She Smokes Now

Liz started smoking when Nathan Lopez, the basketball player, decided to end his relationship with her. The reason I know was that Liz confided to me—sometimes in tears—the course of their affair.
I and Liz were good friends, while Nathan to me, was just a shadow. Whenever they’re together, inside the campus or outside on their dates, and I happened to be there as well, say by running to them at the cafeteria or in the mall whenever I had some solitary excursions myself, Nathan and I will just exchange greetings, and that was it. I couldn’t really say if I hated the guy, or if he felt that way toward me, but if it hadn’t been for Liz, we wouldn’t even glance at each other.
The first few days after the break-up, Liz would invite me somewhere, and she’d just cry. Sometimes, she wouldn’t talk, she’d just sag her handkerchief with tears. People would eye us, with some guys looking as if they’d kick my ass if they learned it was me who has wronged this girl crying in front of me. All I could do was tap her shoulder, and tell her stupid stuff like “It’s going to be all right” or some cliché phrases like “There are tons of fishes in the sea…”
More days came and went, and we started going to bars. She wouldn’t cry this time, but she’d rant about how Nathan never really became the boyfriend she expected him to be, while drinking beer. The reason why I stuck with this was probably because of the fact that I like Liz too. It pains me to say it, but when I learned that she and Nathan started going out, I just knuckled under. Now that their relationship had reached its end, I couldn’t understand what I’m feeling.
“I didn’t even know why we lasted this long,” she said. “Dammit, I should have known.”
“You did love him,” I muttered, while wiping foam from my mouth.
She drank first before answering. “Sure did. But I know better now.”
“Cheers,” I raised my bottle. Our bottles clank as it kissed each other.
A few more weeks later, Liz started going to my apartment. I didn’t really know if I should be happy about it or not, for all she does was to eat whatever I cook for her, drink, and talk about Nathan. It would have been better if she spoke about how she despises that guy, but this time she talked about memories: their dates, their kisses while in the darkness of the theater, stuff like that. And I provided her with the listening ear she needed.
One time, she got so drunk and fell asleep on my couch. I tried shaking her awake, but all she did was moan. I cleaned the table, cleared the bottles of beer, cigarette ash, bits of chips, and finally I took off her shoes, placed a pillow below her head and covered her with a blanket. I sort of brushed her hair with my fingers and looked at her face and body for a while, but my attention was diverted by the pack of cigarettes on the table. That was the time I discovered that she started smoking. I slept in my room that night. It was a cold night.
When I woke up the next day, she was still asleep. I fried some eggs and reheated some leftover rice, and made coffee, and glanced at her from time to time. After I ate, Liz woke up.
“Hey, sorry, I got drunk,” she said.
“No problem. Want something to eat?”
“No, thanks,” she said and then put a cigarette on her lips and lit it. She placed it on the ashtray before proceeding to the sink to wash her face. I watched her do that, and for a while I noticed she stopped moving and just stood there near the sink, as if trying to remember something.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Liz looked at me slowly. “Why am I not wearing my bra?” She placed her palms on her chest.
I told her I didn’t know. She went back to the couch, searched through the ruffle of pillow and blanket, and then picked up her bra. She showed it to me, as if showing me evidence to a terrible crime.
“Were you touching me as I slept?” she asked.
I couldn’t find the right words to answer, because honestly, I couldn’t remember myself.
“I can’t believe you.”
“Hey, Liz, listen I—”
She took her things and left. I remained sitting at the table, watching her cigarette on the ashtray, burning away.

We didn’t see each other for a few days. I tried texting her, telling her that nothing really happened, and explained to her the possibility that she herself may have removed her bra, but she won’t reply. Life, for me, continued as usual. I arrive in my apartment early, read my lessons, think about things, about her, about that bastard Nathan who left her, and at some point there arrive at the thought that maybe Liz and Nathan got back together and my status in her life—their lives—went back to its shadowy origin.
Until she called me one Saturday afternoon.
“I’m glad you finally called,” I immediately said.
“I know you didn’t do that,” she replied. “I believe you. I trust you.”
I sighed. “How’ve you been?” I remarked. It was my another way of saying “Have you forgotten about Nathan yet?”
“Fine,” she said in a tone that I couldn’t place. Seconds later, she added: “Do you mind coming over to my place? I just want to talk. My parents are out the whole weekend.”
After we spoke, I sort of thought about everything that has transpired: if this is a movie, is this really my role? Me—the martyr, the beloved shoulder Liz could cry on, until the credits roll and the audience are still snoring. Trouble is, am I really playing my role well? Is this really how the script must go, nothing more than this?
Arriving, she let me in at once, and while eating some adobo with warm rice, she started talking. She told me the reasons why she didn’t want to see me for a while was that she thought of having some time on her own. I just listened, nodding a few times whenever she needed a response from me.
“And I’ve thought about how stupid I’ve been, you know? Drinking and crying, and bothering you…” Liz said, smiling at herself. She paused and then lit a cigarette, and then blew the smoke sideways. “I mean, he’s probably not fussing about it anymore, it’s all over, you know?”
“Well, I’m happy for you,” I replied. “So, no more crying and drinking, huh?”
She laughed. She went to the kitchen and brought out two bottles of beer from the fridge. I was done eating and took a sip from the cold, perspiring bottle. The smoke felt irritating on my nostrils.
Liz and I drank our beer, while talking about other things. She spoke about her dreams after college, of her opinions about certain issues besetting the country, all the while smoking stick after stick of cigarettes, apologizing every time I let out a cough. Finishing the third bottle, her eyes were puffy. I myself feel the nausea setting in. She fell asleep, with her arms as cushion to her head on the table. I shook her, and she raised her head, but her eyes were slightly closed.
I checked my watch. It was ten in the evening. I cleared our bottles, her ash, wiped the table, and noticed that my pace on doing these things were a lot different. The beer’s getting on me. I shook Liz awake, but it seemed she was dizzy. I carried her, wrapping her around my neck, and carried her to her room. There was a stuffed toy on her bed, together with her pillows. I placed the stuffed toy under her bed and noticed a name lazily sewn on its chest: Nathan. I lay Liz on her bed and told her I’m leaving.
“Wha…?” she moaned.
I leaned close to her ear. “I said I’m going to leave.” As I rose, I glanced at her plastic cabinet, and on its top was the framed picture of her and Nathan at some place—some mall, probably. I wonder how many times Liz gazed on this picture every morning, and every night before going to sleep?
“Okay, Nathan, leave,” she replied.
I laughed. “You sleep now, okay? Call me in the morning,” I began walking towards the door.
“Hey,” she called. I looked back and saw her getting up, resting her back on the headboard. “Wait,” her voice was weak. I went to her and sat at the foot of the bed. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’s nothing,” I answered. My head is getting heavy.”
And then—I didn’t see it coming—but her face was suddenly zooming-in on me, and the next thing I knew, her lips were against mine. A few more seconds, and our lips parted. She was barely smiling. “Why don’t we try it out?” she stuttered.
I smiled. “You’re drunk,” I said, with a voice I knew was not mine, for my real voice was saying “Why not?”
“Maybe,” she said. And then she lay back on the bed.