ronanbloomfield

[ronanbloomfield]

Hunter to Haunted

To the Taurus who turned me from hunter to haunted,

I never fully appreciated the absence of chaos and the charm of calm. I am known for my regular but short-spanned outbursts, my shoot-to-kill words, my madness, my anger, and my fire-fueled passions on topics I feel strongly about. I do not remember a day when I was anything short of insane. I do not recall a moment that I was aware I was being perceived as an interest, that I was paid attention to, that I was taken in and known and analyzed.

So, imagine my surprise when I received a letter from you on the day I felt especially ordinary and uncelebrated—my birthday. Among all the people who could have sent me a birthday greeting, you did. You. Quiet, reserved, calculating, mysterious to a fault, unbothered, a bit odd but equally interesting you. I felt immensely grateful at that time. At dinner with friends, our topic shifted from the usual trauma-dumping into our monthly flavors or happy crushes. My friends urged me to select at least one person I like at the moment. I can hardly give any names since I’ve found most men to be predictable, if not, superficially unstimulating. And then, I thought of you.

Have you experienced seeing for the first time something that has been right in front of you, dangling, the entire time? Before stumbling into this epiphany, I didn’t know paying attention was the same as loving. I only ever cared about being loved. To love is something else. But to an extent, I arrived close to that. Noticing has been a conscious culture I have cultivated. But I had no idea then how much I noticed you. And that these memories of you, put together, are the mosaic of the versions of you I knew, each one recorded and committed to memory. I have no knowledge of where to put them now.

If you must know, you made late December last year colorful. I was aware of the would-be consequences of my actions. I knew that I would remember you longer than I know you. I know that this momentary blip in the time and space continuum will one day cease to be. I know that one of us would be more hurt at the end of it. I know that I am driven solely by curiosity. I know of the concerning age gap and power imbalance we have. I know that I am becoming someone I particularly dislike. I know I cannot be your friend. I know what I’ll lose. But despite all that, I’d rather have some of you than none, so, off we went for two weeks.

When you grow up, you don’t expect yourself to stop learning. I have learned a few good things about me by knowing you. I learned that I am attracted to tall, soft-spoken, articulate, gentle, dog-loving, moreno guys. I learned that I liked being updated randomly about what you’re doing the entire day with pictures and cute notes. I learned that I want to be pursued. I learned that I like to be given information about someone without having to coax it out myself. I learned that I yearned to be cooked and shared food with, to be in an inside joke, to be seen, to be defended. I like your mind among your other qualities. I like the surprising facts about you, too. Your family, Daisy and Buddy, the films you watched and the one I made you watch, the places you’ve been and the POV you captured them with, and the extra consideration you give to people. I hope you never lose them.

Now that it’s over, we don’t talk, and you have stopped staying, I can only thank you. I genuinely wish you the most in life. You have chosen to drop everything at once, without a hint, without so much as a goodbye. I know no other way better than an unfinished hymn to inspire me to move forward, too. Thank you for letting me in your life. You were a beautiful mystery.

Until then,

The Archer

[ronanbloomfield]

After 2 a.m.

by Ronan Bloomfield

I see him. Everywhere. On the kitchen counter, legs dangling off, talking to our friends. His hands, on her waist. His eyes, searching, curious. His laugh, loud but unoffensive. He makes the whole room focus on him. Vash, in all his curly-haired, dark eyes, wide smile bravado, made his way into our circle without so much as dropping a sweat. I should’ve brought more liquor if I knew he’s the one Michelle brought for a date.

New Year’s at cousin Mark’s town house is a huge deal this year. He announced that he won’t let anyone pass inside without bringing a plus one. I brought Patrick. Mark wasn’t so thrilled about that since Patrick happened to be my cat.

At the countdown, everyone seems pretty wasted. A clear sign of Mark’s year-end objective is people making out in the open with careless nonchalance. My job is to take decent snaps of everything indecent that’s happened.

Vash sweeps in and out of the room, towing Michelle, whose neutral expression always seems to be lying across between bright and blasting; a firecracker never running out of sparks. There was phrase in Latin I always use to describe her, in omnia paratus, ready for anything. Standing by the sideline and noticing everything, I made room for the pulsing life of the party, without being in the party.

After the countdown, Vash, the center of this universe, gave a toast to welcome another decade.

“May misfortune follow us all the way through,” he raised his cup. We booed.

“And may it never catch up,” he continued. We drank to that.

Unless they’re Irish, who else makes up stuff like that when they’re only 16% sober?

Mark’s house eventually got quiet as people slumped into couches and the available rooms. Some couple mysteriously disappeared halfway through eating the 2020 cake.

It’s 2:15 a.m. and after drinking booze more than both my fingers can count, I am officially tipsy. It sucks. I just can’t get drunk enough to not mind the empty cups and bottles lying around the living room, the wine spilled on the kitchen floor, throw pillows askew on the couches; every mess I spot seems to loom in on me and vacuum what’s left of my sobriety.

I grabbed the trash bag and made my way through every spot that we partied on. The room is spinning too fast for me so I slowed down and played a soft music from Spotify. I let it travel from the living room to my last destination, the kitchen.

“I didn’t know they invited a Monica Geller!” a voice behind me said a little too loud. I turned around only to find Vash, still standing straight and slightly red in the face.

I continued my work, scrubbing the sink immaculately clean while he sat there, by the kitchen isle, watching. I looked at him once, no twice, yeah alright, 14 times to make sure he wasn’t about to fall off from the high stool he was sitting on.

“Seriously,” he belched, “how can you be cleaning after drinking that much alcohol?”

I ignored him. I am not known to be famous with small talk. Or any talk, for that matter. I’m the silent twin, fluent in the quiet, overshadowed by the loud personality of my other half. I spoke only once, when he asked what my cat’s name is and since then it’s been Vash and his surprisingly loquacious alter-ego. He took it as his job to fill the gap in the air and talked about, yep, SpongeBob.

“He taught me how to handle my autistic younger brother. Man, he’s the best.” I’m not sure if he’s aware that he’s still talking while petting Patrick.

He went on, still talking, and followed me to the front porch where I deposited three bags of trash. I sat down by the stairs because it has been unbelievably exhausting as much as it was satisfying.

“By the way,” he sat right next to me with Patrick on his lap. “I believe we haven’t been officially introduced. Michelle said she would... but you know Michelle.”

I nodded. Of course, I had to share a womb with her.

“Anyway, I’m Vash.” He extended his hand, which is strangely old-fashioned for a guy just two years behind our age.

“Michael,” I said in reply.

We shook hands. And I wished it felt as simple as flesh touching flesh. Instead, it was a Stupefy spell which backfired. I withdrew my hand quickly, not eager to do anymore self-damage.

I believe in deep talks. But most of all, I believe in the deep talks held in the dark. That’s why sitting there by the stairs, the cool air on my face and the stars carefully mapped out above us, it felt easier to say something rash.

“I knew you from college.”

His eyebrows arched upwards. “Oh?”

My throat felt dry all of a sudden. “Yes,” I looked down. “You once slept… on my books at the library.”

His face broke into a grin. “For a minute, I thought you were going to say I slept with someone and you knew about her.”

I laughed with him too enthusiastically.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about your books. I can’t even remember that since I made passing out in the library a habit.”

“Don’t worry,” I said dismissively, “I was just using it for props, anyway.”

He laughed. It was gentle this time, syncing with the soft music still playing. We stayed like that for five minutes during which Patrick transferred to my lap, purred and fell asleep.

“I think I’ve noticed you somewhere around campus, too.” He glanced sideways at me, a smile overstaying its welcome is on his face.

My heart doesn’t know chill. It’s threatening to leap out of my chest.

“Did you give any speech back then?”

I wiped a hand on my face and cursed. At that, he let loose a provocative snicker.

I have been roasted all my adult life because of the drunk speech I gave to all scholars in our university on our senior year, and I still can’t get out of the hot seat fast enough and unscathed.

“Can there be one person, just one person in this world, who doesn’t know that story?”

“Hey,” he said, arms gesticulating, “just fulfilling my character flaw.”

I shrugged, not having anything to say anymore. This isn’t the deep talk I had in mind. The heat on my face is still subsiding when he continued.

“Were you…” he paused as if he’s actually traveling down his memory lane.

“Were you in theatre?”

I nodded.

“You didn’t play any character.”

“Oui.”

“You just directed it.”

“Careful on the ‘just’.”

“You’re right, you’re right. You were THE director.”

“Better.”

“You were the platoon leader first and second year in ROTC.”

I looked at him because now, I just realized he’s reciting things about me from his memory and I thought he just met me tonight.

He bit the inside of his lower lip and thought some more. His eyebrows are knit together in complete focus. I can’t believe this. Michelle, you tattletale.

“You almost drowned in swimming class.”

“You got excellent academic credentials.”

“You’re a good impersonator; your piece of Tyrion Lannister could land Oscars.”

“You’re funny enough and you notice everything it’s almost freaky.”

I want him to stop. This is not helping me get a grip. But he continues, unaware; his face getting sharper in the background as I was starting to get out of the haze that clouded my better judgement. This was a stupid, bad idea. Nothing good happens after 2 a.m., I knew that.

“You think sunsets are overrated.”

“You think feelings are, also.”

“You don’t like coffee or girls. Or—”

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

He stops talking. I continued.

“I might have already, way, way, way before we met.” I feel really close to vomiting at this moment, but what the hell.

“Seeing you tonight is weird and I know what you are. You’re the boyfriend of this month or this season, depending on what my sister decides later.” My breath isn’t catching up the right way but that didn’t matter.

“I know what I’m not. I’m not really a stranger to you, am I?” I finally had the nerve to look at him. He looked like he hasn’t breathed in since I interrupted him.

“Please say something so I don’t let my cat scratch my face willingly.”

[ronanbloomfield]

About that night when I was "lightheaded"

I clearly wanted to go home so bad. After the last shot of the first bottle of Red Horse me and my friends got, I jumped off my seat, stumbled over a little and half-ran into the street to beat my curfew. The night is still young actually and my friends are pissed because six glasses of beer don't make them half as intoxicated as they aimed they would be after that night. I walked right ahead of them because even if I'm 20 and graduating college with Latin honors, I still am terrified of disappointing my dad. I've missed 5 missed calls that night. We were on our way to the jeepney stop when this guy from school showed in my peripheral view. This was just a coincidence, I tell myself the same night after I came home and found out that nobody missed me when I was gone. It was just a coincidence. And writing about it doesn't make me hopeless and desperate right? I'm not making any assumptions but crap before I went to sleep that night I replayed the scene in my head and started revising it and romanticized it. It's so stupid. I. Really. Ought. To. Get. A. More. Exciting. Life. And better ideas too, if I can manage.