Saturday, my heart was breaking. Sleepy from three and a half frozen margaritas at one in the afternoon; sitting on concrete bleachers, my best friend to my left, and his girlfriend next to the person to my right. She had walked passed me, throwing smiles at everyone. I had turned to my best friend; quietly, I said: “Shit, she’s here. Shit, she’s here.”

The game starts. D gets the ball, prepares to take a shot. Our friend Camilo yells out, with the hugest grin on his face: “Sinong kasama mo kagabi!” (Trans: Who were you with last night!). This distracts him. He misses.

Our group stands up to move to the other side of the stadium for a better view. I beg the best friend to come with me. “I need to smoke. Crap, I want to get out of here.” Fuck, I don’t even watch basketball.

We finish our cigarettes, walk back inside, and take our seats. It starts raining and I am trapped.

The people next to me keep on screaming “Go DJ!” and “It’s a good thing the girlfriend’s here!” everytime he has the ball, everytime he’s about to take a shot. My heart is breaking; in my head, I am chanting Ely’s words: Suck it up, Helga, you’re a pro. My eyes stare blankly ahead, refusing to look at him, not wanting to see the smile on his face.

The best friend and I leave as soon as the game ends. I am ranting and bitter the whole ride back to Quezon City. D texts me: “Where are you going? Thanks for watching.” My friends tell me: “DO NOT REPLY! MAKE HIM BEG! DO NOT ANSWER HIS CALLS!”

I stop by the grocery on my way home. Six pm with a bottle of vodka, a bottle of Sprite, and a fresh pack of cigarettes. The alcohol is terrible, I do not finish my drink. I am ignoring D’s numerous messages and calls.

Sunday morning, 8am. Allah and I spend the dreary morning reading (I, Michael Moore’s Stupid White Men; Allah, Margaret Atwood’s Catseye), smoking, and reading out loud to each other from our respective books.

Early afternoon, we turn the TV on for our Sunday guilty pleasure (SOP Gigsters— so kill me now, Mark Herras is hot). My phone beeps.

D: Are you really not going to text me? I know you’re up watching Gigsters. What’s up?

It is the cutest thing ever and Allah, Anna, and I burst out laughing. I am mad and hurt, but I am amused and giddy over the fact that he remembers I religiously watch that tacky teenybopper fun show.

I tell him how I feel. And that he should’ve told me DJ was going to be at the game, because I wouldn’t have gone. “I told you I was going to watch. Or do you get a kick out of seeing the two of us at the same place at the same time?”

He claims he didn’t know she’d be there. She was supposed to have an exam for a company, and when he found out she could make it, he didn’t have credits in his phone to tell me. And what did he do wrong? It’s not like he told those people to yell “Go DJ!”. And that he would never hurt me on purpose. And do I know that he gets to spend more time with me than with her?

Helga: I guess I’m too demanding. Sorry…
D: Nope, didn’t say that. And don’t say sorry, I chose that.

I KNOW I’M EMOTIONALLY EASY. IT DOESN’T TAKE MUCH TO WOO ME. :blank: