Spit On the Floor

And he spits on the floor upon his belief that touch-wood is not the right charm against his boyfriend’s curse - they will always fail living together. The dinner is neglected; the candle flames are blown out by a sudden murmuring wind from the window ajar in the dining room. The dimmed light blurs his vision as he stares at their big photographs on the wall in the living room. His boyfriend has gone upstairs and practically won’t talk to him for days, and he shall sleep on the couch for the time being.

He looks at his own spit on the floor: the bubbles burst slowly. Then he recalls what he just heard, “…..don’t you ever think of a marriage, because we won’t work it out, period.”

The dribble melts with no more bubble. And he knows he’s hopeless.

“Boy, you see now, huh, marriage is a disaster. Don’t you ever think of it,” years ago when he was only eight, his father said it to him in the middle of a fight with his mother. He could just stare at them, not knowing what was happening. He just felt hopeless; he just wished for some peace in the house that day.

“Spit on the floor!” his mother yelled at him. “For God’s sake, don’t let what you heard happen. Spit!!!”

And he spat on the floor, not knowing why he should. He only knew he was hopeless.

*
(Jakarta, May 18th, 2006)