Why We Broke Up

Just when I was about to give up on this novel by Daniel Handler … me finding it too juvenile, too American, too American juvenile --- the many things a 42 year old Filipina struggled to relate to for the last 6 months that I’ve been trying to painfully read and enjoy this “break up” book. 

Three hundred fifty four.  The total number of pages.  Twenty pages the sum of all the pain. 

I thought there was something fantastic, fabulous, extra ordinaire, something uniquely heartbreaking .  Unique heartbreaking, a descriptive, definitive statement I invented a few seconds just as I write this.  My exact allusion when I first got a hold of this book.  Intrigued by how a broken heart looks and feels like for teenagers. Something I never had.  So I thought, my judgmental self, nothing spectacular, nothing elegant, just pure shallow pain.  Nothing beats a torn and worn recently broken heart of 4 decades.

I was wrong.  I underestimated the power of a broken heart.  One that goes beyond age and ages.  My bad.  I am so sorry Min.

Tuesday’s child.  11^th of December.  After three major stops, all successful.  After a morning long of planning a possible meet up and possibly beer and  “tsokolate-eh” from what’s left of our used to be our fave hangout in Remedios Circle , me and my “forever”  BFF Nanat, another failed attempt.  He’s watching a French film, that’s his priority!  Hump!!!  :)

After feeling a little bitter not being able to check out that Japanese store in Trinoma for that DVD bag in pink vintage (I have the blue one already so it is really a must that I get the pink one, yeah, a must … by all means, at all cost ahahah).    Yet still being able to maneuver a quick drop and shop at that new but dusty thrift shop by the train station fo that lovable snowman ....  a mug shot of that dirteeh ol Mistah Frost  am too lazy to post ;)

I jumped to that “ambrelata” mini bus, turned on my playlist at the highest volume, and started scanning what was left of Min and Ed.

 That heavy feeling leaf after leaf.  Those tiny diamond in the corner of my eyes again.

“Here we are at the bottom, almost empty.”  Page 325.

“Do you do them in that old-fashioned code, like daffodils mean I’m sorry I  was late, daisies mean sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends, these things here fanned out mean just thinking of you?  Or did you just have them throw whatever was pretty together?”  Page 328.

“”But this isn’t for me,” I said, and something crinkled in my fist.  There was a crash on the floor, the crash of letting go.”  Page 330.

‘And you can’ stop thinking about me,’ I said., “is” what it was in your note.”  My head rattled with bad arithmetic. … couldn’t stop thinking of who, I thought, a fraction I couldn’t add up in my head.  I needed help, but you’re the only one good with a fucking protractor.”  Page 331.

“Just the water riveting on the floor, an answer I knew, gone out of the pretty vase.”  Page 332.

“This isn’t a movie,” I said. “We’re not movie stars.

“My fucking virginity, I realized with a churning lurch.  You had seen everything, you had everything.  Showering together.  Your body inside mine.  You had every scrap of skin, and I had a handful of petals in ne hand, somebody else’s flowers … How many times have you been in Willows?”  Page 333.

“I fled the street … You’re a goddamn athlete, you didn’t, you weren’t there when I reached as far lost corner and stood heaving with my hands full of all I had left. “  Page 334.

All pages turned.  I was looking aimlessly at Dado Avenue, diamond’s fell, but this perfect wind,  it dried them up just before they reached a pair of pink but much colder cheeks.

Florence Welch speaks in mystical poetry … "And given half the chance would I take any of it back  It's a fine romance but its left me so undone  It's always darkest before the dawn ..."

Annette.  Annete was her name.  She between Min and Ed.