In That House, That Night
We were supposed to already clear up the mess; a pile of unpacked clothes and immigration papers. Instead, we kissed and made love for the second time. We, again, exchanged thoughts and stories in between saliva.
We unintentionally did a staring contest as I tried to stare deep into your soul.
It’s dark inside.
You broke the silence as you came up with the idea of showing our music playlists to each other.
We did as you suggested.
A drink or two would make it better, you said. You’ve got nice boozes in your cabinet but you would never let me have some since I puked all over your $40 IKEA rug. You brewed me Korean corn tea instead to save you a headache. We then bickered over tea cups.
“I want the black one”, I said.
“Nope, gray suits your gloomy soul better”, you argued.
You giggled, finally gave in and let me have the black one. You said something philosophical about the black color but I didn’t really pay attention because my mind was busy counting seconds.
32 more hours were left before your departure flight to finally break free.
If only you knew how thankful I was that night because you skipped retelling the same story you had been telling me all over again for the millionth time since we first met; about the way you felt imprisoned here and how you could not stand being in this country for any longer.
Then you played some random techno ethnic deep house tunes I would never listen to. You noticed me cringed, insisting in your signature snobbish tone that those tunes were better than shitty techno beats in any clubs on this island.
I sipped my tea nonchalantly, giving you a I-have-the-best-music-taste-and-no-one-can-tell-me-otherwise look.
“Gosh, you should have started learning to play instruments and formed a Shoegaze band already if you’re really into it”, you exclaimed as if you were reading my mind.
It was your thing to switch between topics during our conversations, and I could never remember how the subject of that convo changed until we found ourselves randomly watching Thai’s drag racing ambulance videos.
You told me, in a desperate escapist tone, that they really drag race everything there and how you found it so cool and could not wait to finally get your step anywhere on that peninsula.
I abruptly changed the channel. “Pluto” by Phum Viphurit was played.
You wondered why I always listen to sad songs. I told you I could not think of any songs that would be perfect for our farewell other than this song. You managed to joke it off in an attempt to keep the mood light, by promising me to send a snap of Phum if you happen to run into him somewhere in Bangkok.
It’s all futile.
We finally decided to call it a night.
Then you swallowed your Xanax as if hugging me was not enough to ease your racing mind. As if you had a lot in your head to anticipate, and another more to get rid of and leave it behind.
Still, you even talked in your sleep, something I could never decipher.
Hours went by just like that.
The following morning, we had sour dough for breakfast. Extra cream cheese with chocolate sprinkle for me and a plain one for you. I didn’t mind listening to you mansplaining about the history behind the locals’ habit of eating bread with chocolate sprinkle was actually a post-colonial cultural practice. I knew it already, but managed to play dumb just to stroke your ego.
It was our last breakfast together.
Few other things did happen in between,
before you sold that house
as your best attempt to put your said misery on pause.