Cold Fish

A Sketch For F.B.

We're a pair, you and I. Ours is the Prince of Tides of romances: you are a shrink and you psychoanalyze my dreams. You remind me of my father, though you are taller and leaner and less anal about things (your books aren't arranged alphabetically, and your manner of dress is rather careless). You kiss like you only have 10 more minutes to live. Where's your clinical objectivity now, Doc? You are a man, like all the rest, but you are different because you like me.

Or do you?

Tonight, you call to say you've caught the bug. We can't go out at 10 p.m. as planned, because you're running 41 degree fevers and you're shaking under your sheets. You blame me, saying that if you hadn't come to visit me while I was ill you would still be well now. You don't need to cough into the mouthpiece to convince me you're really bedridden, as I'll believe anything you'll tell me. I'm actually a Tausug prince, you could lie, some Chinese just got mixed into the bloodline, that's why I'm singkit. I wouldn't even bat an eyelash.

When I'm with you, I stop being a bitch. Because you listen. You understand. You know I am flawed in every possible way: you know that I sometimes fart in my sleep, that my underarms are so dark even cavemen would find them repulsive, that I'm always lost and I've never learned how to parallel park properly (say that three times fast now), yet you seem happy to be with me. An afternoon with you, uhog and all, is always the dream.

If this affair turns out to be short-lived, I know we will still be (good) friends.

For now, it's time to get you some hot soup.