fugly

Hers was a philosophy of plentitude and overloading. Beauty was based on the capacity to have everything colorful draped on gloriously svelte frame. Happiness is achieved purely by receiving accolades and praises. And humility is nothing but concealing assets with discombobulated truths.

Nobody knows where and how she got this belief system. In the first place, nobody cares.

In a quaint place South of the Capital, she flourished as the town’s muse. Calbiga was an easy place to achieve popularity and catch the male population’s attention. Sure, she was beautiful: long, lithe, and evenly-tanned body, and by Filipino standards, her nose-bridge elevation was decent enough. Even to those who didn’t care, she was stunning.

So what is with her?

Well, apparently, a description of her from another Calbiga resident was not enough. One had to experience her.

And experience I did.

Yesterday, I met her at a coffee shop in McKinley Hill. On Tuesdays, the 8 am ritual consists of a large serving of milk and tuna pan de sal. Fish was my fuel and milk assisted in the digestive process. Tuesdays were allotted for re-fueling, re-defining the wrong and taking a step closer to Perfection. The coffee shop is heaven, and the baristas my angels.

At exactly 8:45 a.m. when the ritual was about to reach its denouement, she, a gazelle, stepped into my heaven. While my angels assisted her, my mind scurried to bring my self evaluation to a close.

It may have been the lactose-drowning or what my mind resolved that day: a person achieves internal and external beauty by exposing one’s self to Beauty itself, but a selfish urge to own her warmed my body like gamma rays heating frozen chicken from the inside out. Yes, the coffee shop transformed into one humongous microwave oven.

As I’ve said, she was beautiful. Ergo, I need to be around her. I allowed 20 seconds to check if it were my loins thumping. No, it was my curious hypothalamus. Darn it. What was I thinking? Of course, my thighs were not supposed to tingle, I am, supposedly, A GIRL! She was THAT bee-yu-ti-ful, I almost convinced myself to be a man and wrap my pervert’s arm around her waist.

After a chirp of “Thank you, Ma’am. Enjoy your latte!” , her nose lead her head to me. I smiled at her. Maria Leonora Teresa Reyes smiled back. That was the beginning of a wonderful friendship.

My gazelle sashayed her way to my table and inspired a stampede in my serene innards.

She said she thought I was her cousin. I knew it was a lie, her eyes twitched. She wanted to sit with me. The place was packed with academic snobs with tongues dipped in brewed Sulawesi, too busy to accommodate anyone.

I gave her another smile.

A smile from her. Oki lang me maki-share?

And shards of glass crashed on cold marble floor. Aha! She was an outsider. She sounded like she came from the other side of town, the continent even. An invisible orchestra of hecklers chorused in laughter—very demeaning laughter. Grandmother constantly reminded me to be kind to people who were different. I had to be kind and accommodating to this creature. She wasn’t entirely appalling.

A nod assured I would not mind sharing my table with her.

Then, came a long awkward minute. Her nose lead her head to different directions, pretending to look for someone or something familiar in the area. I knew she was pretending, her accent and faux Prada clutch bag screamed it. I, on the other hand, fumbled with the only two icebreakers I learned, from my Grandfather, no less : Should I say Ano’ng probinsiya mo? or the traditional mention-name-offer-right-hand approach.

If I wanted to befriend her, I better say something and it better be soon, but what?

Pregnant pause. Ho- ho- hum.

Lagi ka ba dito? Ngayon lang kasi kita nakita, e. Masarap ang Mocha Frapey dito, try mo. She offered her drink and swung the straw towards me.

What was she saying? My house was two blocks down the road, I puff my post-dinner smoke rings here and the crew knows my middle name. Should I call her bluff? Maybe I should. I had to cut this encounter short and discourage anything that would make her want to linger for more than fifteen minutes. The sight of her was enough for me and more input about her will cover my vision with a thick film of bias. She was becoming less and less beautiful to me that a conversation might make her intensely fugly.

Fugly? No, that can’t be it. I can’t call her fugly. That would take me fifty paces away from Perfection. That can’t be. Note to self: do one grand act of holiness to redeem self. Note number two: begin by not calling this fine young woman fugly.

I told her it was my first time.

Note number three: stop lying.

Why should I? She seemed to be lying, too. I learned to lie because of her. Sure, the person who tells the truth is the bigger person. Everybody wants to be the bigger person all the time, so why can’t I be the smaller person? I already gained two pounds from my pan de sal and it wasn’t stuffed with lies. In it was honest-to-goodness saltwater tuna, I think.

One cliché goes: presume good faith in everything. I am to presume she had no intention of inciting disgust from me, she had reasons for lying. An obvious remedy to this is to finish my milk and be off. Still, I cannot help but be uncomfortable of being lied to. Her standard introductions may have escaped her and her panic resulted to one convenient untruth. Alibi accepted.

She began weaving her story that came out to be very engaging. She said she was born in Calbiga. It is a small town, she says, I would not have heard of it.

She was wrong. Grandma was from Barrio Rawis of that town. Two weeks of all my summers were spent tending the farm left by our ancestors. Ours was half an hour away from the town plaza and visits there were usually on market days, usually on Sundays. I know the place. I would have told her, instead I kept mum and gave her a mental high-five.

Besides, she continued, even if I have heard of it, I wouldn’t be interested. Life was slow there. Na-bo-boring ako duon.

No, it was not. Sure, everything was turtle-paced, but not boring. The town welcomed people needing people, soul-searching yuppies, and those looking for quiet places to read. There was clean and clear air, fresh food, respectful youngsters, and free and easy access to natural landscapes. It was the perfect provincial life. Why would anyone think otherwise?

It is much nicer here in the city, she says. Excitement is all over the place.

Excitement? What does she mean? Is it the child-like appreciation of new things? Is she not aware that when something nice is repeatedly experienced, excitement, as she knows it, leaves the scene?

By this time, hordes of coffee-mug-wielding suits slowly crept into the place. It was time to leave. I excused myself, stood up and in quick tiny steps hurried to the door. Little did I know that she was on my heels.

She asked where I was off to.

To the bakeshop next door. I had to pick up dessert for today’s lunch with friends.

Buying cake for a party?

No, just lunch. With friends.

Emphasis on friends. She should have sensed exclusivity.

She said she had nothing to do today, ignoring the gunk of a hint I dumped on her.

Why me? What did I ever do to her? The country is filled with persons willing to munch her lies. Pick another person, Maria Leonora Teresa. Look for writers in need of a storyline or security guards of establishments devoid of events such as dormitories and isolated warehouses. Believe me, they will be grateful for her stories. Impress them of your beauty titles and enumerate all your family’s properties. Today was supposed to be a normal day for me: milk for breakfast and friends for lunch.

If I invite her, sure, there will be an addition to my list of friends, but I have to sit through the post-lunch evaluation of the newcomer. While it is true that my friends are polite, they would still end up bashing her when I give them a catalog of her flaws.

Yesterday was Tuesday and a step closer to Perfection should have been made.

Ergo, invite her.

Donna and Jack were waiting by the veranda when we arrived. The introductions were uncomfortable as my guest stared down at my friends.

Maria Leonora Teresa really is Marissa Sabarte, a small town diva. I named her after a doll made popular by a matinee idol in the 80’s. Like the doll, multiple copies of her are all over the country and only the shallow and asinine want her.