Drops

And what of the 25th UP Writers' Night? Here's a highly subjective summary.

Of the ghost - he is still as pale as bleached bone. He still has the same wolf eyes. I hadn't seen him in six years, more or less, and I was very happy for it. Then he had to go and show himself that night (since when did he become a writer?), and now I don't know where I stand.

Six years later, I am still unable to talk to him. Six years later, though I am far sexier and supposedly more self-possessed than I could ever have imagined possible, I still lose my tongue when he is in front of me. Six years later, he still ignores me. Six years later, I am still the ugly, awkward freshman who can't socialize to save her life.

That same night, in my red dress and black shawl, I was told by at least a dozen people how fabulous I looked. "Gorgeous lady in red," praised Gilda. "Just lovely," said Coco. "Wow, Gala Night!," Neil laughed. I earned rave reviews from my equally fabulous friends, from strangers, people lining up to go to the bathroom, drunk poets, and even veritable literary institutions (my new boss Jimmy, Jing and Vim).

Are you a balikbayan?, he asked.

But still, the self-doubt.

So I run on the treadmill, work out in the gym until my arms turn to jelly. And while I run, I think about the hulking mess that I was (for him) six years ago. I go faster, lift more sets, then something else mixes with the sweat on my face - it is salty, it comes in drops.