When I woke up this morning I knew that I didn’t love him anymore. I watched him as he slept beside me, arms wrapped around my waist, face half-buried in the flesh of my shoulder. His loud snores rudely stabbed the silence around us. I struggled to sit, removing the weight of his arms from my body. When I managed to, he turned so that he lay on his back, arms spread on the bed that suddenly seemed too narrow. I rubbed my eyes and brushed my hands through my hair, putting the cowlicks in place. His mouth was open. I could see a fine trail of spittle running from the side of it. I turned away in revulsion.
Before getting up, I held back the urge to cover his face with a pillow or the worn flannel blanket that he loved as much as I detested it. I would have given anything to be rid of that sight.
He would not be up until seven-thirty, two hours before his first class. He would kiss me on the mouth without even gargling, before sitting to eat the breakfast that I had prepared. He had a terrific appetite. No pan de sal for him, always fried rice and eggs served with dried, salted fish or sausages and a big glass of orange juice. He said that his work at the gym demanded a meal of this size but I think not. If not for his daily exercise, he would be obese.
He would eat anything that I cooked. Even that Chicken A La King experiment that had the consistency of sinigang. That was long ago. I have perfected it now, along with the Pastel de Lengua that he eats with gusto.
As I entered our room, I saw that he had kicked the covers once again. Half of it had already fallen on the floor. He slept in the nude, whether we had sex or not. His body was as toned as ever, not an ounce of fat hanging from his belly. Looking at him, I felt anything but delight. Or arousal.
While drying my hair with the towel, I remembered waking up with his stiff sex pressing on my thigh or backside and we would make love as if we hadn’t the night before. How I loved him then.
I dressed quickly, careful not to wake him, not because I wanted him to get all the sleep that he could. I just didn’t want to have to talk to him. I was tired of his mindless chatter and stupid remarks. I got out of the house without awakening him.
While driving on EDSA, I noticed that the car smelled so like him. I used to tell him not to douse himself with his perfume that could be cloying when sprayed in large amounts. But he never listened, as usual. We used to wear the same perfume. I stopped using his brand months ago. But I could still smell him on me, on my clothes, in my car. I thought of ways to remove his scent as I passed Cubao. I saw that there was a new Meryl Streep movie playing.
I told myself that I was going to see it because she was my favorite actor and I wasn’t going to take him with me. When we watched movies, all he did was snuggle up to me and sleep. He never appreciated good movies. When I tried to start discussions about a movie we had seen together, his insights were so shallow I always regretted initiating them. He preferred to see those martial arts B-movies entitled Raging Fury 2 or Dragon Fists or something.
I told myself: I’m never ever going to fall for a gym instructor again.
When I arrived at the office, Amy, my secretary, was on the phone. She mouthed his name and I told her softly to tell him that I wasn’t in yet. I closed my eyes as I sat on my chair. Like clockwork. His calls always came when I got to the office and in the afternoon, before I left. If he wanted to be fetched from the gym or if we were going to meet somewhere, he would call. He could drive but he didn’t want to buy his own car. He preferred taking cabs. In one of his stupid jokes, he said he fancied himself a connoisseur of cabs.
God! If I could only make him disappear.
I tried to think of something else, but I couldn’t. He had a funny way of sneaking into my mind sometimes. I proceeded to attend to my tasks, ignoring all vestiges of him in my mind. His smile, his eyes that always seem to implore, his gait. Before I went out for lunch, Amy peered into my office and told me he was on the phone. I didn’t want to talk to him, but I had no choice.
He didn’t notice my irritation. He never knew how to be sensitive at the right time. I realized this long ago. He would usually flare up over the most mundane things, react to the simplest of remarks in a violent way—yet he would ignore the things that needed his full attention. Things like my growing dislike for him, for the way his ears stick out of his head, or the way he speaks when he’s trying to make a point. I don’t like the way he touches me when he’s drunk. I absolutely detest him when he’s in front of the TV: watching those idiotic wrestling shows, mesmerized; or laughing like a hyena at the foolish inanities of a gag show. Maybe that was where he got his sense of humor. Maybe he was just born that way.
Maybe I shouldn’t really care.
I went out for lunch glumly.
When I came back to my office, the applicant scheduled for a job interview was waiting for me. I went to the washroom. While shaking thoughts of him out of my head by dousing my face with water from the faucet, I decided that I wouldn’t let him affect me this way again.
But as luck would have it, the applicant only reminded me of him. Tense but trying real hard to hide it, that was how he was when we first met. Although the applicant’s transcript and background training were exemplary, I didn’t like him. His resemblance in disposition to him worked against him. Reminding myself of the decision I made in the comfort room, I told the applicant plainly (and coldly, I think) that he could come back for the second interview, a step closer to being hired.
After the applicant left, I told Amy I didn’t want to be disturbed with any calls or visits. I closed my eyes and sat back—trying, but not succeeding, to relax. My chair was soft and plush; at another time I would’ve dozed off but I couldn’t now. My mind was full of thoughts too quick and too intense to describe. What right did he have to make me feel this way? All he did was nag me when he felt insecure about our relationship, accusing me of infidelity when in truth he was the flirt! When he got that way, he was worse than my mother. And my father left her. This has got to stop, I decided.
I have every right to be happy and be at peace. If it means leaving him, then I would do it. I couldn’t go on like this; I really couldn’t.
Tonight, I told myself, I’m going to break it to him.
I was getting ready to go home, clearing my desk of the day’s clutter. As I picked up the thick manila folder containing the applicants’ files, something fell to the floor. I bent to retrieve it and saw that it was his picture, framed in silver. It was taken in Tagaytay a year ago. He was smiling as he sat on the grass after trying, and failing, to mount the horse three times. His fleshy legs were splayed, muscles bulging in his jeans. His eyes turned into narrow slits because of that smile. I used to tease him about his eyes that disappear whenever he smiled. His eyes were almond-shaped, the pupils brownish gray.
Memories of that day came to me. It was three weeks after our second anniversary and it was the only time we found to go out and celebrate. We spent the weekend thinking of nothing else but the two of us. We were both very happy. Not only for the fact that we lasted that long but also because after that, we would move to the house that we both saved up for. We were leaving the cramped apartment in Malate for the quiet suburbs of Roxas District. He was attentive to my needs as I was to him; we didn’t fight, we were just basically being what we were: lovers.
Lovers. That was always how he introduced me to his friends, even his clients. This is my lover, he would say. No qualms, no hesitation. His family had known about us from the beginning of our relationship. He had been independent since he was eighteen and when I moved in with him, no one was more prudish than I was. I admit that his conviction, his confidence in our relationship is something that I didn’t have. I loved him, yes, but I didn’t have the guts to flaunt him the way he sometimes did me.
I was never proud of him. He didn’t move well within my circle of friends. At one point, he even dismissed our intellectual dissections as mere snobbery. They alienated people like him who didn’t share my need to pick someone else’s brains once in a while. I know, too that my friends didn’t like him. You’re so different from him, one would say. He’s rather dense, another would add. But my friends and I didn’t influence one another. We made mistakes and learned from them pretty much on our own. We consoled each other, gave support but when it came to decisions, we didn’t impose our will on each other.
While driving home, I thought that we were unlike as any two lovers could be. I preferred dark-colored suits while he wore his gym attire just about anywhere. He could never understand any of Tori Amos’ songs. He ate a lot of meat; I liked fish better. I drank liters of coffee, which he abhorred. I smoked, he didn’t; he drank and I didn’t.
I noticed the billboard of Meryl Streep’s movie again and beside it an ad for another Jet Lee movie. I knew that if he saw that ad, he would drag me to see it with him. The first time, I promised him I would just sleep, as he did when we watched the movies that I liked. But I didn’t fall asleep. I didn’t like the movie but I could only sleep in total darkness.
He couldn’t, by the way. He needs to see at least one light turned on to be able to sleep. I always had to wait for him to fall asleep so I could turn off the light. I used to like watching him sleep, even though he snored. Sometimes he would do so in my arms and I would just look at him.
Am I going to miss him when we part? I thought so. To my dismay, I thought he had grown on me. Three years of living together, being with the same person could do that to anyone, I guessed.
As the car turned into the driveway I rehearsed my parting speech so that I’d be ready by the time he arrived at eight o’clock. When I got out of my car, I saw that the lights in the house were on. He had forgotten to turn them off again! I got in quickly and smelled something. I went straight into the kitchen and saw a simmering wok-full of fish escabeche, the only dish he knew how to cook. Rice was already cooked, too. But he was nowhere. I called him. No response. I turned off the gas stove before the sauce dried and went up to our room.
While removing my shoes before going in, I noticed his sneakers lying by the bathroom door. Shaking my head, I put them beside mine and went inside the room. I changed into my shorts and a white shirt. He wasn’t in bed. In the bathroom maybe. I knocked and called out his name. I heard a groan. I pushed the door but it wouldn’t open all the way. I saw his legs, clad in gray flannel shorts, blocking the door.
I squeezed in, sweat running on the side of my face. He lay on his side by the toilet bowl, barely lifting his head upon my entrance. I checked his head for any injuries. There was none. But he was burning hot. His shirt hung by the mirror. I took it and tried to put it on him. He told me he got dizzy as he was washing his face. “You have a fever.” He nodded.
I helped him up, even though he outweighed me by almost thirty pounds, and got him to bed. I went back to the bathroom to get the thermometer and I put it in his mouth.
He was saying something, but with the instrument in his mouth, I couldn’t understand it. I took it out, then read. Forty degrees Centigrade. How was he able to cook with this temperature?
“Dinner’s ready,” he finally managed to say.
“Yes, I saw it.” I smiled. “Looks good.”
“Only dish I know.”
“And my favorite.”
He smiled, so heartbreakingly sweet, and started to say something else but I hushed him, telling him to rest, asking him what he wanted. He clung to me tightly. The heat from his fever came up in waves I could almost see. His breath was hotter on the side of my neck and it sounded pained, labored.
“I love you.”
The words nearly choked me. “I know…”
I let go and touched his forehead, brushing the locks of hair that stuck to his forehead. It felt hot and dry. He opened his eyes slightly and whispered that my touch felt good. I asked him if he wanted to eat and he said his throat was sore.
“Let’s go to Dr. Fernando, then.”
“Prescription’s in the bag.”
I went to his bag and took it. He had purchased his own medicines. Tablets for the fever, capsules for the sore throat. An aspirator for his sporadic asthma attacks was also in the bag. How long had he been feeling this way? Since last night, when I ignored him? Since this morning, when I didn’t make breakfast for him? Had he been sick when I spoke coldly to him before I went to lunch?
I went downstairs and filled a glass with water. I returned to the room and gave him the medicines according to the prescription. I covered him with his favorite blanket, turned the lamp on then left the room.
I went back to the kitchen to tidy up. When I saw the food, I realized I was very hungry.
One-fifty, the clock boldly declared. Ten minutes before the next dose of medicines. I had closed the book I was reading and looked at his sleeping figure. I changed his shirt an hour ago when it got soaked with sweat. He was lying on his back, his mouth half-open. His snores, worsened by his asthma, punctuated the silence.
The sight was the same as this morning, but now all I could feel was love. I don’t know why. For all his idiosyncrasies, for all his qualities I didn’t like, I couldn’t seem to hate him. When I saw him lying on the bathroom floor, feverish, when he held me tightly, his breath searing my neck, I knew right then and there that I really loved him.
Maybe he has grown on me. Maybe I’m stupid, too, for feeling this way. Or maybe I shouldn’t care and just concentrate on loving him the way he loved me, even though he didn’t please me all the time.
He kicked the covers off the bed again. I covered his chest then kissed his forehead. I prepared his next dose of medicines as he opened his eyes, softly asking for the time.