for Ivy Escalona

this was written for an English assignment...



MS. MIKKI



These late office hours really get to me sometimes. I usually don’t mind working until midnight here in the office, tonight is just one of those nights where my mind isn’t focused. It was probably all the sweat and hunger that kept me alive the previous nights; despite my huge built and usually scruffy appearance, I really can never relax without taking my cold shower and eating my scrumptious dinner. But tonight, when the rain just would not stop tormenting the glass window and the flood would not subside, it seems that the both of us will be spending the night here.
Relax; don’t worry. It’s not like me to have sex with girls who don’t want to. So unless you’re gonna feel kinky tonight and invite me for a little activity that would keep our bodies warm in this cold night, I wouldn’t lay my skin on yours.
How old are you again? And is this your first job? What kind of writer are you, the late-bloomer-who-never-knew-that-she-could-write-until-some-bloke-picked-up-her-essay-
and-said-“Man,-this-thing-kicks-ass!”? Or the all-so-talented-individual-that-was-born-in-a-family-of-writers-and-it-just-naturaly-runs-in-
the-blood type? Seriously? I’m a little bit of both; I grew up in a family of writers. Almost all my relatives see their bylines in newspapers and magazines – the rest have already released their books. But I never really imagined that I would be working for a news organization.
I met one of the coolest English teachers during my senior high school stint. It was that same teacher who inspired me to take writing seriously; she was the adviser of the school paper while I was a reporter. “Keep the flare alive” was the greatest advice anyone gave me. Her name was Ma. Mikaela Mariella. Yes the name sounds weird, that’s why she wanted to be called Ms. Mikki.
It was around 10 years ago. I was your typical high school popular guy that time. It was also raining then, a rainy evening of July 3rd. at 8:00pm I was still in school, unable to go home because of the usual flood. The streets of Manila were not as good back then as it is now. Well, it was that evening when she offered me a ride home. I’ve been studying in that school for four years already, but it was the first time I saw her. Tired, hungry, wet and eager to get home, I accepted the ride.
Ms. Mikki was fresh from college when she began teaching in our school. She handled English for freshmen. During the ride home, we talked as if we had known each other for the longest time. The words putangina and fuck came in every sentence. When she asked where I lived it was the only time that we discovered that we lived in the same street, hence we made a pact to always go home together. It was a two-way deal; me getting a car ride for a cheaper price if not for free (she never wanted to charge me for the rides, but I always insisted) and her getting a companion, bodyguard and baggage lifter.
Needless to say we got really close. I became the editor of the school paper, and she became the adviser. So immediately, with the school’s consent, became a tandem.Ms. Mikki and I went to school together, ate lunch together, went home together. Both of us had other sets of friends, but Ms. Mikki and I were different. “We were like peas and carrots,” as Forrest Gump once said.
She told me that I will have my place in the future in writing. “It’s not gonna be easy; writers are not supposed to live saintly lives,” she said. “But keep the flare alive. It’s that burning passion for a byline that will keep you going and will guide you through the darkest of times.”
But there was this one time that things took a different turn. I was home alone one night when she came over. She was sobbing, and when I asked what was wrong she said she was just feeling so lonely and asked if she could spend the night there. For the rest of the night I was just there, lying on the couch with her, holding her tight. Her eyes were closed but she wasn’t asleep; it was then when I realized that eyelids, too, can be cute. Sweet Ms. Mikki. I heard her murmur “don’t ever let go of me, Raf… please…” I don’t know what got into me that moment, but my response was to brush my lips softly against hers.
After that night things changed between us. I never took a ride home with her again; she never joined me for lunch again. We only spoke with each other during meetings and layouting of the newspaper, and even that felt totally awkward. Kissing an older woman can give a high school boy complicated emotions, you know. And I can just imagine how much more complicated a matured woman’s emotions would be if she allowed a high school boy kiss her.
I saw her during my high school graduation. She simply gave me a letter, gave a cordial handshake, and left. The letter only had one phrase in it: “Keep the flare alive – between us.” I never saw Ms. Mikki again until college.
I pursued a creative writing degree when I was in college. I followed her advice: keep the flare alive, not only for writing but for her as well. I’ve had several relationships in college, but all of them were short-lived.
I was insecure when I was in college. All my friends and my classmates were achievers during their younger years, excelling academically and receiving various honors from different non-government organizations and private sectors, while the greatest achievement I had was becoming part of the high school news staff.
I was hungry for a byline when I was in college. I joined several publications but only a few of my works were being published. So I resorted to being a contributor to the mainstream media. After a couple of years of unpopularity, I was depressed. None of my contributions were being published. I wasn’t academically good either. I felt depressed.
But I wasn’t gonna stay down any longer. The first semester of my sophomore year, a professor asked us to write an article on writing. Yes, write about writing. So I did. The title of my article was “And To Those Who Write, I Salute You!” I wrote about how it feels like to be an unpopular and unrecognized writer. I wrote in there how hard it really is to keep the flare alive, but going on and letting it live within you.
My professor returned to me the article, but attached to it was an application form for the United Nations Icon in Literature Awards. He scribbled something in my article: “this is the best essay I’ve ever read in my life.” That gave me enough courage to fill in the application form and submit my work.
So I joined, and I won. Winning a UN award can sure change your life. I was invited to be a speaker for a seminar in UP Los Baños, and guess who attended that seminar? Ms. Mikki.
We joined each other after the seminar until that evening; we talked and talked and talked and talked like there was no tomorrow. It was like old times again; we had to catch up on the few years we never heard from one another. She was glad to know that I was doing well as a writer; I wasn’t glad to know that she just got off from a real bad relationship.
She noticed how much I changed over the years; “hindi na totoy” . She, on the other hand, didn’t change much. She had her hair cut into a chic style, but she still had the cutest eyelashes and it was only then when I realized that she had small dimples.
She joined me and my friends for a little shindig that night at a friends’ house. My friend spiced the punch pretty good; needless to say I got heavily drunk. So did she.
Both of us were walking (or is there another term for walking while drunk?) home when rained poured like hell again. We took refuge under a great acacia tree and we stayed there, drunk and wet. She smelled so fresh, even her breath smelled fresh with a twist of lime and alcohol in it. I was there, she was there. Looking in each others eyes made us continue what we started at my place. It wasn’t the first time I touched a woman, but there I realized that what they’ve been telling me was true; it’s a different sensation when the one you’re feeling is a person who is truly special. The rain ended quickly, but we spent the rest of the night together under that acacia tree.
I never saw her again since. I didn’t get her contact number or the address where she stayed or anything. It was a one-night stand, a moment too good to last.
I received word that she and the rest of her family had migrated to London, weeks after we last saw each other. So the first job I tried looking for after graduation was a job that would get me closest to Europe. Now you know why I’m working here in Reuters. I’ve been fighting for the request to be transferred to Reuters HQ in the United Kingdom for three years now; if this still doesn’t push through this year, I’m going to take a crash-course in caregiving and apply as a nurse there. Meanwhile, I’m really getting hungry here. I think a got a couple of instant mami noodles in my drawer. Why don’t you heat some water from the kitchen so we can eat a little something while you do the rest of the talking?
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