Photo: Toa Heftiba
Floaters are funny little things. They disappear when you don’t pay attention, but the moment you spot one, you realise just how many there are, drifting quietly in your vision, just waiting to be noticed.
That’s how lovelines look like to me. You can’t really tell until you consciously keep an eye out for them. Don’t bother Googling what lovelines are. It’s just a term I came up with, one that you’re probably curious about right now. I certainly was.
I used to slip her little notes,
In her closet, her bags, her pillows and clothes,
“Surprise!” the words I’d begin to pen,
“I love you. P.S: You’ve good taste in men.”
She’d laugh at these small novelties,
She loved the lil’ discoveries,
“I’ll get you back one day,” she’d say,
With a smile in her eyes, “There’ll be hell to pay!”
Been years, since we’ve moved past that mess,
Since she left me for someone else,
And I’d dust the coat I’ve not worn in a while,
And in the pocket a sheet would lie.
“I got you back just like I said,
“You’re cute, you’re sweet, and you’re really great,
“You’re my only one, my Mister Right,”
And I wept myself to sleep that night.
Photo credit: Boris Thaser
Sometimes my mind plucks out memories at random, and as part of the collateral, visions of people who’ve left a mark on my life without actually being a part of it get pulled out of the muck. These are strangers whose names and faces have escaped me through the passage of time, with only their actions serving as proof of our acquaintance.
I call these people randies, and I was thinking about one as I opened the door to the Jiu-jitsu gym. The thought barely even matured before Josh waved a phone at my face. “Hey! I heard Sandy’s getting married?”
“I don’t understand why you can’t get a girlfriend,” Craig said.
I looked up from my Word document. “What.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you’re butt-ugly or anything.”
“Thanks… I think.”
“No no no. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant—”
“Haha!” Diane chimed in. “No need to apologise. He is ugly. Maybe not butt-ugly, but regular-ugly.”
Photo credit: Esther Bubley
Sara put her finger in the ant’s path. It backtracked momentarily, then crawled onto her finger.
“Look at this ant,” she said. “Think about everything that it’s oblivious of.”
“Mm hmm.” I kept my eyes on my book. I knew—and didn’t like—where this was headed.