The Girl From Avenida

Tonight I can’t ride my car because it’s Wednesday. But if it’s either Tuesday or Thursday, it still won’t make a difference, Because I don’t have a car. I was waiting for a jeepney ride; I felt cold like Love’s suicide. Everything dies: the plants, the trees Sometimes even the memories. You know it’s sad but true That sometimes even Love dies too. A young woman approached me. “Short time, pogi?” she asked. “I want to,” I told her, “but I don’t have any money.” That was a lie of course: I still have seven pesos and fifty centavos. This girl’s a dead ringer of Anne Curtis, Bob Hoskins and Phil Collins. She touched my shoulder: A part of me understood. She looked into my eyes: My hairs now all stood. I had goosebumps under my arms On my balbon chest And all over my Zanjoe Marudo body. I was shivering with all my might – first with pleasure then with fright. And she said, “He looked just like you.” Maintaining my dignity, I asked, “Who?” “Bernardo Carpio,” she said wistfully. “my hoodlum boyfriend who poisoned me.” I took a deep breath. Poise! I reminded me. I asked politely, “Miss, are you dead?” She floated in the air. “Dili man ’Dong,” she said. “Waray man ibidinsya!” she added. And – poof! – she vanished. Avenida photo courtesy of