Now I found out why Tata really likes the movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith, which stars Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt [no adjectives before the names of both Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt, take note].
It came out while I sat behind him as he drove down the lush tropical jungle that is our home down to the sweatshop where I earn a living.
The discussion that afternoon had been my approaching exit date from The Shoe Factory.
Oh, I haven’t mentioned it here yet? Silly me, it completely slipped out of my deranged noggin. But, it’s true, avid readers and friendly neighbors. I have — the adverb “again” is appropriate here — resigned from The Shoe Factory.
Date of effectivity: February 16, Year of our Lord Two Thousand and Nine.
Last actual day in the factory: 14th of February. Saint Valentine’s arrow-shooting-straight-to-the-heart-spree day, if you happen to be a closet hopeless romantic just like me.
This business of me coming back again after I was licked the first time is beginning to smell like the suitcase of a battered wife coming back home to an abusive husband who cares zilch if it is this little wifey or another wee woman who cooks breakfast, lunch, dinner, and cocktails for him; washes his smelly clothes; massages his bunioned back; and scrapes the lint off his belly button for him. It is (and will forever seem) like the cycle of DV; it starts with bittersweet gentleness and always ends up with bruised bodies and/or souls and/or half-dead or dead wives mourned naught by unrepentant embarrassing specimens of the male species.
Ah, but I am not a qualified speaker for human/women’s rights. And this introduction has gone way off tangent.
So, back to that afternoon.
The sun was high above the bluest sky; it was near the end of January. Clumps of fleece-white clouds banked on the horizon, right in front of us. A light breeze ruffled the coconut fronds that swayed as if the breeze’s passing tickled them.
A promise of a fine day.
And Ta and I were talking of how to move things forward after The Shoe Factory and of the possibility that one of these days, I might be beyond squeezing distance when nights are cold…. or something to that effect. Because a big part of why I am going out of the factory is that the opportunity to travel to different places had been offered by a friend of the family who lived in Germany. And as I’ve said so in the letter addressed to the ikons of the factory, the [a British accent would do nicely while you read this part] circumstance is something that I cannot allow to pass.
So, there we were, two souls under the blue sky, bonded together by fate and commitment, wondering how to endure. The longest that we had been separated was four months. And now, we were faced with the possibility of not seeing each other for about a couple of years if the chips fell right and the immigration people are happy with my presence in their country.
Then, out of the silence after our sentiments had been voiced, Ta spoke again.
“Openness. It just had to be that.”
Then he continued, “You know, when you can’t even tell your wife stuff that happen in your life, that’s when things start to disintegrate. Just like in that movie. Trust. It’s important. That assassin couple should have known that firsthand.”
That assassin couple he was referring to was Mr. & Mrs. Smith [please look up the synopsis on imdb or wikipedia, if you like. I have no energy to write down the spoiler here]. And that movie he had watched for about half a dozen times with me and perhaps more times over by himself. I thought it was because of Angelina Jolie that he was continually glued to the scenes. But then again, he doesn’t like Tomb Raider, parts 1 and 2.
So, as the afternoon pre-summer sun slanted toward the west and as he dropped me off the gates of The Shoe Factory that January afternoon, Ta left me with things to mull over during breaks from work.