DELETE

He was getting bored with the familiar waiting as he downloaded some newly found data he needed for his History assignment. His eyes ached from the glare of the computer monitor, and the air-conditioned room in that Internet Café became dense with body heat from the six or so students seated and gawking at the consoles. What a world to live in the age of technology, he muttered. The data he was looking for flashed on the screen. He rose to tell the owner of the café to print it. He saw her.

           On his left, she looked so attractive, jet black hair cascading softly on her shoulders, eyes livid with life, aquiline nose and the nubile features only a body of a young woman could have. The denim pants she wore lusciously clung to her well-shaped legs. The pink T-shirt exposed such twin mounds so sensual, yet spiritual. He looked at her ID. Freshman, he thought. She was chewing bubble gum, like a child during recess time. His fingers poised on the keyboard, then jumped quickly at the mouse on her right, as if trying to catch a catfish, so elusive. Their eyes met, for eternity. He became conscious of himself as he was taken in a daze, propelling him in a distant place where he was born, near the singing sea, where winds in September are so perilous to boatsmen. She broke the infinite silence with a “hi,” her voice virginal and pure. He said “hello.” That was how he met Gwen. She was, to him, a fairy.

           He was attracted to her from the very start, for when they emerged from the internet café, they had nowhere to go. They entered the campus and sat on one of the cemented benches near the main entrance, where they could see the statue of St Louis, San Jacinto building at the backdrop. The guards were eyeing them with a prospect. The students passed by, with a curious look in their eyes. They, too, like them, were in jeans. This was a Wednesday. No uniform.

            “So, you were surfing some websites too?’ she had asked.

“Yes. Don't we all? There are many things we can learn from history,” his voice was husky. He was conscious of her nearness. Her touch that first meeting was electrifying.

           “I think History is such a bore. Why don’t you try downloading more blood-curdling adventures? Like Philosophy, you know,” she said this with a smile. Sensing he might be offended, she held his hand.

           “I have a lot of share in Philosophy,” he laughed. “I guess next time; I’m going to try the Law of Relativity.” Their laughter was a staccato of Hale.

           He was astounded at her vivacity. The simplicity masked on her face, the radiance that reflected that early July morning, the elegance of her bearing: an almost immaculate aura, so innocent yet alluring. Something deep inside him was awakened this very day, by this lovely creature. Her eyes were probing his. She was amiable and affable at the same time, though one is in the genes, the other learned.

 “What do you do aside from studying?” she offered a sheepish smile.

“I write. I sing.” He said, looking directly to her eyes.

“Do you play the guitar?” she is smiling now.

 “Why do you ask?” he said impishly.

“I like people playing the guitar,’’ she said, smiling at him.

       He believed her. He cannot only say that he is the lead guitarist in their band and that he was contented she had never seen him play the guitar yet. He was too modest to say that. Yet, in an instant, he wanted to play the guitar, and he remembered how many city girls have been lured by the melody. He wondered if she would enjoy his music. He wondered if she is now the fairy he was looking for.

           She had invited her to attend a party next Saturday. In the house, she said, as she stretched to relax, wriggled her toes covered by sketchers. You will meet the gang, you will like them, and perhaps you can write a story about me.

           He was too busy the next day, cramming with write-ups and last-minute projects his professors had mandated. Yet her image and perfume lingered everywhere, and he can’t help but think of her. In his boarding house, he pummeled on his computer, writing about her, the first meeting. His face flushed, remembering her beauty, the simplicity she exuded. This will be a masterpiece about a fairy.

           Then Saturday came. He dressed early, putting on his jeans and t-shirt. He applied the gel to his hair, and he splashed cologne more than necessary. He took a tricy to San Gabriel, giving careful instructions to the driver the address she gave him. He was thinking about her virginal face. He remembered the singing sea, when placid, a view to taking. However, during September, the sea is catastrophic. And why? Why would he act this way? He had no idea. For sure, it must have been the melody of her voice, which he heard a long time ago. In a distant place that keeps resurging. The melody of her voice nagged him, which was also the melody of his music.

           The address was easy to find. He gave the driver the usual double pay. As he emerged from the sidecar, he could hear music. He paused for a moment. It was a fast beat, and it was growing to a crescendo. Not his usual conservative music: there was something in it. He started for the gate.

           On the third push on the doorbell button, she emerged. The smile was there, but something was amiss. Her face was the face of a movie star, so complicated. Gone was the simplicity, the vivacity he earlier loved. She was wearing jeans, all right, but the blouse was too short, exposing the milky skin of her navel. Her mouth was a wound, the eyes more pronounced by makeup. He was looking at a stranger with a mask.

           “Hi, come on in. My parents are out, and you can meet the gang,” her eyes sparkled with diamonds.

           Almost clumsy, he entered the living room, reeking with wine and tonic. Smoke was rising to the ceiling, and the room was gyrating with bodies. He could hear the music; it was like thunder, no, it was just like the waves during September in the singing sea.

           “Hey, this is Hendrix. He is a writer.” A dozen faces looked at his direction, and they smiled. He focused his eyes in the dim. One good looking brat, a mestizo was eyeing him differently. Suddenly, he felt faint. He allowed her to lead him to the array of drinks. He unconsciously accepted whatever was offered.

           The girls were giggling at Gwen. They have the same outfit. He could see the garter of their underwear, and some were smoking. He could clearly see her now. The blouse was filmy, her breast exposed. There were about six stags, all with beads and earrings. One-handed a thin cigarette to him. He accepted it, only to put it on a marble-topped table. He chatted with a guy with a Che Guevarra shirt. He was wearing a gold earring. His knuckles had a tribal tattoo. Henna, he guessed. Saint Paul’s don’t put their students on the lam. He was talking about double pedals and Zildjian instruments. He supplemented whatever was asked. No, he said, it was Jimi Hendrix who was God. Not Eric Clapton. I like Hale, he said. But you should hear my collection. He nodded in agreement. Do you know this web site where you can jam online? Gosh, the girls are lovely. I am not familiar, he said sullenly. But some guys in Saint Louis do.

           The house was opulent, and he can see the reason: the father of the house is a lawyer. The mother is a young CPA. He can tell by the family picture hang on the wall of the den. Yes, this is a wealthy family. Just the canisters of wine could worth thousands. There were cheeses and cold cuts and rye, muttons, and sausages, and one was coordinating with the DJ on what music was to be played. There was an array of DVDs in one table. All were familiar to him but to a degree of fondness.

           Suddenly, Gwen was dancing with mestizo with beads, she was gyrating her hips, at her back, just above her garter, and he could see a stark tattoo. A colored tattoo, he cannot even decipher. She was lost in oblivion with half-closed eyes in the rhythm of the universe, the rhythm of youth. Other pairs were embracing, catapulting themselves to unknown darkness. He felt at a loss. He placed his glass on the table and swiped a Bud Light. I will learn this, he said. I will.

           An hour later, Gwen was beside him. She was near, to him, and yet, she was telling stories to her friends. The mestizo was mixing drinks, and he gave one to Gwen. He kissed her on the cheeks, and then looked at him: as if saying, she’s mine, you know. There was jealousy in his heart, and later on, regrets. The ache was there, agony, maybe, but then he thought of the singing sea, he was sure it will not ache forever.

           When Gwen staggered and the mestizo fondled her bosom, he felt he has to go. Tipsy, Gwen brought him up to the gate.

           “It’s early,” she said. “And I like you here with me.”

           “I have to go. I have to write, you know. Besides, mestizo will be missing you.”

           “Alex? O, he is a guitarist. And a banjo player too.” The pure virginal voice suddenly became fiery. Her eyes were begging, then commanding, then condescending.

           “Goodnight,” he said. He suddenly thought of his article. Luckily, a tricycle passed by. He hopped inside, and when he looked at her direction, he saw that she was also having regrets, no, defeat. The defeat of losing him. She was looking at him, trying to run after him, then thought better to stay.

           Back at the boarding house, he went direct to his computer. He booted the CPU and he started reading what he had written. He remembered their first meeting.

            She looked so attractive, jet black hair cascading softly on her shoulders, eyes livid with life, aquiline nose and the body of a woman. The denim pants she wore lusciously clung to her well-shaped legs. The pink T-shirt exposed such twin mounds so sensual, yet spiritual. He looked at her ID. Freshman, he thought. She was chewing a piece of gum, like a child during recess time. His fingers poised on the keyboard, then jumped quickly at the mouse on her right, as if trying to catch a catfish, so elusive. Their eyes met, for eternity. He became conscious of himself as he was taken in a daze, propelling him in a distant place where he was born, near the singing sea, where winds in September are so perilous to boatmen.

The ache is gone now. He knew. Something inside him had died. A fairy, so brief, in reality, was like a mist in the singing sea, had vanished so quickly.

He pushed the button delete when all he had written had been highlighted. Now, darkness enveloped him. He could see the light from the monitor, the distant, averted innocent look in his eyes became sharper as the screen saver came into focus. He knew, suddenly, as there are many lessons in history, there is also much more to learn in real life.

He shut down the monitor of his computer, stood in the darkness and laughed. It was pained laughter without rancor. Then he went to bed, put on his headphones and was lulled by his own music to a dreamless sleep.

The fairy could still be out there somewhere.