By CHRIS S. AGRAVA

There is an art to it, really–the way with which we try to ignore old acquaintances whose names we could not remember or former classmates whose names we never really bothered asking. Lately, everybody I used to know seems to be always walking towards me or hanging out in corridors I regularly visit. When I’m going down the stairs, they’re on their way up; when I’m exiting a classroom, they’re about to enter. There’s always that inescapable eye-contact and that awkward shifting of the head to look towards another subject–a glance on your watch or a sudden interest on the floor tiles of the building.

Some people have always been familiarly anonymous to me. That’s why I’m currently learning to develop the skill of avoiding encounters with the least degree of awkwardness. You need to know whose presence would merit a slight nod, a brief negligible smile, or a “kumusta” pronounced more as a greeting than a question. Always remember why you forgot–who they were, where you supposedly met, or what you both went through.

Some specters, however, tend to be persistent. These past few days, this person keeps crossing my path, as if it was a premeditated encounter, similar to how assassins stalk their prey. I knew her from two years ago. She was my “buddy” during one of “those rallies.” Those were the times when I felt invincible–a time when I can still scoff at every prospect of finishing my studies and fulfilling my father’s frustrations. Even time can’t seem to catch up with me. I left burning trails and threw my fists in the air, as if making some sort of pact with some unknowable force.

I asked her for a smoke two years ago. We sat on the curb of a supposedly busy street, an audience of the flurry of red flags and disenchanted bodies. But we were not paying attention. My eyes were on her hands, on her mouth, on the traces of smoke she exhaled. I’d like to think that her eyes were also fixed on me.

We asked for each other’s number. At home, we exchanged subtle text messages. We met over coffee a few times. And as these things go, one thing led to another–a kiss and a refusal to dare take things further. I asked her why. She said she knew that I was set to leave the country in a few months.

I knew we were bound to cross paths that day along the academic oval. There was no slight gesture that could bail me out from that. In a surge of panic, I took out my phone and pretended I was texting someone as she drew near. We crossed paths without the slightest encounter. ●

Published in print in the Collegian’s July 5, 2007 issue with the title “Close Encounters.”