Half a pizza and her umbrella.
Originally from my old Multiply blog. A hopeless romantic's amateurish ode to a lost love, written when I fell head over heels for someone. I rediscovered it in my Blogger drafts lately and got a pretty good laugh out of it -- mostly because I sounded so foolishly in love back then. Posting it here so you can laugh along, too. I won't mind, I promise.
Modified from the original text. Because, you know, we'd only just revisited the Subject/Verb Agreement rules in English class when this was first written. Trust me, that older version was horrible.
(September 1, 2008, 8:57 PM PHT)
yet I did.
I was afraid of many other things when I did wake up:
afraid of how today will turn out,
afraid of how she'll respond,
afraid of her not showing up,
afraid of her going away...
As I restlessly waited for her in the middle of a sea of people,
my train of thought was headed for a crash.
What if she changed her mind?
What if she didn't really want to come?
What if she thought this was a waste of time?
That all changed when she tapped my shoulder and I turned my head
to find her right then and there, next to me.
She was even lovelier than I expected her to be
in her brown shirt,
in her capris,
in her flip-flops.
Her face was as heavenly as the angels
and her skin, as smooth as porcelain.
I took her to an early dinner.
We had pizza and tall glasses of iced tea.
I had bolognese.
I offered her some, but she refused.
She said she's on a diet; she's being conscious.
If only she'd believe me when I tell her she's perfect the way she is.
We talked.
Talked about a lot of things.
Our lives,
our friends,
our families.
We had much more to share than just the food on our table.
She'd laugh, and I'd smile back.
I'd laugh, and she'd smile back.
Her laughter is the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
My heart leaps when she laughs.
I asked for the bill.
I reached for my wallet,
took out a yellow and a purple bill,
and clipped them on the clipboard.
It wasn't much,
but it wasn't about the money at all.
We were unable to finish the pizza
so I asked the waiter to wrap it up.
I saw a sign near the exit:
"If you enjoyed your stay, please ring this bell."
I rang it not only because of the food,
but also because of the person I was eating the food with.
We went up to the arcade.
She insisted to go up.
I remembered I wasn't "through with her" yet.
The last time we went to an arcade,
she kicked my ass.
Today was no different.
Every single game, she kicked my ass.
I just threw my hands in the air, smiling.
"I give up," I said.
She hit my arm.
She was smiling.
I was happy that she was happy.
Before she left, I told her a few things.
I told her we had a lot of catching up to do;
I didn't want to let her slip past me
just because she's farther away now.
I told her I had a great time.
I told her I enjoyed our date.
I told her I want to enjoy more dates with her.
She was giggling.
I wondered why, but I didn't mind.
While we were walking,
I told her about how disappointed I was
because I won't have something to remember this day by.
I said I should've taken the receipt from the place where we ate.
I said I should've taken a picture.
I was desperate.
Then she asked if I still had the card from the arcade.
I did, but I just let her keep it,
that she might remember this day too.
When we were at the jeepney terminal,
we said our goodbyes.
I held her hand, and told her to take care.
I didn't want to let go,
but I had to.
And off we went.
The farther I walked away,
the sadder I felt.
I regretted letting go before.
I regret letting go now.
I knew what I wanted for myself.
I knew I needed her.
But circumstances changed,
and people changed.
Two years ago,
she thanked me for the love I showed her then.
But it wasn't just then that I loved her.
I loved her ever since.
I loved her even then.
And I love her even still.
. . .
I rode the jeepney headed for home.
As I reached for the inside of my bag to get my wallet,
I noticed something that didn't belong to me.
It was an umbrella.
It was her umbrella.
She took it out when she looked for her wallet to pay for the card at the arcade.
I put it in my bag because she would've left it on the counter.
None of us remembered.
I know I have to give it back to her,
the next time we see each other again,
whenever it may possibly be.
But for now,
half a pizza and her umbrella
are all I have to remember this day by,
and no matter how much of the details I’ve failed to recall,
this day will live in me forever.
I saw a sign near the exit:
"If you enjoyed your stay, please ring this bell."
I rang it not only because of the food,
but also because of the person I was eating the food with.
We went up to the arcade.
She insisted to go up.
I remembered I wasn't "through with her" yet.
The last time we went to an arcade,
she kicked my ass.
Today was no different.
Every single game, she kicked my ass.
I just threw my hands in the air, smiling.
"I give up," I said.
She hit my arm.
She was smiling.
I was happy that she was happy.
Before she left, I told her a few things.
I told her we had a lot of catching up to do;
I didn't want to let her slip past me
just because she's farther away now.
I told her I had a great time.
I told her I enjoyed our date.
I told her I want to enjoy more dates with her.
She was giggling.
I wondered why, but I didn't mind.
While we were walking,
I told her about how disappointed I was
because I won't have something to remember this day by.
I said I should've taken the receipt from the place where we ate.
I said I should've taken a picture.
I was desperate.
Then she asked if I still had the card from the arcade.
I did, but I just let her keep it,
that she might remember this day too.
When we were at the jeepney terminal,
we said our goodbyes.
I held her hand, and told her to take care.
I didn't want to let go,
but I had to.
And off we went.
The farther I walked away,
the sadder I felt.
I regretted letting go before.
I regret letting go now.
I knew what I wanted for myself.
I knew I needed her.
But circumstances changed,
and people changed.
Two years ago,
she thanked me for the love I showed her then.
But it wasn't just then that I loved her.
I loved her ever since.
I loved her even then.
And I love her even still.
. . .
I rode the jeepney headed for home.
As I reached for the inside of my bag to get my wallet,
I noticed something that didn't belong to me.
It was an umbrella.
It was her umbrella.
She took it out when she looked for her wallet to pay for the card at the arcade.
I put it in my bag because she would've left it on the counter.
None of us remembered.
I know I have to give it back to her,
the next time we see each other again,
whenever it may possibly be.
But for now,
half a pizza and her umbrella
are all I have to remember this day by,
and no matter how much of the details I’ve failed to recall,
this day will live in me forever.
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