Envious of caring

Let me have them step out of tarot cards and call them The Lovers because that’s what they are literally. Last night I went out to dinner with my friends, The Lovers. We had a pleasant evening reminiscing about the days when we were young, when we would go out to a bar in Ermita, where some of us would drink and others would sing. I particularly loved Omar Khayyam on M.H. del Pilar. It was a simple bar. On one wall was painted a portion of a verse, which ended with “a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou.” Across it was a bar with stools. Below it tables and chairs.

We liked going there. Gon would collect from each of us — P5 but on paydays P20. Ordinary days we would just have beer and peanuts. On payday we would have dinner — pork chops and potatoes.

Freddie would pick us up in his rickety VW Beetle whose front passenger door was wired together because sometimes it would close and other times it would not. We were a whole bunch of people who piled into that car — Carmen, Jean, Gon, EG, Freddie and me. At Omar we would meet with others. There was no romance in that group, only friendship and laughter. We would sit drinking beer, chatting, laughing. We would stay until I don’t know what time then we would cross over to the Luneta and eat balut before heading for home.

We were in our 20s then. Young. Brimming with laughter. Refusing to think of the hard times that lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce on us soon. We just wanted to have fun. I remember sitting at Omar Khayyam waiting for a familiar figure, an old famous doctor, to walk in. I think he was over 60 then, maybe he was my age now. He was short, always dressed in starched whites, always alone sitting at the bar drinking and staring blankly ahead of him. I think he drank scotch, interminable scotch. He would arrive later than we and, I suppose, he would leave long after we left. I think now that if I had the energy to walk to a bar I would be like him, drinking alone, drinking to death. That’s worth a thought.

Anyway, this morning I had to go to Fairview where we have a kiosk and check on it. I decided to sit on a bench nearby and watch the people who passed to give me a feel of the market we were trying to serve. There were a few pregnant women who walked by alone. There were a few older couples. They walked together like they did not know each other, each one staring forward obviously involved in his and her own thoughts. Then she turned to ask a question. He responded without looking. Those moments told me they were together. Otherwise they seemed covered with indifference. Long married, I thought. Bored. No longer excited in each other’s company.

Then there were the college students who walked by in small mixed crowds. Always there was a couple holding hands or exchanging touches, like they could not keep their hands off each other. They were the ones really interested in life. There was a buoyancy about them, a sparkle in their eyes, a lilt in their voices as they passed. There was a young couple who walked past, arms sort of sliding against each other. Then they held hands. Then he put his arm around her shoulders and they walked on, talking.

That moved me. All my life I wanted to walk with my man that way, with his arm flung over my shoulders, both of us talking and laughing. My husband was tall enough but not affectionate enough. My tall boyfriends were never affectionate enough and my short boyfriends were not tall enough to do it. Suddenly I felt sad. I will probably die without experiencing that sweetness ever.

But wait. Was it really part of youth? I thought about The Lovers. They were sweet too. She in her ’60s, he in his ’70s. They could not keep their hands off each other too. I am envious of them, the trust they have in each other, the way they care about each other. You can feel all that just being with them. And when finally I am just with one of them, I sense the caring and longing for the other to call or text goodnight. So it isn’t youth that I’m envious of. I am envious of the caring.

But what the heck, I say, as I turn the key to my dark apartment and head for my bed. It’s out of my control. You either have love or you don’t. You either find it or you won’t. You had two beers and some wine. That was pretty good. Now go directly to sleep.

* * *

Please text your comments to 0917-8155570. Reminder: Writing class for men only begins on Oct. 3. There is still space. Text me if you are interested.