Menthol-Guy

You know what I’m gearing for Sunday night?

I’d hit the streets of Manila (Malate?) after watching a bunch of Cinemalaya films–for almost twelve hours–and just party (read: drink a lot, dance a little) all night long, probably smoke my lungs out (I know, I’m not smoking anymore). I don’t do dirty dancing that much or ask a girl out or check out somebody in the restroom and all.

For one moment, I want to be at my wildest.

Isn’t it just thrilling when you dance with someone you barely know and then you’d sit with her at the corner of the bar–or someplace where you can have decent conversation. Oh, she should be the type of the girl who read books and not just teenage magazines. I mean books–in all its literary glory. It would be better if she’s an avid fan of, say, any classical author. I want her to lure me to intellectual talk and not just chime in some lame talk about her Facebook account.

I want her to wear anything that’s right for her, whatever suits her. I don’t want her to be dolled up for the night. I want her to come naturally, dressed for the night–yes, of course–but that she shouldn’t look like a fashion overkill. (I tell you, my fashion sense can seem to look beyond reparation sometimes.) I want myself to dress up naturally with faded khakis and a shirt with a vintage print on it, scruffy hair, just the typical guy who practically brags that he has brains even in the wrong places.

We would order a drink or two.

I don’t know what will happen next–not that I don’t have the purest of intentions, but I’m not implicitly talking about sex here–but it depends to her. In building a character that’s passionable, someone that’s flawed, you have to leave something behind, mark it unknown, unmask it when the story tells you to.

So I don’t really know what will happen (it can be something as immensely dramatic that it can be considered the twist of the story), but I guess we wouldn’t end up with our hands bound with shackles in bed and all. I mean, if she would offer me a joint just for social puffs, I have to say I’ll accept it, for I am in my wildest that day. But that might not happen, for she could be the type of a person who stays away from the illegal.

What’s even interesting is a scene where we would be at Mini Stop and eat ice cream in the middle of the night. I could see the camera angle a street away (but directly) from Mini Stop, capturing the two of us sitting, licking our ice creams, eyes clashing at midpoint, sensing something else but not lust; something else–probably something that’s as delicious as the melting dark chocolate cream in our mouths.

It’s the middle of the night and all the light in the scene comes from the fluorescent bulbs of the 24-hour convenience store, and we’re almost done with the cone.

That should be the end.