives near Vito Cruz. Like a bedside reporter to how I would describe it, he had this aura that would just trap any predator's eyes on him. Since then on, I wanted him just for my own.

But of course, this were my thoughts when I had no idea of who he was and how he was just this shroud on the scorching desserts of Saudi Arabia. Now, he was clearer. A STOP sign located down the street, he was THAT visible. Red, Big, and Visible.

After two hours, he got up and pulled his bag up to his shoulder. Then walked by a different route, not touching my skin and not hearing my voice. By then on, I thought I wouldn't see him anymore. I thought, that somewhere deep in his system, he felt awkward. I kept on reading brain-washing myself that nothing ever happened. I'm reading a book, not looking at boys.

I felt hopeless then on. But just by the horizon, I saw him sitting perpendicular to where I was. Sitting outside the glass window with the air between us separating each other and the 3-inch glass muting us with our voices. Is he giving off signs? Is he trying to tell something? I don't know, I have no idea.

So I went out, to a table next to him while I whip out my Dunhills and lighter. I lighted one up, sipped, inhaled then breathed out fresh air. I was calculating ways of approaching him, I was trying to make sense of all the signs and misinterpreted nosebleeds. I don't want to be mistreated, I don't want to humiliated.

Looking at his face for any sign of interest. He seems to be uninterested. Like Nina Garcia browsing through this year's rising fashion-designers. No one was new, no one was chic, no one is fashion.

So I stood up, grabbed my bag and dragged my ass out of the store. Telling myself "Boys, my dear are everywhere. Why exert too much effort while they could be the one running for you."

Since I've come home,
well my body's been a mess
and I miss your tender hair,
and the way you like to dress.

p.s. Is it just me or are varsity jocks the usual on my menu lately?