My Blog

the seat number read 7-B. a "b" for a middle coach arsehole fundament receptacle.

a few hour's ride at thirty five thousand feet above sea level wasn’t the city-boy's-midnight-train planned on a return flight to manila. unlike the pedagogical of us (which means most, actually) who would prescribe to a two, or unbelievably, a three hour check-in rule, i have an aversion for waiting a boarding call and have the calculated habit of arriving at the airport at exactly the last angstrom.

and if there's one among many, many a quadrant our national flag carrier warrants a facelift inorder to keep pace with competition is a decent internet check-in facility.

i dareso vocalize on this, as one cannot live in retrograde paper and pen. well, a few episodes of hypertensive crisis was more the pareto analysis enroute to this particular commuter's nightmare. while qeueing last at the counter, a slight argument with the behind-counter-staff in drab-deep-blue-scarf was the offing as i insisted my luggage wasn't overweight. only immigration can potentially delay a quick escapo into the destination's aeroparque, so a baggage carousel soiree was implored unnecessary. so she, the bitch, returned the favor, by applauding the most egalitarian of all suppositories - the last row, center seat.

the constant sound of water gushing from the lavatory annoys me. terribly. and the perpetual human line distracting your breathing aisle. and typically of this flag carrier, the last row would almost always be deprived of having their masticating automony. "sorry sir, naubusan na po ng fish. masarap naman 'tong beef," said the perky female flight attendant. "sorry sir, we ran out of orange juice. would you like a cola instead?" never, will i ever, again attempt on teasing my gastric juices even with a sip of CO2-infused liquid taken at a fraction of atmospheric pressure. burp if one must, but fart musn't let, thus wreck thine gut.

so at this flight, the choice of a aisle seat at the tail end or a forward section middle seat was the only toss coin. without a checked-in luggage and imagining the horrifying line at NAIA, the front row was the easy decision. at 1.8 meters, i can still tolerate the leg room for a few hours ride without the need for a bladder break.

while the meal service trays were collected, i was unentropically tidying up to prepare for the remaining flight time's doze. but the seatmate to my left attempted to open a conversation.

"so what brings you to the philippines? for a vacation?"

a he. caucasian, maybe late thirties. of sky blue iridescence. lean guy and likely taller than me. his accent befits american.

"oh. im a filipino. coming back from a business trip." yeah, i know. people casually see me as korean. even koreans salutate me with the effin-yoseyo's like i was that the other glee actor.

and that short statement bouyed a trip-long conversation. about his business. why he relocated. his small call center company situated in the south. the placed he travelled in the country.

but i wasn't complaining. or, rather, his got my attention. it. was unmistakably a scene stealer. and it seemed like it was growing.

engorging.

and naturally, when the stretch is tight, there is a spontaneous need for a stick shift.

but i soon began my remorse, so the retreat. so i mentioned i was married.

his reply was knee-jerk - since so was he.

regret?

he took out his wallet. and in the most blatant show of pacified behavior, i nodded back and forth. it was a picture of him and his lovey dovey.

yeah. he's married to a twink.