I used to feel awkward going to soirees. Coming from an all-boys high school, often the only avenue for interaction with the members of the fairer sex were organized events such as math competitions, school fairs or Saturday afternoon soirees. Being the lanky, insecure, geeky boy that I was, I would feel like a fish out of water, not quite coming to par with my other cooler classmates who wore Ferré pants, Cole Haan shoes, and La Coste shirts. Being a characteristically “A” soiree, furthermore, there would normally be double the number of boys than there would be girls; naturally, those who dared to attend would be drawn to my more normal looking classmates.

And so, after all the inane games have been played, I would often find myself drifting towards the piano, out of sight and in the corner, and I would anonymously begin the opening strains of Stephen Bishop's ubiquitous It Might Be You, or perhaps, some Broadway classic like The Promise or On My Own, or even, if I'm feeling corny, Rick Price's Heaven Knows. Sometimes— and much to my delight— some hapless girl would find her way to my music, and stand beside the piano, to listen.

“Wow, you play pala,” she'd say.

“'Di naman, konti lang,” I'd reply, feigning modesty.

“Play this naman for me,” she'd say, and I would, and she would smile. Got my fix for the day.

On good days, there would even be two or three of them; some would even sit beside me on the piano seat. I'd play a medley of songs, and they would swoon at the opening chords. Looking back now, I know how delightfully sophomoric it was, and my high school classmates would never let me forget it, even up to this day.

But I guess that was me: the ballads and the ivory keys; hopeless romantic that I was, I always had this idea of sitting by the piano, and crooning to that special girl the words I could not exactly tell her straight, face to face. Like in the movies. Like in the daydreams in my head.

Kapag narito ka, gumaganda.
Kapag narito ka, lumiligaya.
Totoo bang nararamdaman ng puso ko?
Hindi ko alam, sana.

One of the songs I played often then was Could You Be My Number Two, only because I found the melody haunting enough to play on the piano. The introduction's rhythmic repetition of the three black keys in E-flat, changing bases from A-Flat to C-sharp and then to C, evoked a melancholy that, I felt, was tired yet compelling. So much did I like the song that I even told a friend that it would be one of the songs I would sing to that special girl, as I lived through that piano fantasy of mine.

“Gago ka ba!” he told me. “Kantahan mo yung girl ng Could You Be My Number Two, tinganan natin kung hindi ka sampalin n'on!”

For a while, I was puzzled at his reaction, but then, listening to the song again on the radio (it used to be played often enough, then) I understood what he meant. I agreed with him. Following the conclusion of Number One, who would want to be Number Two? Strike that from my girlfriend-fantasy piano playlist, I thought.

Almost eight years after high school, however, living through enough drama, heartache, complications and disappointments; hurting people I love and being hurt by them, also; witnessing enough break-ups and assisting in cases of annulment; watching broken people fall in love with other broken people, lost yet still trying; I find myself playing the song once again on the piano— playing it often, in fact— and understanding a little bit more of what the lyrics mean.

Indeed, I understand why the song is not exactly the most perfect of songs to define a relationship, but still, what draws me to it is the fact that the emotion it captures is real. More importantly, it is human, and therefore, flawed but beautiful. I'm tired and I am broken, but I want to love you. I'll try to make it work, if you'll let me. W.H. Auden captures it beautifully in the beginning of his poem, Lullaby, where he writes:

Lay your sleeping head, my Love,
human upon my faithless arms.