I’ve so wanted to write this.
It’s not enough that Bai writes it in "Red Rose and Wayang", and this is already ‘immortalized’ inside a a story> inside a book >on the shelves of the National Library {immortal…up until after 12 years, when the NL re-arranges catalog and the book might not be put back on the NL shelves after 12 years, who knows? It’s the R.P. Books are lost, authors forgotten, the old give way to the new, etc}
But I am not Bai. Bai is just one of my female characters. The male persona of Wayang in the story makes love to Bai. [wait> i think this should go the other way around>]
And so do the other male characters in "Red Rose and Wayang". They also take possession of Bai, after the male persona of Wayang chokes on his own saliva. { giggle. Of course he doesn’t choke on his own saliva!> the book’s just been launched, why would I ruin the ending by writing about the ending here?>}
Oh, and no. I’m not one of those female writers who author texts which scream ‘Kill all the men.’
So which part of Bai, comes from me?
I wasn’t breathing normally. This was obvious. He was about to leave me there. He had to be some place else. Then he asked me why I was nervous. An hour and a half ago, I had touched his face. He has the face of a god. To me, he is a god. This from a woman who is always likened to a porcelain doll.
I am insecure, I thought to myself.
He slept with that Polish woman, I am sure of it. He could disrespect her in that manner. [They are no longer together? He said this. Yes. He said that he had ended it.] I pray that he will be able to pick up this porcelain doll and break her in that same manner. [And you will not be together? Yes. Just when he returns tonight.]
Yes, it is clear that there was love between them.Wayang and his Polish woman.
 I must not think about the words respect and disrespect. I must not think about where these words can or cannot apply.
To me, he is a god. And today is a Sunday. Even gods play on Sundays. In (——–) when he is there, the shadows become gods who  play with the mortals who become shadows, even on Sundays.
I wasn’t breathing normally. Not because I was nervous. I wanted to answer his question, but he was in such a hurry.
I wanted to touch his face again and say, " No. I am not nervous. I have heart disease and cannot… [ A sentence fragment left to lilt. I look at the floor and shake my head] No,I have heart disease. You made me walk so far.
He found out about my weak heart, a year after. Because I had only kissed him goodbye and I did not answer his question.
It was not a Sunday there, that afternoon. But it was a still a Sunday, in Denmark. And so, to me, a Sunday.It is true, how there is always a way. It was a way to make good use of ‘Even gods play on Sundays’.
Now I remember why I chose what I have chosen.
All I have to do, is to remember that day.
And the day of those elevator doors, which I wrote about in Tagalog.
My lips were so very near his lips. If I measured it, it would surely [so very surely] not  have a number equal to that of  the measure of an inch.
Less than half of an inch.
I am smiling my half-knowing smile, as I write this.
It is not a happy smile.
It is the smile of someone who knows that even fans of movie stars can kiss their idols and not get slapped or embarassed.
Oh and that’s another thing.
Now I remember why I chose what I have chosen.
Because it is not love when you can hate.
I remember a reason. Just one reason: his eyes were closed when the elevator doors opened.
You see, I opened my eyes, at the sound of the bell’s kling just in time to see, that his eyes were still closed. 

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