NYMPHO BABE - MANxMAN

Chapter 18

SAMMY

The ballerina twirled on one feet — on one toe, to be precise — with so much effortless elegance and mastery. It must have been her life's goal to be in one with the art. She was not just performing. She was engaging with her inner self and transported the audience along the journey with the graceful techniques honed to perfection after years and years of practice and improving.

My cousin Derek glanced at me but I ignored him.

I am far too absorbed, as much as the ballerina. The musical piece that accompanied the whole scene was beyond sublime, as if created by the gods above. He wouldn't have appreciated it like I do. He knew nothing about the performance and the glorious aesthetics behind it.

My mother would have loved this show.

She was always jealous of those people who lived on the stage, earning income through artistic performance and applause. She would drone on and on when I was little, about how she couldn't sing well, or dance or act. She's just a wonderful seamtress; just like her mother who then inspired her to start with the small steps to her current fashion empire.

Derek offered me a tissue but I ignored him once again.

The tears that rolled down my cheeks weren't fake but they weren't genuine either. I didn't like to show my emotions much; she would only associate it with weakness so I could only hold back the sadness pouring in when her lifeless body, encased in a wooden box was slowly put down into that dug-up hole two weeks ago.

Mourning sounded so cliched to my ears.

Those who were present shared their tears too but I wouldn't have known which was genuine and which was obliged. It was thankfully, not a gloomy rainy day and I stood behind the priest in a line next to my closest family members from her side. I couldn't really recall what kind of bullshit being recited by the priest over in French. It was too simple. She deserved a much better rite but who am I to complain right?

"What do you think of the ballet just now?"

"Like you even care."

"Dude, I know it wouldn't be easy to talk about it but you're..."

"I'm what? I'm not allowed to mourn is it?"

"No, that's not what I meant!"

"Then stop trying to care. Get over yourself, man. It doesn't suit you, at all."

"You can't antagonize everyone for her death. Nobody expected it."

"You should be happy. Aunt Marie's running the show now, just like what she always wanted. I could see it in her eyes all these while, the hunger."

"That's not nice, man."

"Well deal with it okay? I'm spiteful and I couldn't even recall if I ever asked for your company anyway."

My phone buzzed like mad inside my pants' pocket and I felt like tossing the thing to the nearest wall I could find. He noticed it and zipped his damn mouth shut, as if I would even take the insistent call. I pulled it out swiftly and saw the caller's name bold and clear, the phone writhing and convulsing in the palm of my hand despite the absence of a ringtone. It's his twelfth time calling since last week, paused in between periods out of respect I guess. I didn't want to drag him down with my crippling melancholy; he's not quite ready for that yet. I'm not that depressed...

"He's been calling me too."

"How the hell did he got your number?"

"We had coffee three days ago. He was very concerned about you."