I was kneeling down to scoop rice into the pot, and she whipped my face with the kitchen towel in her hand. She hates you. She hates everything you've done to her, and she's displacing that hate onto me whenever I remind her of you.
Is there any guy who can handle my issues? No one as yet. That's why I choose to stand solo, holding myself together. It's not like another pair would know how to.
On another matter, it's been a long time since I've felt this kind of fear. The kind that makes me want to swerve, pull back, to avoid facing it.
We didn't manage to get enough people for the ballroom workshop.
Which most likely meant Mr. Polt would call it off. He isn't called Dance Master for nothing, is he? Should probably spend his time on things more important than a little Dance Club who can't even meet his minumum requirement in numbers.
Actually, to me, 'Dance Master' meant someone who appreciates the art enough to carry the love that comes with it wherever he goes. Someone who sees beyond the red tape and protocol because he can't help but share his knowledge with those who earnestly seek it.
I averted my eyes when his reply came. Now was the time to shrink into a furball and get vacuumed into ignorance.
I put the phone away as I went about my chores.
I knew I'd be able to deal with it; in my head I was prepared to send out cancellation texts with sincere apologies, notify Subang to remove the invitation, and shoulder the responsibility of taking the blame. Just like a President should.
Half an hour later I dared myself to look it full on. And learnt a lesson in self-inflicted suffering. It was the kindest text and brought tears to my eyes as I registered his promise, "You can count on me!" In short, he was saying he knew I'd done my best... and he'd do his too. It was the miracle I'd told Carmen we needed, this morning.
We'll meet you in spirit, sir.
Heart, stop aching. I know it's been a sore day, but you've got to keep on beating. So I can live for tomorrow.
Thank you, God. So much.
No comments:
Post a Comment