Day: Two
Date: February 29, 2012
Time: 2:11 P.M.
Golden rule of success – in order to emerge to the top of the food chain, there were two ways: either don’t be a prey or prey on the predator itself. Unfortunately, the only way to win Camille’s heart over from my friend was to bury him with the option of doing it while he’s well and breathing.
Eric was a friend of mine, a fellow architect, and a ladies’ man. Every break-up he had resulted to him having a better girlfriend and his ex in sorrow tears. Of course, I couldn’t let that happen to Camille, knowing well that Eric changed girlfriends as fast as he scrapped crappy designs. I loved this cheeky guy so much that I wanted to smash the wineglass I was holding onto his face.
“Hey man,” Eric went for a bro fist which I returned with an endless stream of curses in my mind.
“Hey bro,” I greeted back, “Have you met Ms. Santiago? She’s the interior designer of this house,” I asked, motioning towards her, pretending that I haven’t the slightest idea that it was him to whom she was drawn into. I was proud at how good I was at spotting even the smallest details on building surfaces, and the name Eric was written all over her face. She didn’t need to stress it out for me to know.
“Yes actually. We spoke some moments ago,” confirmed Eric, “Based on what I see, she did a good job,” praised him, referring to her excellent work of adding color to my dull canvas. His airy voice seemed to flatter rather than irritate most women.
What could she possibly have seen in this guy?
Besides a handsome face?
And thick purse?
And height?
And the title of an architect?
It then popped out from the farthest corner of realization that I had every reason to be insecure, even just a little, for we had everything in common, except a particular girl that only liked one of us.
Her lack of words was killing me.
I could hardly ignore her stealing glances at Eric all the while that we talked, as if I wasn’t there or probably because we’re just friends, and it’s her indirect way of getting me friend zoned. I had a choice of leaving them alone for some quality time but I was afraid to catch them pecking on each other later on. I told myself to keep it together and just played it cool.
Eric reminisced our days way back and I noticed that in almost every memory he retold, I was the one, if not embarrassed, then pissed. I began to feel uncomfortable when Camille joined in the conversation and I found myself as the tag-along, their interests matched, while I was invisible, robbed of a conversing partner. An outcast, that I am.
I left before my day turned further ill.
It didn’t help though because both of them together retained in my thoughts right after I excused myself. Hours were quick to come and the hands of my watch created an angle similar to that produced by the freemason’s compass pointing downward. All that remained in the premises were a handful of close friends and co-architects. Camille’s Porsche was still outside, but I felt bad when I couldn’t find her anywhere, at the same time when Eric also went missing in action. It was starting to get dark as the time neared six in the evening and my colleagues were about to conclude the day. I wrapped some of the food for them to take home which they gladly accepted; maybe for formality or welcome desire, I wasn’t sure.
Soon every car was gone, save mine and a Porsche, which could only mean that Camille was still around. I had no helper, at least not yet, so the honor of washing all the dishes was mine. The only ones left were the crew responsible for taking the tables away, as well as catering services for whatever business they had to do outside. Wiping the grease of a plate with the mighty sponge, I was about to turn on the tap when a sexy familiar figure came into the kitchen.
“Where were you?” I questioned without closing the faucet.
“Outside for some air. Need a hand with that?” Camille made a move to wipe the cleaned dishes dry which I immediately confiscated because her hands were too precious for me to allow to take on household chores. She said that it was fine, but it wasn’t for me. I believed that she deserved to be treated like the princess that she was.
“Don’t you think you’d need a maid or someone like that in here? This house is too big for just you,” she suggested as she took a seat at the counter.
The dishes were still as high as the sky but I decided to take care of them later. Camille was probably seconds from bidding farewell so I took the opportunity to offer her one last drink. Opening the cabinet, my right hand grasped a bottle by the neck and uncorked it. The wineglasses which were freshly cleaned sat idly at the dispenser, smiling at me, each of them asking to be picked and be drunk on. Two of them, which were placed at the edge of the row which was nearest to me, achieved the privilege.
“I think your friend Eric’s a nice guy,” she mentioned as she sipped the perfectly aged wine, which surprised me. I never expected her type to appreciate bitter taste. She had no complaints when I presented her glass and her reaction to the wine seemed to be well acquainted with the buds of her tongue.
Wait ‘till he dumps you. I whispered to my jealous ego. I quieted, which I thought gave away how I felt when I heard her say something about my architect buddy.
When I stole a quick look at her eyes, her glass was at her mouth, so the only part of her face which was visible to me was the upper portion, revealing only her nose bridge which wasn’t covered by the brim of the glass and the pair of irises which I sought. They were looking back at me, as if trying to do the talking for her lips were currently occupied. Upon putting down her glass, she let out a statement interrogative in nature, which caught me off guard.
“Do you like me?”
My throat tied into an impossible knot.
It took me a couple of seconds before my brain finally accepted that I was hurled the very last question I expected to hear from her. “Are you drunk?” I asked back, though knowing fully that none of the beverage I had served today contained alcohol which was beyond her tolerance. The answer to her question was yes, but I was too flabbergasted to respond properly, thus, the question.
“I’m not,” unlike me, Camille was able to answer right away, but there’s no denying that my question was a lot simpler than hers, so the odds weren’t fair, “So, Frank, do you like me?”
It wasn’t a complex one, but the question was as hard as passing through a needle hole, not knowing if an honest answer was the appropriate one. Rather than giving any, I was lost in her captivating stare. I asked myself what could have given her the initiative to begin a conversation like this.
“Do you like Eric?”
“Are you jealous?”She changed from sexily serious to cheerful, laughing at my question similar in nature to that of hers.
My ears were ringing, as if I heard an explosion only meters away from where we were seated, refusing to comprehend her choice of words. How could she possibly say that?
“If you are,” she continued, “Then it worked,” Camille stated in a flirty manner, her palm landing on one of her thighs.
My mind spiraled as I tried to read between her lips. I didn’t want to assume as much as I already did, but she gave me the impression of reciprocating what I felt for her, based on her tone. Or was everything merely plain questions? Questions to no end save learning what she really was to me? “What worked?”
Her hand gently put her glass down on the counter that no sound became of its foot hitting the surface. Her drink wasn’t finish, but she decided to start something else as she stood up, went over to me and sat on my lap, knowing well another way to answer my question without saying a word.