The Explanation

It should not have begun at all.

After coffee and DVD shopping, we found ourselves there, talking about his love for racing and his impending migration to Jakarta, only four weeks away.

In my mind, I was thinking that I would probably not want to see this guy again: he was shallow and arrogant, he drank frapuccinos instead of barako, and he had never heard of Amelie. After about an hour, he said he needed to go to the bathroom. Relieved, I then told him we should head home because it was already late (10 p.m.) and we had to wake up early for work the next morning.

I leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, a proper end to an adequate first date, but suddenly he had borne down on me and his tongue was in my mouth. I allowed him to do this: my eyes were open, but I was already traveling miles away from my body. After he pulled away, I asked him what we were to each other now. "Let's keep things status quo," he said, before moving to kiss me again.

I remember saying no. I remember the pressure of his hand on my neck as he pushed me down. I remember how quickly he had pulled the levers of both our chairs so I was flat on my back and he was on top of me before I had a chance to understand what was going on. I remember feeling pleasure, the mechanical kind that is soulless and empty, while he dug his fingers into me and licked my skin.

I was completely disassociated from all of this: I stood outside the car, watching him do this to me, watching myself arc my back, watching him shudder under my mouth, watching myself apologize for not being able to do more.

Where did I go? I might have gone around Cubao, to my familiar haunts in the art galleries and vintage shops in Marikina Shoe Expo. I could have stood by the seawall in Dumaguete, waiting for the sun to come up, to warm the shrimp tempura vendors, thieves and poets of the town. I could have walked the long road to Binondo, to kneel in temple and ask the gods to help me survive.

I was anywhere but There.

Perhaps I have not fully returned.