She Walks by Night…

(A Friendster testimonial, recounting the falsified events of an adulterated tale.)

…in all her long-legged glory, pausing dramatically to allow for prying, estranged eyes to bask in her statuesque beauty. Eyes adrift toward the nearby glass windows of the flippy, floppy shop she so unabashedly adores, her mind wandering, not really caring for the feet merchandise contained within the enclosed space, but more inclined towards the primal animalistic craving for the attention that she knows is for her and her alone, her one human need: the deeply hidden urge to be seen, to be heard, to be noticed.

Her face a blank passive slate at the surface, almost askance. Yet behind her jaded eyes one simply needs to look to see the soul of one who secretly, yet knowingly, is aware of all the eyes cast upon her… and is loving it. Raising a hand delicately to caress the cold glass of the window she leans closer and pretends to peer inside, while still maintaining her consciousness of the hustle and bustle of the world around her. She hates the feel of movement. The more her surroundings move, the more it connotes the lack of commonfolk, peasants more like, admiring her unearthly beauty. She cringes her forehead a little, though not so much as for people to actually take notice.

The crowd quickly thins, and she feels the visual penetration diminish. The utter lack of gawking overwhelms her, as if they provide for her warmth, almost as if she suddenly feels the cold harshness of the superficial world without them. Feeling a small amount of desperation to reclaim those once staring eyes, she starts to move, majestically, her self-portrayal of a moving photograph. The desire quickly building from deep within, she makes a sudden play for her languorous chocolate hair, and takes an abrupt turn. The liquid smoothness bouncing to the side, she knew she was on center stage again.

She looks up for the first time, and behold a prettier girl than she, walking languidly towards the flippy, floppy shop. And she was struck with the realization, that she had not been the center of the masses’ devout attention. Crestfallen, she takes a stride to sort of even up the score, what with model-like walk, no one stands a chance…

…but she trips.

Soft murmurs envelope her. Scandalized, all pretenses gone, she looks at her cloudy reflection from the light bouncing off the mirroring glass window of the flippy, floppy shop she used to so unabashedly adore. A single tear, so pure & innocent, the extention of vulnerability and weakness long pent up beneath a false exterior, drops slowly, almost as if on purpose, almost as if on cue, down the side of her reddened cheek. Shame had caused her to bow her head so low.

And then a voice, “O Pauline, anong ginagawa mo diyan?”

She looks up and beams. Her hope returning. Her pulse quickened. She was once again alive. But by the time the drama subsided, and her mind was focused enough to register the face to the floating voice, Dc had gone and left. He dared not be thought of as in acquainted relations with such an embarrassing feat.

She realizes so, and shame engulfs her again.

Advertisements

~ by iamnotfrodo on October 24, 2005.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: