I had a very early flight to Bicol today, and I opted to take a cab straight to the airport. I prefer to have peace and quiet when it's too early in the morning. However, the cab driver I got had other ideas. He was the talkative type who asks where your province is and how old you are blah blah blah, which is hard enough to deal with during the day. But at 4 a.m., it kind of makes you want to go insane.
But the street lights were still on and everything had a yellowish silent glow and I decided I was up for it. Game.
So I answered his questions as truthfully as I believe is safe (in case he's a stalker or the front of a thieving gang) up to the point when he asked where my parents are. That's when I found myself answering "At home. Sleeping."
Although I love writing fiction, it rarely crosses over to my real life. I do my best to keep fabrication out of my day-to-day encounters. So much simpler and easier to remember that way. This morning though, i decided to weave a story which is not necessarily false --- somewhere inside me, I believe it's true.
So I decided to become the chatty chitty myself. I told him where they are working and how yesterday my dad saw the same accident the driver saw. That my mum gets nervous when there are people crossing the street and how she reminds me everyday to never cross commonwealth at all costs.
Mundane, everyday things that I took for granted back then.
When I got off the cab, the driver told me to give my regards to my family and told me how lucky I am that we are so close.
Well... that's still true despite the reality gap imposed by death, so I decided to just smile, say thanks and close the door softly lest it disturbs the shimmering happy leypath of the stories I just told.