kakakata-kataomoi

He loved her in a simple, painless sort of way. They enjoyed each other like consumable goods -- a romantic movie. transient. meaningless. disposable. He was blessed with astounding wit and intellect, which quickly earned him a scholarship to a prestigious university overseas, but for reasons unknown to me, he chose instead to stay and obtain a degree from a nearby and much less prestigious local university - from which I also graduated. In the winter of 1989, the year we both entered university together, I attended his father's funeral. Though our families had grown considerably apart, the rumours of estrangement had somehow found their way into our household and dominated our thoughts as, throughout the ceremony, my sisters and I watched him intently for any signs that may have corroborated or dissipated the veracity of these allegations - but to no avail. The exercise was met with as much success as drawing blood from a mannequin. There was nothing in his countenance or manner to suggest the merest measure of emotion. He clutched a white bouquet, sat like a statue throughout the songs and weeping, and when the preacher had finished he simply stood, disposed of the flowers and left. That was the last anybody saw of him for a while.

In the summer of 1991, we met again by chance in the alcohol-ridden, beer-stained basement of some social gathering. He was president of the debate team, while I dabbled in journalism, doing freelance work for the university paper. He greeted me like an old friend, with teeth and laughter, as though we had been clasped in friendship since birth - abandoning the string of pretty girls that surrounded him, he led me to a quiet, earnest corner and we began to converse. We talked over many petty, inconsequential things, and by the end of it concluded a mutual, manifest desire to keep in touch. He was still every bit as scintillating and clever as I had remembered, but also somewhat less likable. He had seemingly resolved to dress his thoughts and actions with an elaborate sense of aristocracy and adopted a manner of clever composure that many, including I, found infuriating at times; I suppose in this way they were similar. His mistress - I suppose that is the most accurate word - carried herself with a certain haughtiness that only girls who get told they are pretty are privy to and possessed the shrillest laugh you can imagine. She did not seem to mind rumours of their relationship. In fact, she seemed to relish it. The night he introduced her to me, she wore a sinful, indiscriminate smirk and a vapid amusement in her eyes comprised entirely, I suspect, of scandal and smoke. Her hand perched garishly upon his shoulder as he attended her with a tired, perfunctory charm. She was dainty in the cruelest sense of the word - a fact I assume he chose to ignore, among others - and when i looked at them i scarcely knew whom to feel more sorry for.