Is she that easy to forget?
His best buds were worried about him. "Snap out of your misery, man," they told him. "She ain't coming back, you know. One good thing is, you've not been too long together. It'll be easier to forget her."
They meant well, he knew that. Yet he felt they were trivalising his feeling. Does the depth of one's love equate time spent together? He didn't think so. Or does "forgetting about her" mean "you can start living your own life" as a certain Juphelia wrote in his last entry? If they thought so, then he gathered, they have yet to realise what love really is.
Life for him hasn't changed, it was not that he was walking around like a zombie. He still attended media conferences. He still conducted the necessary interviews. He still filed his stories on time. He still saw his byline in the daily.
He just did not date. And he just did not drink, the way he used to, like a fish. But that's only because he wanted to stay sober till her birthday. For the countdown had begun and everyone who loves her is aware of the impact of that day. For a memorial service will be held that day, at her favourite church, attended by those who've had the opportunity to be a part of her brief life.
One of her best friends had entrusted him with the task of coordinating with the florist. He was not a fan of most florists for he has always felt that they extorted money for the most special occasions, yet perform his task well he must, and he will.
So on Saturday morning, he had gone down for a discussion with the florist. It was the beginning to a lousy day. The flowers, expressed the florist, were really not in bloom. "Oh but we do our best since we've known the family a long time." Yea right. It was more like they were paying an exorbitant price for the tulips, all 3,000 of them, in every conceivable colours there were.
A fellow journalist from a tabloid had chanced upon the information and she contacted him. "Hey, you think I can do a story?"
No, he told her firmly. The family would not want that, and besides, what story was there about tulips being used at a memorial service.
"Oh," she sang. "You should know what, you are a journalist too. The readers will want to read about how special she was, and what her family and friends are doing to remember her by."
Save it, he told the journalist, much to her consternation.
He had intended to spend the night at home, sipping their favourite wine and watching the City Of Angels again. It would be, he thought, his own way of remembering her. But his buds had plans for him. "Come on, join us for a drink at the club," they coaxed him.
And he went. Only to regret it the moment he saw Ms BB aka Big Boobs amongst the men. It was a set-up and he wished he had the foresight to see it, but he was now caught with his pants down. Literally.
Ms BB is a personal assistant to one of the leading entrepreneurs in Singapore, and she had the hots for him. MOTM that is. Only thing was, he wasn't quite into big boobs and bungling brains. Hell!
Still he kept his cool. Sure, if the guys wanted some fun, they could have it, so long as it was not at his expense. But as the minutes passed, yes he did not suffer fools really, his impatience was starting to show.
"Oooh, you look bored and you're only having soda. I never knew you were a goody-two-shoes," she tittled. "I get the feeling you don't quite fancy me, or am I competing with a dead woman?"
And he lost it. For some reasons, with that last quip from Ms BB, all the manners his parents had instilled him slipped into the dead of the night, leaving him to act like a real bastard. And the worst part of it, he was not in the least sorry about it.
Coolly, he told her: "You're right, I never fancied you, and I don't think I'd ever even if you were lying in my bed, all naked and wanting. I pride myself on being an arrogant bastard who knows what is quality and what is trash. And no, you are not competing with a dead woman, how can you when you'd not make it to her league, in this pitiful life of yours." Then he left, with everyone in the group, flabbergasted by his rudeness.
Not that he was bothered by it. Not that night. Not even now. And his best buds had better realise that.
