She looks at her bag and its thousand meanings. She looks at her life, her bank account, her job, her intelligence and perhaps, her Canadian husband. Or her Canadian husband’s bank account. After a short five seconds, she looks away and starts thinking deeply about life — money, the American dream, chipotle, romance, and perhaps, prostitution. She starts thinking about remittances.
The other Louis Vuitton-clad girl looks at the girl who was looking at her a few seconds ago. She looks at her bag before she looks at her face. She then looks at her hands and feet and their thousand meanings. She looks at her callouses, the dirt on her fingernails, the burn scars on her arms and perhaps, her Canadian bosses. She then looks away and thinks, “Fake.”
I stand a meter away to listen to their conversation that isn’t happening. Within a minute into eavesdropping, I see their cat fights, their bellies, their dignity and the kind of toilet seats they have at home. I see the kind of wedding reception they had. I see a rented wedding gown. I see a Vera Wang gown. I see their moms, dads and their notebooks in highschool. I see a pink vagina. I see a purplish, layered one.
I look to my right to change view. I see a girl looking at me. I put my earphones on and start playing Bach.
Alam ko ‘tong istorya na to ah! Hahaha.