Sid’s Discourse
Pol Singson
'Come on. Stop obsessing over that Ed Banter novelette.'
Sid peeked over his printed copy of
Someone's Discourse, Times New Roman size 10 point five on all sides, to an exhausted Niña, who just came from the grocery store, buying plump oranges and leeks for her classroom experiment on osmosis. He continued reading with the seventh page.
'Says here that fixation with someone is a one-way road to frustrations,
but I doubt it's always the case.'
Niña rolled her eyes, like she always does when Sid infers with his readings. The heated oven shrills with whisked water from the pan, and the fragrant smell of olive oil fills the kitchen area and the lounge.
Hard to have a bookworm housemate, she thought. He's a bigger geek than she is, nulling the common thought that girls are bigger fans of idle reading than dumb, blockheaded boys.
'Care to tell why you thought so?'
'Well, it's to say that human reflex tells us to either feed on our obsessions or refrain from obsessing, which either case is unhealthy, because it's rather sickening to-
His words blurred to her ear, like a professor's raspy voice droning to oblivion. She minded her cooking, murmuring 'uh-huh's from a distance. Her sauce turned out sweet and runny, until the very last minute she was dumbstruck with the realization that she was preparing Italian pasta, and pasta doesn't need sauce.
Ulp. Me and my big, fat trap.'-and there was this girl I met in my Speech Development class, and she was mulling through her notes, so I thought-
No, not his girl-scavenging again. God, I wish I had stones for ears.'-she was staring my way, so I thought she liked me, but common preconceptions as said by Banter here are mere reassurances of self-validation, and bouts of erotomania are unavoidable, and-
Erotomania? The word registered to her head and an image of a fish with wings appeared. Her glum thoughts vaporized and blended with the sauce she was mixing, since she resolved to make tomato soup with it anyway.
'-so I approached her after class, and she said her name was Mildred-
She giggled.
Mildred. What a name.'-and I asked her if I can, maybe, just maybe, we can go out sometime-
are you still listening?'
'Of course I am,' she said.
Wow. Sid is one hell of a laughtrip. Niña went on with boiling the pasta, approximately taking five minutes more, now resolving not to mind Sid's ranting anymore. He wouldn't notice, after all.
______________________________________
'Wow. You cook well.'
'I haven't cooked since Attila the Hun, you know. You should be glad.'
Sid talking with herbs and pasta in his mouth, Niña indifferently gauging the taste of her work, the dim Friday sky smelled of sweet nightouts and barhopping. Yet Niña had to stay for the early schedule of her preliminary finals at seven in the morning tomorrow. Being stuck with nerdy Sid is no less of an insult, either.
'-she looked like my old elementary crush, you know, and whenever she smiles-'
Okay. I'm not listening. She ate the remaining strands of pasta and thought of something else to block this blabbermouth's sweet nothings.
'-but at four, we parted ways after our date, and she crossed without seeing the streetlight, and it's still red, and I had to shout STOP! but she heard me too late, and by instinct I ran and pushed her to the side, and I was hit by a truck, and then I went home just today, I got this copy from the library for Mr. Barnaum's class tomorrow, so I hurried and-'
She had a discomforting feeling down her stomach.
'Uh, Sid, will you excuse me for a minute?'
'Oh, sure. Take your time.'
It can't be the mint. Or the parsley. Or the olive oil. Something spoiled Niña's stomach, and by the looks of it, she must have used the wrong ingredient or cooked it the wrong way off the recipe book. Or either way, she must be allergic to Italian pasta! She went inside the restroom and locked herself inside for about half an hour.
______________________________________
When she relieved herself of constipation, however, the dining area was empty. Sid was nowhere to be found.
'Sid?'
Approaching the table, she noticed that Sid's plate was untouched. Impossible! He finished his meal before he was telling the - I'm not sure which part - but he was finished!
The light at the lounge was open, yes, but the reading was not at the sofa. Her instinct - and God knows how she feared that instinct - was right; the photocopy was inside Sid's bag, near the shoe rack.
Minutes before six, a telephone call from the girl, Mildred, confirmed her suspicion.
She dropped the dial in shock.
Sid's copy of
Someone's Discourse was turned on page seven, with a highlighted last line.
'More often, people do not listen. But by speaking, it is much better to have said it than never have spoken at all.'
