Since Indianero started working on our project, I had been receiving this through SMS: Hi. Can we go out to lunch/dinner?

I wondered if he was asking me out or was just being polite since he was technically working for me, which made me his boss. So I replied, “If you can come over to my workplace, yes we can have lunch.”

I knew he would not be able to make it. That’s an hour worth of commuting time and he wouldn’t like that kind of sacrifice for some girl he stood out in a date two years ago. He was the mighty Thor, remember? And women were supposed to fall from the skies and land on his lap.

Ok. Som ader time den, the SMS said.

That sounded disappointed. Excellent. Because there won’t be “som ader time” and I would see to it that this bespectacled wannabe badass would have to EARN that privilege of seeing me. That would also include receiving a text message or a call from me and getting accepted into my IM and Facebook‘s list of friends. Someone has to teach that old guy a lesson for the time being, and that would have to be me.

OMG. Did I just sound like his mother?

I’ve been subjected to constant harassment over an office project after the firm has fired two of its freelance writers for submitting bland-sounding articles. The work severely lacked imagination, and humour, and I don’t blame those two people since they were dealt unkindly by my boss who wore Prada to work.

So I turned to Facebook for help. And I unearthed an unexpected gem lurking in my chat box – Indianero. (For those who do not know Indianero, that was the guy who stood me up on our first date almost two years ago. FYI.)

We had decided to meet over lunch. This time I was in the company of male friends to make sure I wouldn’t look like an abandoned puppy should Indianero think of my invitation as an attempt to score a date with him. And who knows when he’d get pre-date jitters and decide again not to show up. Because THAT guy might just start thinking I was so darn into him and I wasn’t even tall or sexy enough for his collection.

That old piece of horseshit…who does he think he is? The mighty Thor?

So much for the hate. I think I am about to pop a nerve in my head. (Ha ha ha.)

Now, Indianero showed up LATE and was very apologetic. I missed those usual cocky remarks from this guy who was wired to think he was special. It was so unnatural.

We discussed the project, showed him the powerpoint, rattled him about my boss who wore Prada, and gave him the kit and a two-day deadline. Then we shook hands. He gave me one last look (I know I grew bulges in wrong places, like that would matter since I am NOT marrying him) and turned to the door.

Good. I will be able to sleep sound in the next two days.

A lot had been said about Ondoy. We knew what happened. For days, we watched our houses drown, our cars swim and experienced the pain of losing everything. It was a dream everyone wants to wake up from. Ondoy was Freddie Kruger feeding our brains.

I lost my books, some clothes and documents to the flood. Adding up to the loss was the guy I was hoping to be with someday disappeared without any hint or trace. I had questions, but there were no answers. Then came acceptance that another relationship just went down the drain.

Bloody was right. Don’t bother finding answers to questions that were meant to be left unanswered. Life has to go on, he said winking at me.

It was just a week after the flood and everything, like the traffic, went back to normal. That particular morning was the first time Bloody and I saw each other after the unusual rainy Friday night that marked the coming of Ondoy. He entertained me with horrifying tales of the flood from his place, and how he managed to save his van by parking it on the church grounds. His house, however, was not spared from the floodwaters that carried away his sofa to the gate.

“But the kids had fun using the inflated rubber peddle boat. It was like beach to them.” I remembered those two boys who looked and acted exactly like him. That wasn’t so hard to imagine. I had a pretty accurate guess of Bloody growing up as a wild kid.

There were no longer passengers by the time we reached the terminal. I was about to step out of the van when he offered me a ride to the building where I held office. Our office was just a 5-minute walk from the terminal.

“I don’t want you to walk under the sun like a crazed lunatic. Look at you – you’re like someone who just got gang-raped.” I was surprised at his expression of concern. Very fatherly. Except for the last line.

He reached for the dashboard and offered me his shades. I wore it almost absent-mindedly.

“I just wish I had that “privilege”…you know.” He chuckled.

“You wish.” I quipped while enjoying the sight from the polarized shades. I knew what he meant by that signature pick-up line – the “flower farm”.

“Of course I do,” he said lowering his voice, like a snake.

“You’re sweet.” I said that without any hint of sarcasm. That sounded unnaturally weird.

“Really?” He glanced at me and I saw that menacing glint in his eyes.

“I never thought you were capable of showing kindness to wretched beings you’ve been wanting to, um, you know, put to bed.”

“We’re friends,” Bloody answered quietly, not to raise an alarm.

“I know.” I smiled gingerly.

Bloody pulled over in front of the building. I handed him back his shades and thanked him for the ride. He held my hand a little longer than the usual, pressing my palm. His face was just a few inches from mine. I could smell mint from his breath.

“So where’s the kiss?” He was irresistible. I couldn’t tell if that was my mind playing tricks on me or the effect of too much sunshine.

I took off before I change my mind.

A few more days to go, and I would no longer see his smile, his eyes, his face and the violet Mitsubishi Adventure. The thought felt like something has just stabbed me, and I was reeling in pain.

I was scheduled to move out and head south in a week’s time. That would mean a change in my commuting routine – going on a different direction and taking the train instead. So I cherished the last few moments, knowing I would be seeing less of him and maybe arrive at a point when it would no longer really matter.

His parting words? Mag-asawa ka na.

Nyahaha.

I wonder how he is really like in person.

For the past 6-7 months, I nurtured this idea of him as a person who does not respect other people’s time. Managing to squeeze you in his tight calendar is his way of making you feel privileged, because, yeah, he’s one hot busy guy. So imagine my rage when he actually decided not to show up on our first date without properly informing me. Oh, he did. He texted a friend in Saudi, then Saudi friend texted my girl friend, and my girl friend had to relay the bad news to me. I was in the middle of the traffic jam already on my way to that resto…The jerk did not even bother to save my number.

I almost cursed that day and wished the earth would open up and swallow him in. Because if I ever see him, even just a strand of his hair, I’d be delighted to nuke him right where he stands. So he’d better not send a word, call or text because I would be spitting fire at him to my heart’s content.

I was angry. Really angry. I think he felt the tremor so he sort off disappeared from my radar.

But, as usual, time heals all wounds, and it makes you forget all those little sins. Sensing the storm was over, he made his presence felt a month ago. And because I don’t normally harbor any ill-feelings that long, I started becoming civil and managed to joke about his last year’s no-show. He seemed to be a nice guy, just like what his best friend told me. Looks like we’re bound to get along well after a pretty rocky start.

Who knows.

All I heard was the sound of the car stereo playing “Victims of Love” with its ear-piercing chorus. There were so many songs available in the entire pop music history I wondered why the jocks couldn’t choose a more suitable one to play. This was not the first time I heard that particular song play in Bloody’s stereo.

Maybe the song had a personal message had I only listened carefully instead of exchanging glances with Bloody behind the steering wheel.

This was the second Joyride. And the topic was Puppy. I never saw Bloody this excited over something that stoked his ego. It made him feel superior above all God’s creatures, including the squid. Nothing beats the thrill a man gets from squashing an opponent in a race to a woman’s heart. In Bloody’s case, he did not even have to lift a finger. It was I who sent Puppy off the ring already peeing in his pants.

Of course, Bloody wouldn’t dare mention his latest victory. He knew I easily get turned off by sheer arrogance. So he played it safe in a kind of reverse way. You know, like why not pick Puppy over him. He’s handsome, single and about to get rich. He seemed serious about making babies with me while he, Bloody, was already a very complicated family man with a string of girls willing to be knocked up anytime. He might even have AIDS. I belong to a different caste, he said. Like The Chastity Belt Club. It made him feel unworthy. I didn’t know that his testosterone had reached the pious level already.

But the mere thought of me dying a virgin distressed him. I might catch ovarian cancer, cervix cancer and all types of weird diseases attributed to unused reproductive system. But he swore on other people’s grave not to hold my hand either. The electricity the contact generates could mess up his brains and send alerts to launch that “baby arm” down there. So he made us a deal. Just in case I changed my mind about the postponed trip to The Flower Farm, he would gladly oblige me with a tour.

I punched his six-pack abs and the devil laughed.

I played this particular scene a hundred times over inside my head -that night when Bloody saw me with Puppy inside the mall. It was actually a deliberate move to be seen in a place we both frequent – to spite him, to show that I had a life apart from what he thought a mediocre way of living, and yes, to prove that he was that dispensable.

“You do not have the monopoly of girls in the planet.” I thought. “Because you can never have me. And I can have good-looking dates as well.”

Well said. But things were a lot more different in reality. The moment our eyes locked, my face was flushed crimson red and my knees started to wobble. I was no less than a meter away from the walking Kryptonite.

“Hi.” Bloody’s eyes were smiling under that brown cap. He came along smooth, so sure of himself, and my world stood still. This was the kind of guy who did not need some rescuing. And he could certainly ruin a date.

Somehow Puppy noticed the sparks flying above my head as Bloody quietly made his exit to the terminal. He sensed competition.

“Do you know that guy?” His brows wrinkled.

“Um. Yes. He’s a friend.”

“Really?” Puppy had crossed the line reserved for my dead father and future husband.

“Wait. Am I not allowed to have friends now?” I growled.

Puppy wiggled his tail in agreement, which was actually a bad sign. I didn’t like guys who do not have the balls to stand up for what they believe. Guys who severely lacked identity. I completely lost my appetite and felt sorry for Puppy. I knew it wasn’t his fault. But I was born with certain preferences. I wasn’t even normal to begin with.

I bade Puppy goodbye when we reached the mall’s exit. He still acted like a true gentleman no matter how embarrassing the night was for him. I wished him well on his trip back to the Middle East and lots of good luck in finding his daughter in Macau. Puppy was like a brother to me.

I reached the terminal and saw Bloody standing beside his blue-violet van with a lighted cigarette in between his fingers. He waved at me and smiled. He knew he had just won.

I made a promise to myself to avoid Bloody as much as I can even if that would mean taking the long way to home or simply catching a ride to work in a different terminal in one of those smelly and sweaty old rickety vans. But the thought of him persisted like a rash. So I sought advice from an old friend, Mistress Yoda, who explicitly told me these words of wisdom: “To forget a guy, get another guy.”

Like a good student, I put this awesome insight to a test. So I tried out a different venue to fish for guys without getting bitten. I spent a couple of nights lurking inside Yahoo! Chat sporting a cool handle called “Dancing Red Shoes”.

There I met “Puppy” – a thirty something guy who looked perfect from all camera angles. With eyeglasses on, he was like Super Boy.

Since he was in town for vacation, I agreed to meet him up in Podium on the basis of pure good looks. Puppy did not disappoint. He looked like a Makati executive with sleeves up his elbows. From time to time, he would check on his Blackberry or flip a pack of Dunhill with his other hand. I could tell the guy was either nervous….or bored at his wits.

While having dinner, he threw in those usual questions – and general assumptions – that pertain to my celibate life. They no longer shock me. I have been comfortable living in my own skin and knowing the fact that I really don’t know how to attract the proper guy for me. I was no longer surprised when Puppy confessed that he had a wife who left him to marry a rich man, and whisked his daughter away to Macau.

I told you. Why I seem to attract these men bearing these tales of bad marriages, I have no idea.

To sum up Puppy’s sad story, he just came home to exact vengeance on his in-laws who consented to the affair and show the world that he is no weenie. So he took my hand and asked me to be his girlfriend. I burst out laughing.

“I think what you really need right now is a lawyer. I’ve got friends.” I immediately withdrew my hand and dug deep into my pockets. “Let’s go home.”

Drops of rain started to fall in a humid April night as more and more people lined up the terminal. The mall was about to close to end the last minute hurdle of shoppers wanting to buy a thing or two. It was payday weekend.

As usual, I was at the end of the snake line waiting for my turn to get inside one of those commuter vans. My idle mind was completely absorbed by the Tolkien book about Numeronean wars while I kept a watchful eye on the arrival of the blue Bloody van. He’d be back in thirty minutes, I said to myself. By sheer estimation, I was more likely to catch the ride with him without putting up another excuse to wait for him. I did almost every lame excuse one could ever imagine from placing another call to an officemate to lurking inside the pet grooming shop. Sometimes, when imagination had gone dry, I simply let other commuters to go ahead and wait for him to arrive. But at this particular night, everything was just near perfect and it was zero effort on my part.

I saw The Wife come out of the crowd to get the boys and nailed them down to the bench. She was this doting mom who wiped the kids’ sweaty faces and put towels on their backs. That particular sight washed away my excitement to see Bloody again as I stood in the middle of the tired crowd frozen on my feet. I felt guilt surface and accuse me of trying to steal away their dad. How in the universe will I be able to do such wicked thing to a family who depended so much on him? While Bloody collected women since youth, he never really did abandon his family.

There in the middle of one rainy night I received my answers.

“Are you happy?”

The question snatched his thoughts back to present reality. I studied his face with the hope of finding signs of brain activity. His right hand held mine so tight as if I would disappear from his side anytime. He was driving on our way back to my office.

I had questions rehearsing inside my head. And while it took Bloody forever to give his reluctant yes, I couldn’t resist asking some more. If he’s happy, what was he doing here with me? What about those two other women I saw he flirted with last Christmas? He justified his philandering by his ability to provide for the family. As long as no one gets hungry, it’s ceasefire. He winked at me.

I felt his pulse, inspected his nails and felt his rough palm. Those thick calloused hands. He drove around with one hand on the steering wheel and alternated it on the clutch. His mind flew out of the window and landed somewhere along that dusty highway.

We met earlier that day at the other terminal on my way to work. It was the first time we were together on broad daylight. I felt relaxed and comfortable sitting beside him while we were telling each other vacation plans for the Holy Week. From time to time, his hand holding the clutch would brush against my knee and would sometimes rest his arm on mine. When all passengers were gone, he started holding my hand. The warm fuzzy feeling was intoxicating me.

Out of the blue I blurted things I should have not said. I complained about being tired, hungry and sleepy, completely clueless to their underlying meanings in the male dictionary. Before I knew it, he turned left on the road that would lead us to that particular spot famous for motel chains.

I saw in his eyes that quiet resolve. A surge of panic nearly choked me. If I had not won the argument, I was ready to jump off the car.

His gorgeous smile that brought sunshine to my day was wiped out by pain of rejection. The most charming guy in the terminal had just failed to score on a naive 30-something virgin. But he wasn’t the type who would just give up on selling the idea to me. We’re old enough, he said.

I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes. I felt his hand clasp mine.

It was already close to noon and we were stuck in the middle of the traffic. The heat outside already reached a sweaty degree that we could actually fry an egg on the windshield.

He put his arm around me as he pulled over in front our building. I was about to say goodbye when he leaned forward and kissed my lips without saying a word.

It just blew my mind away.