It's hard to talk. Because I feel like I can't catch up to the words I think. So it's slow and stilted. How I really want to be heard are words in filligree, nuanced, beat, precision, a beginning,a climax, and an end, flowing with no imperfections, awkwardness. Perhaps this is how we write all things in some formulaic beat in our heads. Some way that the words are supposed to look, feel. But in reality, nothing is perfect. Perfection is just an idea. And beauty is rooted in the randomness, the incomprehensible, and the lack of rules. So I would like to tell you a story like all the fairytales I used to listen to when I was younger. It seems safe as you put yourself in the soles of that woman, that girl, the princess who fell in love and when through some trial but finally got the man of her dreams. It's not so simple now. As we try to paint in solid colors, red, red, the brush always seems to show the edges,. The canvas is riddled with bumps, creases. Red is never all red. The simplicity, planning, it's not too attractive. Because beauty is in the moment. Beauty is in the moment. I was a young girl once. Younger than I look like now. Younger than people think me to be in body and in thought. We came from the Philippines where English was something I read in books. Much like fairytales. Dialogues and conversations that were in English were but materials that I read, or heard, or seen in a movie. So it felt like speakingi it, was imitating a movie, or something I'd read before. Maybe that's why I always wanted the words to sound perfect. Because the script always was. I quickly realized that I wasn't capable of this perfect grammar so I stopped talking. I hid behind the facade of the silent scholar, the quiet girl who kept her opinions to herself, brilliant and judgemental but brooding and mysterious. In reality, I was so afraid that whatever I would say would not be the English that I'd read or saw in the movies. That it would be some horrid, unbeautiful thing. Now, I realize, i don't realize, now I let myself remember that all words are just inventions. They are different in different countries. Different words, different meanings even for what they're supposed to be. Love, Amor, Pagibig. It's not going to be perfect, I tell you. There's no plan to life. It just happens.

It is minutes before the door opens for the Sweetheart Auction. The clerk waits staring at the door behind the front desk. There is silence before someone remembers to turn the background music on and Frank Sinatra starts awkwardly in the empty warehouse. I take a moment away from the computer to look in between the blinds of my office window. The air is rife with bated anticipation.

The door opens.

James unclasps his hands and welcomes the first visitor. It seems the music got louder as more people enter. I return to the computer screen.

Mike reads from a list.

Mike: "Lot 100.531 Red Tulip.."
Me: "Got it."
I find the picture.
Mike: "203.379 Green.."
Me: "Meissen Vase. Got it."
Mike: "3.29 Renoir Bathing Babes"
The computer screen blinks on my face. A beat. We both search as I scroll down.
Mike: "Dude where is it?"
Me: "I don't know. I swear I fucking had it last night."
Mike: "Search 32.9. Probably a mistype."
Me: "No. Not in 32.9."
Mike: "Try Renoi or Reno. Fuck!"
We both stare at the clock. It's 10 minutes before the auction starts. The door swings open and we both look over in panic.
Dom: "

I try to sleep in this tiny apartment by myself on a Friday night. I feel like I haven't slept in forever. It's been a long bout with insomnia. And then I remember being happy with you. Being blissfully, carelessly happy. God, I miss being able to sleep so easily because you were around. I miss feeling safe with you. I miss feeling like I don't have to eat alone. I miss feeling like my life was complete.

I HATE YOU for leaving and I HATE YOU for making me miss everything. Because whatever I try to do to get our past life back is useless. Because it will never happen again. I hate you for making me not love you anymore. I hate you for making it impossible. I hate you because I will never be happy again.

2nd Day here.

Half of my sight-seeing is spent on the subways where my peripheral vision is in full use. There are plenty of good looking New York men. They come in all shapes and sizes. There is the well-dressed stockbroker hurrying home from Wall Street, the College Student shuffling his papers as he walks briskly down the stairs, and the self-involved bookworm with eyeglasses and tousled hair.

I'm a little out of my element and don't know what the dating scene is here, especially how it applies to out of town strangers who are visiting for only a week. Any advice? Any good NY stories? Indulge my burgeoning infatuation with this city.

Saturday night and I try to convince my roommate Jerry to come with me.

"Hey man want to go to a party?"
"What party?"
"It's Ryan's birthday. He's having a house party?"
"Oh yeah Ryan! Who's coming?"
"You know some people from work..."
He looked at me, waiting for more of an incentive."
"'Don'cha know' is gonna be there." 'Don'cha know' is the nickname he'd given to one of my girl friends. A couple of months ago on the day they met, she had to endure riding a taxi with him and my other roommates while they were all intoxicated and made fun of her mid-western accent. She then exited the cab in the middle of Hollywood and basically told them to fuck themselves.
"Oh yeah?" I saw the twinkle in Jerry's eye. He had a thing for girls who were a little bit bitchy and a little bit crazy. "I'm there then."

I put on a plaid red tube dress. Its length reached below my knees so it didn't look too sexy. Just sexy enough. We don't want to pull out all the stops just yet.

Later we are at the liquor store with 'Don'cha know' already in tow. She buys a sixpack of Negro Modelo and I pull out a box of Coors from the freezer.
"Hey Jerry! Want to split this with me?" I walked up to the counter.
"Yeah sure." He pointed to the liquor display behind the cashier. "Can I get that bottle of seagram's?"
"Yo. I barely know this guy. I'm not going to buy him a bottle of gin too!" We had a staring contest. But since it turned out the store only accepted cash and I only had a card, Jerry had to pony up the bill. Who brings gin to a party, anyway?

So we ring his buzzer and Ryan come's down to bring us up to the room. Everyone chats. The gin serves as a security blanket as I try not to stare at him.

We enter the apartment and all of us quickly scan the party for possibilities. After quickly discerning that this party was populated by kids in college or just recently out of college, 'Don'cha know' asks what I would've said if I didn't have an agenda. "OK... Can we leave now?"
I ignore her and all of us motion towards the liquor table. One bottle down and I decided it was time.

I move towards the balcony and take out a pack of cigarettes from my purse. In a party like this with chainsmokers galore, there was bound to be a cigarette shortage. So this is where I become useful and easily approachable to the birthday boy.

I take a cigarette out. Any minute now he was going to come. I light it slowly scanning my peripheral vision. I was sure he was going to ask for one before I put the pack into my purse.
"Yo April, can I bum one?" I turn to the voice and see Jerry with his arm out. Drats!
"Yeah fine whatever."
"Any luck with little Ryan?"
"No. Any luck with you?"
"No." He looked back at Don'cha know chatting up someone in the living room.
"How about the roommates?" I pointed at a group of three girls giggling beside us.
"Too young..." He looked them over again. "I'm gonna need another drink."
Immediately after he leaves for the kitchen, the space beside me is occupied again.
"Hey you got another one of those?" I turned to my side and there he was. Cute, smiling birthday boy.
"Of course."

Two hours in, a pack of smokes, and three coors later, I am sitting parallel to birthday boy. I have the laptop controlling the music and he is scanning the list with me. I didn't really care what the hell the party was playing but if this was the reason he was sitting with his face six inches away from mine, then I am going to navigate the hell out of his itunes library.

"Oh my God. I love Weezer!" Favorite band EVER.
"I fucking love Weezer! You know what the best song is?" He scrolls down.
"From which album?"
"Pinkerton."
My eyes fell on the song the same time his did. "El Scorcho!" We both yelled at each other.
We played the song full blast on the surround sound and we stood up singing at the top of our lungs.

"Goddamn you half-Japanese girls
Do it to me every time
Oh, the redhead said you shred the cello
And I'm jello, baby
You won't talk, won't look, won't think of me
I'm the epitome of Public Enemy
Why you wanna go and do me like that?
Come on down to the street and dance with me."

We run out to the balcony interrupting everyone's conversations around us as we happily sing the words, looking at each other.

"I'm a lot like you so please
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting
I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me.

I asked you to go to the Green Day concert
You said you never heard of them
How cool is that?
So I went to your room and read your diary:
"Watching Grunge leg-drop New-Jack through a press table..."
And then my heart stopped: "Listening to Cio-Cio San
Fall in love all over again."

His friend joins our concert while he spills the contents of his tequila based drink on the floor.

" I'm a lot like you so please
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting
I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me."

The tempo increases at the climax of the song. We all jump around, dancing and singing to each other.

" How stupid is it? I can't talk about it
I gotta sing about it and make a record of my heart
How stupid is it? Won't you give me a minute
Just come up to me and say hello to my heart
How stupid is it?
For all I know you want me too
And maybe you just don't know what to do
Or maybe you're scared to say: 'I'm falling for you'"

We both look away from each other.

" I wish I could get my head out of the sand
'Cause I think we'd make a good team
And you would keep my fingernails clean
But that's just a stupid dream that I won't realize
'Cause I can't even look in your eyes
Without shakin', and I ain't fakin'
I'll bring home the turkey if you bring home the bacon."

His phone rings and from the look of his face, it's his ex-girlfriend or is it still his girlfriend? I never quite figure it out. But he excuses himself from the balcony and I sing softer this time, his friend still accompanying me.

" I'm a lot like you so please
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting
I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me

I'm a lot like you.
I'm a lot, and I'm waitin.
I think I'd be good for you
And you'd be good for me."

A hour later and Don'cha know hitches a ride home with someone else. Jerry and I contemplate leaving.

"Dude it's fucking hard with these young'ns. They don't know what they want. It's just confusing." Jerry lamented at his strike out with all the available girls in the room.
"Yeah, I know." Birthday boy had disappeared ages ago and I was starting to feel that depression at the bottom of the bottle. "I'm just gonna use the restroom and we're out."
I enter the downstairs bedroom to use its private bathroom. And there I saw the roommates and birthday boy in the middle of them. The room smelled like Cheech & Chong's van.
"April! You want a smoke?" He came up to me.
"No." I wasn't about to succumb to paranoia too. "What are you guys doing?"
I walked further into the room and saw everyone was passing it around. So this is where the party went.
One of the roommates had an idea. "Hey guys, I feel like doing origami right now. I want to make a paper crane."
"Yeah! Let's make cranes!" Everyone was excited, Birthday Boy included.
"Ryan do you have any paper?"
He looked around. "No! I don't." Everyone looked a little bummed. Then, I spied a script on his desk.
"How about this?" I grab the script and hand it to him.
"No, we can't. I'm supposed to read this for my boss." Everyone looks at him, pleading.
"You can always print one out again."
And so we tore the pages off of the script and everybody started to make origami birds.
I held the title page and proceeded to fold the only origami figure I knew.

Jerry and I decided we had enough of fooling ourselves with these kids and started to head out the door. Ryan stood against the wall and I told him happy birthday and goodbye. I look into his eyes and put in his hand what I had folded; a paper heart.

Monday morning at the office, a co-worker and I bragged about how much alcohol we had ingested that weekend. Her and her roommates had left later than I and she told me the party went all night.
"You know Ryan told me he woke up on a bed full of paper cranes." We both laughed. She left and then I saw him, smiling, on his way towards me.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"I feel so much better than yesterday. But on Sunday I woke up in the afternoon and I was useless all day." He ran his hand through his adorably messy hair. I remember I did the same thing on Saturday.
"So what's this about you waking up with paper cranes?" This was going to be the start of the conversation where he asks to hang out with me in the near future.
"Oh right! Yeah! It was crazy! I woke up with all these cranes around me and I had no idea how they got there. I completely blacked out the whole party!"
The record skipped. Hold on. He blacked out during the WHOLE THING?
"You don't remember anything?" You don't remember how we shared intimate conversations overlooking the balcony, seriously flirting and touching each other, and singing like idiots at the top of our lungs?
"No. I just remember the beginning of the party when you guys got there. Then I think I woke up sometime in the middle of the night. That's it. Isn't that crazy?!" He laughed. I felt he was laughing at me.
"Yeah. Crazy." Forced giggle. "Ok. So I have to go back over there now." I motioned towards nothing in particular. "I'll see you later." Back to square one.

I was dumbfounded. I still am. Do you know that feeling after you've written a 20 page term paper and you know, it's fucking brilliant and you just can't stop writing and then all of a sudden, boom, MS Word has an error and just your luck, you forgot to save your document? Yup. I had that same feeling. I didn't know if I wanted to start over, get angry at him, or just go ballistic and tell him to fuck himself. No. I didn't know what to do. What would you have done?

Anyway, I've never figured out the whole "if he has a girlfriend" thing and seriously, how corny is a paper heart? That's the one thing I'm glad he forgot about. I think.

I wait by the door, a bottle of gin to offer
He comes outside and he rides the elevator up with me
He says hi to everybody while only looking at me
I look down and push my hair behind my ear

I told myself don't worry it's just a crush
I don't really want to fall in love
And so I drink my beer he drinks his rum
I offer him a smoke and he obliges
We sit on the veranda pass the time
Remembering to stay near each other's side

I mess around with the radio and change the song
A familiar one we both know comes on
We sing in tune knowing all the words
Singing to no one in particular and to each other
I make sure to not to look at his eyes... too long

The phone rings it's his
ex girlfriend I pretend to keep singing
while he leaves and my ears are ringing

I pass the time with strangers
Their eyes searching the horizon over me
And I keep drinking my anxiety

We all make origami figures
I dont know how to make a crane so I make a heart
My roommate looks at me asking to leave
And so I stand in front of him and give my hesitation
a slight reprieve

I put the heart into his hand
A smile creeps on his lips
And so I left, my breath I catch
Is this regret or a faithful match?

The weekday comes, we see each other again
Monday in the office, air of pretension
He tells me the night was a black out,
only remembering the beginning and the end.

He woke up on a bed full of paper cranes
We were laughing, imagining it.
Him rolling off of bed; rubbing his head
pricked and poked by hundred of cranes, beaks and folds
And then he laughs and leaves
asking his roommates what had happened the night before.

But unbeknownst to him as he exits the room
a paper heart disappears in the company of birds
whilst I sigh in relief, in remorse, and in gloom.

It starts this way. There is a project that requires too much time sitting in front of the office window, staring at the Pet Boys shop down below. In the midst of the sounds of cars and motor drills, keyboard typing, cellphones and office phones, and radiation bombarding me from the computer screen, I pushed off my desk and decided I was going to start the habit again.

I walked towards the office manager's room, peeked my head in the door, and she knew what I needed as I looked at the box of Marlboro lights. I thanked her and almost walked outside with my cancer stick forgetting one thing. I stopped and peeked in again. "Do you have a light?"
She points outside the door, "Ryan has it."

Ryan. I've seen him around the office before but I've never talked to him. But on this new project I was working on, he was one of the main players and talking with him was going to be an eventuality. Better now than later.

I walked over to him quickly and he, not expecting an interaction from me, developed a slightly confused smile on his face.

"Hey Ryan," I've never spoken to him or said his name before. It had a strange quality to it. "Can I borrow a lighter?"

"Yes," he laughed in relief. If you are a smoker, you should understand the easy camaraderie that occurs between other smokers. If not, I can tell you a little bit about my experience. It's years of five minute vignettes hanging out in dark corners, alleys, or behind trees while staring at the outlines of buildings, following the movement of clouds, or just plain listening to the city din. It is almost always a welcome solace to share this with anybody, especially strangers who can offer you a light.

He put the lighter in my hand. I think it was that first touch that started it.

After that came the little conversations in the kitchen, the small talk in the middle of hallways, the recurrent coincidences of smoking in the parking lot at the same time. Sometimes, I thought he would follow me into a room or maybe it was me that would follow him. We would playfully suggest a friendship beyond our daily office interactions. But months passed and the imaginary bar meetings didn't happen. I was almost getting tired of the litanies of "We should grab a drink sometime," or "One of these days, you should come over." Actually, I was more tired of saying "Yes, we should," and then waiting for an actual day of the week to commit to.

But then recently, something different happened.

It was one of those coincidental smoke breaks where we had a definite five minute interlude. Five minutes to engage a conversation, make each other laugh, and maybe, hopefully, set a real date to see each other in the future.

"Hey, do you have any plans this weekend?" He started.
I looked at him trying to hide the amazement in my eyes. "Nothing really. Why? What are you doing?"
"I'm having a party at my house this Saturday. It's for my birthday. It's not actually my real birthday because my birthday already happened. But we're celebrating it this weekend. So you should come."
I immediately lit up. "Oh my gosh! Happy birthday! How old are you turning?" I'd always wondered how old he was. This seemed like the appropriate time to ask.
"24. I just turned 24."
"Wow. You're so young."
He heard the disappointment in my voice. "Age doesn't really matter. What really matters is the way you act, the way you carry yourself, how you treat people. It doesn't matter if you're 24 or 38. Why? How old did you think I was?"
"I don't know. Somewhere around 28." It was more like I wished he was 28. But as soon as he told me, I started to see his age on his face; his real age. I think I already knew before he told me.
"People always think I look older. When I ask 'how old do you think I am?' People would usually say 30, 28. So whatever age they guess, I just agree."
"That's one way to live your life. How old do you think I am?"
"25, 26?" So he knew I was older.
"26." I inhaled my last drag and threw the cigarette underneath my heel. The five minutes were up.
"Are you going to come this weekend?" He asked me as I started for the door.
I smiled at him. "Maybe. I'll let you know."

To be continued...

"And I think, right there and then, she realized none of us is perfect forever." Benjamin, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.

I remember little things. The way the sun would shine through the straw colored curtains and fall on our bed, glowing behind his hair or perfectly illuminating his face. His beautiful face. I would kiss his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids, all the while touching his hair, his neck, his hands. I just wanted to stay there with him all day, laying in bed, melting into him. And the times we would laugh. We would chase each other around our apartment, our bare footsteps echoing on the wooden floors. We would fall into the sofa, the chair, the floor, wrestling, tickling, just laughing. And for all the fast paced goings on in the world, I would always look forward to when we got home. I would cook him dinner and he would come in through the doorway, a huge smile on his face. Sometimes I would rush into his arms, sometimes I'd wait for him to creep up behind me, embracing me.

So many days and nights. Just being together. Sunny days, rainy days, snow, sickness, health, laughter and pain. All we wanted to do was be around each other. Forever.

We were happy then.

The search for love can be comparable to the search for a place to call your home. It is as difficult, as heartbreaking, and it is as improvident of your energy and most importantly, your time. You could spend three years in a city and then finally admit to yourself that this isn't your home. So you break up with it, pack your bags, and leave for the possibility of falling in love with a different one.

But when you combine the search for home and the search for love, it can sometimes prove toxic.

This was the case between my former and I. We both moved here three years ago, full of the supposed "dreams." And it was the veritable honeymoon period, him and I falling in love with each other and at the same time, learning to fall in love with the city we chose. Then, three years down the line, he decided that he wasn't in love with Los Angeles, while I, unfortunately, was captivated. And so he chose his search for falling in love with a home over being in love with me, and I chose staying in love with Los Angeles rather than following him.

One cannot blame the other. In building your life, the necessity of finding a place to call home ultimately surpasses the need to find love. And so, in having found my home, I can now dedicate my search to one thing.

Love.

The Man with the 80s Complex wants something more than a friendship. And so, in finding out my disinterest, he decided to wish me a "Good Life."

So. I am unable to date and I am also unable to make friends. The next two months are going to be hell. Non-pelvic activities. Damn you.