The scene was subdued that afternoon in the library. Books spread before her like fallen leaves; She looked like an apparition—a vision of faerie—in the sunlight being thrown through the windows like transparent waterfalls. Her black hair, starkly imposed upon her pale face blew this way and that depending on the oscillating fan near the table. She would occasionally lift a hand to tuck a few strands behind her ear, an act she mostly did from force of habit and the glow from her nimble, delicate hands would suffice to light up a small part of his face like the moon attracting tides—and with just the same amount of force.

            He was sitting right across her pretending to read a novel—two navels—and yet failing miserably to convey his disinterest. Pausing every once in a while, every paragraph or so, he would lift his eyes to the level of hers (always down towards those books) in an attempt to catch her gaze. In reality, he was petrified to gaze into those almond shaped, dark brown eyes her short eyebrows for fear of losing himself entirely, like one falling into a well of which there is no escape. Just a glance, he mumbled to himself (his foot continuously tapping the floor to steady nerves and to make a link to the ground, which is essential lest he finds that he has already taken flight and is gently floating around the clouds) and I would…I would be uh…and in that instant she looked up, he blushed instantaneously and with all the finesse of an elephant running a tightrope, looked down at the book and loudly riffled the pages as if it was the most ordinary thing to do in the universe at that instant.

            Of course she caught him looking at her. She knew it already seconds after they sat on opposite sides along the length of the table. She, taking a few seconds of relief from eyestrain, would see his furtive glances in the corner of her eye and yet, did not do anything. After all, what would be the use? And had she reacted, what then? He would maybe just deny it and she would feel the tiniest bit of foolishness at herself for even considering it. So like a cat toying with a mouse, she watched him sneak glance upon glance, with the frequency and length increasing with every succeeding one, like the mouse moving closer and closer to the cheese.

            A few minutes of Pepe Monson later, he felt sufficiently calm again to sneak looks once again. Now, with all the caution of a spy, he looked and committed to memory his visions of her—her hands, her shoulders, the delicate neck, her hair, her lip, those slightly red cheeks, taking care not to look directly at those eyes again. He sighed a little sigh of relief and yet he knew that sooner or later he would have to answer to his actions and that, he knew, his reaction either would spell doom or would grant him the sweetness of her smile depending on how she receives it. The sun was on its last quarter on its sky journey when he looked out the window across the table to the expanse of forest and he felt something stir inside him…

            I first came here when I was just a sophomore. My cousin, in one of our family reunions, mentioned something about his org, UP ICTUS. Over a few warm beers while sitting on wooden benches at the beach, he described to me a group of people who were great to hang with. We do community service, he said. We visit hospitals. At first I was apprehensive about joining: I was young for my level and even though I was kinda looking for a tambayan and an org of my own, my inherent shyness prevented me from joining one. I imagined all sorts of nasty stuff about being humiliated as an applicant: people won’t like me, I won’t fit it, that they would hit me with paddles, run around naked etc., those sorts of things. My cousin just laughed at me, gulped down his San Miguel and said, like it was the simplest thing: “Maraming chicks dun.” I went two days later.

            It was raining that afternoon I took an Ikot jeep to the Shopping Center to go to the tambayan for the first time. Walking to the gates of the parish compound, I already heard quite a number of voices even from afar. The noise came from a small house made from 2x2s and unpainted tin sheets. There were a lot of umbrellas in the front. Could this be it? I walked closer and as I came nearer and nearer, I began to question what my high school teachers said about matter and space.

            “Is this the Ictus tambayan?” I asked.

            A senior looking guy standing by the door confirmed that I was at the right place. He motioned me to come in and to make myself comfortable. I got out of the rain but I might as well have been outside. The noise generated by the people inside was incredible! It was like being in the middle of a rock concert, and yes, complete with music. Looking around the small area, I realize that there are so many people that some actually can’t sit down on the numerous benches and had no choice but to stand. Somebody was playing the guitar in a corner while those around him belted out the lyrics. Groups were outdoing each other playing cards on every flat and available space inside the ‘house.’ Seeing that I was new, some said hi, some asked questions about my cousin. I answered their questions satisfactorily I think, because the next thing I knew, I was playing 123 pass with the larger of the groups playing cards.

            The rain was still going on outside but it was hot inside the tambayan. I don’t know if it was the rain or sweat that was responsible for my soaked shirt but I didn’t mind at all. In between games, as the loser was shuffling the cards, I noticed all the names written on the walls. They were all different in writing, different in color and font. There must be hundreds of names written between these four walls. Soon enough, after letting my eyes wander around the scene, another game was being made ready and I had to turn away.

            After about an hour or so, the rain stopped and everyone was free to wander around. Except that they did not. It was a rainy weekday and even if everyone must have been busy, they all seemed to me like they were in a beach somewhere baking under the sun. The roof was leaking, the floor muddy, it was hot and humid after the downpour but as it was, the names on the walls were like binding contracts.

It was if they supported the hut itself.

The first time I saw her, she looked at me like she knew she owned me. I wish there was another way to describe that look but I would be hard pressed to find one. And well, in light of recent events, I would say that my initial description has remained faithful and I have long learned not to mess with things that has already been proven to be true. Anyway, Dana looked at me as I entered the classroom that day like I was her servant.

I remember I was excited waking up that Monday because at long last, I was going to have the chance to learn the piano after all those years of pretending. I would let my stiff, little fingers wander around the keys the way I watched in Casablanca and soon enough, by the time I was in 6th grade, I had deluded myself into believing that I am a virtuoso. It was just recently that I learned what that movie was all about but maybe I would dive into that another time. I played a piece of Bach, the one the garbage trucks in Manila play while they are backing up, in our CD player as I took a bath. My fingers, all soapy and wet, I wiggled around to the music. After getting ready and eating breakfast, I took the train to campus with the garbage piece still playing in my head.

So. I entered the room and immediately, everyone looked at me. I was late of course, so it must have been that, but I had this weird feeling in my gut, like someone was staring at me. I know everyone was looking but I could tell, it was different. She was sitting at the front and center aisle seat and she looked like she had just seen a miracle. Her hair fell like a black river down her shoulders and her skin seemed pale, unhealthy almost, like she just came out of the hospital. She was wearing brown pants and a plain white top, that even I could tell was expensive. She flashed me a smile like a ray of light through a glass of water and I felt drawn to sit beside her. That I did and that i'm regretting now.

It was weird learning piano. Or maybe because I thought that I was going to be a genius at it, and when the time came (it came early) that I didn't have a clue on how to play, how to read the notes, I was unpleasantly surprised. At the end of the third lesson, the notes and symbols were already swimming in my dreams. Dreams where the big circle notes (whole notes) ate the smaller block notes with little tails (the eight and sixteenth notes), while all the lines waved like well, uh, waves. Dana, my seatmate turned out to be real nice, so nice in fact that on her way to be the teacher's pet, she actually took me along with her as her jester. She didn't have any trouble at all with the lessons. I think that she just pretended to be piano illiterate in order to have something to do this summer. The room we had was air-conditioned, the seats were comfortable and there was the opportunity to gain friends and servants (like me). I know some people who would fake a broken leg just to get classrooms at the first floor to avoid climbing the stairs.

She would always tell me stories of back home, which was in the south, a place in Mindanao, but she wouldn't say exactly where. She said they were a family of farmers although, judging by her designer outfits, I was more inclined to think that they were hacienderos or something, which was way different from what most would think when you say you came from a family of farmers. Anyway, she told me of times in the fields, playing with the other children among the taro fields, and lying down in a hammock to sleep under the shade to pass away the siesta hours. Her definition of the siesta hours included half of the morning and most of the afternoon. All this story telling happened while I was trying to learn the difference between the G and F keys. She was nice really. She was thoughtful and sensitive and she was not snobbish or anything like that. She brought cookies she baked for our snack and she would sometimes bring sandwiches for lunch. And by God, how she loved her pearl shakes. Mocha, Caffe Latte, Cappucino, Watermelon, Peach, Mango, Ube, Halo-halo. She drank all the flavors and she would add for extra portions of the taro pearls they put in the shakes. "Reminds me of home," she said to me once while we were at the mall, trying to escape from the heat.

The classes went on and suddenly, I was faced with the realization that I was never going to be good enough to play for the movies. Or in any public perfomance for that matter. With the sessions ending fast, things began going downhill. Well for me and soon, another person, at least.

After our second to last recital, Dana and I went out to the nearest mall again. It was kinda weird to be with her that day because she was moody and irritable and that pale face of hers was even paler than before. Her hair had a slackness to it that added to my impression that she didn't have much sleep nights before. I mentioned this to her and with a weak smile she said, "I never sleep." I looked at her, my right eyebrow raised, but she dismissed it with a laugh and headed on to Zagu for a Mango Parfait grande with extra pearl. "Did you know I was vegetarian?" she asked, a mischievous grin on her mouth. I said no, you don't look like one. You look out of it, though, what's up with you? She looked at me then the way she looked at me the first day of piano class. I felt like I couldn't move and that I would die if broke contact from her eyes. It wasn't dreadful and yet it wasn't pleasant either. I just froze up and well, I was dazzled by the beauty of her face--a face that looked like a cherub carved out of marble. An angel with a straw in its mouth.

For our final project, we were assigned to pick three group mates and come up with a presentation using what we learned. Since Dana and I were already buddies, all we needed was another group mate. It didn't take her long to fish one guy out, for three reasons: 1. She was the darling of the class and the best pianist of all of us. 2. She was beautiful and all the guys were oggling her all the time (at the same time throwing dagger looks at me for obvious reason). and 3. The guy didn't have anybody else. He was the odd man out. So there we were: Dana, Me, and Rey. Rey, like I said, was the odd man out and in many ways than one. He dressed horribly, with ill-fitting jeans and he always wore plaid polos that would've looked good and decent enough on everybody else but by virtue of him being always out of place, always looked mismatched and well uh, old. He was also skinny as hell. Sometimes I would dodge his elbow as we walked for fear of being disemboweled. In contrast to him, my own skinny build looked healthy, my clothes nicely put together and my hair, combed and shampooed. In other words, I didn't want him anywhere near Dana.

We worked on the presentation for about a week until we grew tired of it and decided to just shotgun the whole thing, dismissing all the we have worked on until then. It was mostly because of Rey's shabby ideas (yes, his ideas were just as shabby as he was). With the group meetings over, I figured Dana and I would continue on doing what we were doing before but that was not the case. Our mall trips and pearl shake dates became less frequent and she became more and more quiet. At the same time though, she was looking more and more beautiful. She became less pale and more, it seemed to me, alive. Meanwhile, I had more practice time and well, I had Bach's garbage song down pat before the final recital.

The day of our presentation, Rey was dressed impeccably. He wasn't shabby Rey anymore and seemed to have got a sense of himself and some confidence. He spoke forcefully yet with eloquence and I, on retrospect, had performed poorly. I stammered and I betrayed the fact that I'm just a junior rather than the piano virtuoso I was pretending to be. Dana was Juno herself. She radiated with a presence unmatched by any of our classmates and her words seemed to be secure in knowing that she was the queen of the gods, second only to Jove, master of thunder.

Wearing a long black dress, her skin appeared almost translucent like china.

The presentation over, I walked over to Dana and gave her a hug. I shook Rey's hand then I headed out the door. Everyone had left and I was already near the building exit when I realized that I was being followed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I quickened my pace. I had this feeling that somebody was staring at me and well, it was paralyzing. The night outside was like a blanket--thick and suffocating. There was no wind and there were no stars. The silence around me was broken by a familiar voice.

"You're in a hurry."

I turned around and I saw Dana. I almost smiled but then I checked myself when I saw Rey standing right behind her. "Let's celebrate first." she said, her eyes inviting. "You wouldn't mind, would you, Sam?" I was too pleasantly surprised to say no and so I let her lead me, her hand clutching at my elbow. We went back to our classroom and it was exciting to see that they had a bottle of wine chilling in a small cooler, ready to be served. There were a few plastic cups there and I remember thinking that it really was the height of cool when you're in college, inside a classroom at night and drinking red wine in plastic cups.

"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?"

It was then that I knew it was her plan. It was her celebration. I looked at her and there it was again, that look of owning. I smiled at her and I felt an understanding pass between us. Rey seemed out of this room. Out of this world even. It was like he didn't matter. Dana then took her seat on the piano. As she started playing, all I could think of was that even if I couldn't play the piano like that, it would be enough just to hear her playing. The melody and the notes seemed to filter from the piano into the air, into the body and into the air again. Her hands were hypnotizing to watch. They were small and nimble and fast and slow at the same time. She ended the piece and we all stared at the bottle of wine. Rey then took out those little red swiss knives and began to twist into the cork. Dana looked excited and she smacked her crimson lips wih delight. Rey pulled the cork and the cork split. The corkscrew cut Rey's hand, between the index and the thumb of the left hand.

"Oh! Did you hurt yourself? Let me take care of that for you," she said. She walked over to him and then the night grew darker, definitely darker, in my eyes.

She walked over to him, looked at his bleeding hand then kissed it the way mothers do to the wounds of their children. And then she started to lick the blood flowing there ever so softly. She looked at her prey and then at me. What I saw in those eyes, I was ready for and once again I felt the understanding bind us. I saw again in my mind's eye her pale face, slowly turning pink, her hair as black as death, and her eyes the first time I saw her.

With Rey fading beneath her, I pushed down the cork still remaining into the bottle with my finger and poured myself a glass of the red liquid. I raised Dana a toast, she was almost finished, and everything became clear to me: She was the queen and I am her fool.

Once i gave a bouquet of tulips for a pretty girl who lived in a nearby dorm to my school. She opened the door in short shorts that looked as if it has seen better days and a big, loose white t-shirt that looked like it really had seen better days. It had a print of a teddy bear holding a mug of coffee with the words, 'This cup is bear-y hot' on it. I mumbled a few words and she took the flowers i held in my hand like she was going to eat it. I've given a lot of flowers in my young life and it's the first time that somebody actually looked hungry for a few buds. I mean, flowers are pretty and all, but it's not like it'll taste good boiled and served with bagoong alamang. After she got the bundle, she smiled sweetly, eyeing my clothes--a red Dashboard Confessional shirt, black denims and Islander slippers--then thanked me in a way that made me think that even though it's La Nina in the summer and people are hiding inside airconditioned rooms the way lizards scurry under big rocks to cool themselves, only I, with my bundle of over priced leaves in sinamay wrapping, have made her day.

I am Jon and i deliver flowers.

The other day, i came to my Kasaysayan 1 class thirty minutes late, to deliver three roses to an middle aged Maths professor in the campus. The roses were from her daughter, a belated happy birthday sort of thing. I think people looked at me weird in the math department's faculty room. Here i was, a sophomore student, skinny as hell, with red roses for a professor. They must have thought i was failing a subject and was trying, unsuccessfully to bribe my way into a 3.0. Three roses for a grade of three. Well, i would say that that was a reasonable deal but judging from the look on Mrs. Santos' face, it was clear that the belated part of the belated happy birthday sort of thing was unwelcome. She took the package from me, slammed it into her desk full of blue books and other papers. Great choice of a paperweight, i think.

I used to work part time as a barista in the coffee shop in the more trendy part of the neighborhood. The pay was good, the shop was cool, but it became too hectic for me so i bowed out of it, threw the towel, so to speak. Now, i kinda miss the music and the coffee there, but when i think of the other things, i think i still made the right decision. Anyway, I'm taking up Art Studies and i work part time. So far, i'm liking this flower delivery stint. Less pay, but the work is more..uh..rewarding. Plus i get to ride my bike around the place.

I've had varied responses from people since i started being the bearer of floral messages. Some girls, you really feel their joy receiving them. It's like all of a sudden, they're celebrating their birthdays (although some of them are) and you're the clown who's bringing the laughs to the party. There was a memorable girl who actually kissed me because she was so happy. It was just on the cheek but for a split second, i felt like i was her boyfriend. I know it's weird but it just happens. One minute you're standing in front of their doors feeling anxious or hungry (which happens more than the former), then they open the door and it's entirely different.

There's this one girl who lived in one of the villages around campus for whom i brought three dozen roses, which, i would later learn was from a suitor, who actually remembered me from my days making expensive coffee. I stood in front of their huge white gate all sweaty because it was a really stifling day and i had to ride my bike a million kilometers to their house and actually getting lost once before i finally found the address. These darn houses in these posh villages are so far apart! Ringing the doorbell, their dogs started making a row over who was to sink his teeth in my leg first and i stepped back on instinct until somebody opened the gate. The flowers were real heavy and it was still middle of the desert hot so i was getting impatient for somebody to finally relieve me of my burden. She opened the gate and peeked outside and when she noticed me, she beckoned me with a slight wave of the hand.

I said, "Delivery for Sarah" then she said, "That's me!" so i pushed her the clipboard i always carried for receiving and i said, "Right there." She took the pen i kept attached to the clipboard by a piece of yarn taped to the end and put down her signature. Or at least, tried to. My pen wasn't working.

"Sorry," i fidgeted for an extra pen but i didn't find any.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. I took my bag from which i extracted a fistful of pens. She was trying not to laugh by now, i could see her short hair, the style i always associated with athletic girls, shaking a little. It was then that i first noticed that she bit her lips, a detail that i would find endearing as i began to spend time with her.

"Yeah, uh...could you just wait a minute?" I hastily tried each of the pens to find a working one.

"I'm really sorry." She began to sniff at the roses and toyed with the petals. By the time she was reading the note, i exhausted my supply of pens and not a single one was working.

"Uh..." i stammered.

"You need a pen?" Her right eyebrow was raised playfully. "Ha ha! I'll be right back." She was gone and i was left standing in the heat with dozens of roses slowly wilting in the sun and pens without ink, not really minding anything, waiting for the white gate to open for the second time.

Delivering flowers isn't a tough job, really. Ma'am Ana is nice to me and she sometimes puts out snacks for me when i study in her shop. I work at the shop during my vacant hours. Sometimes in the mornings and every afternoon. Ma'am usually just writes down the addresses on a sheet of paper she puts in the shop's corkboard and underneath it is the big container for the already arranged flowers that needs to be delivered. I load them in my bike's carrier and i make my round. After that i just do my school stuff in the shop until a call comes in, which is fairly constant actually. Aside from the usual occasions, Valentines and the like, people actually give flowers every day of the week. They give flowers for no reason at all.

I delivered more flowers to Sarah's doorstep after the first one. She turned out to be quite popular and a lot of suitors would give her stuff or ask her out. There were days when i saw her many times in a single day. On a particular day, i delivered two bouquets of tulips, three of stargazers, and three of roses. It was Sarah's birthday.

She told me this on my last delivery to her house. I asked her why the sudden flood of flowers and she said nonchalantly, like it was just a normal thing, "It's my birthday today." That's nice i said. Happy birthday. Sign over here.

"You're nice Jon." she said. I smiled and put the clipboard back to my carrier. Then i did something that i wouldn't have done normally. Something that i wouldn't even think of doing. I said, "Wait a minute." I took my favorite book, a leather bound Peter Pan book and i handed it over to her. "Here, happy birthday." she looked stunned, i think. She certainly didn't expect it.

"I'm only lending it to you so don't look so pleased. Ha ha!" I don't know what's come over me. What was i doing?

"Uh..thanks. Thanks a lot." she said. "I promise to take good care of it."

She didn't bite her lip a single time the tiem i was there. She was using it for smiling.

For sometime, i didn't deliver any flowers to Sarah's house. I delivered to all my usual places though. Everything was the same except Sarah's house wasn't on my round. I began to think that she might have found someone who brought her flowers to her directly. I imagined that she'll look like the girl who kissed me once on the cheek out of joy only this time, it won't be a delivery boy she'll be kissing. Or maybe she'll be like the girl who looked like she ate flowers. Or worse, she might have moved to another house, far away. So i thought, maybe i'll get back my book and maybe catch up on her. After all, even if we weren't really friends, we kind of exchanged conversations once in a while, and i think we were a notch higher than just mere acquaintances.

I went to her house, bringing a bouquet of my own--a mix of all the flowers in the shop. Actually, Ma'am Ana arranged one of each kind and said that i give it to her, just for the heck of it. Besides, she said, no one has ever thought of buying a bunch with everything on it. I rode fast and I got there just as the sun was about to set. I finished my rounds first of course, business first before anything else. Knocking on their gate, i had the same feeling that i felt with every door, that mixture of anxiety and nervousness. I was hungry kind of, but it was the kind of hunger that's easy to ignore.

She opened the gate and beckoned at me again, the way she did the first time I went here.

"What're you doing here? Another delivery?"

"Well, kind of. Here." I handed her my bouquet.

"This is nice...it's uh..unique." She looked it over then said, "Where's the note?"

"None. No note this time." I felt like I just biked my way three times around Quezon City. "It's from me."

My remark was met with silence so I decided to just go on with it.

"I haven't seen you in a while so I figured you're not getting enough of your usual floral dose." Floral dose? What the hell am I saying?

She was still silent so I said, "Some sign of life would be great just about now...ha ha..."

Looking down, she suddenly looked at me. There was a thin smile forming at the corners of her mouth. Or was it a frown? In front of their house, standing in front of their gate, with the young night enveloping us and the few stars visible were slowly making their presence known, she started to speak:

"The first time I saw you in the coffee shop, I thought you were cute. Now I know you are. You're also nice, sensitive, you're serious about what you do. I appreciate that. When you left there, I thought that I wouldn't see you again. But then you started to deliver my flowers." She paused. Laughed a little. "You think i'm weird don't you? ha ha! Well, I guess I am."

"You don't have to say anything else." I walked over to her and took her hand in mine. We looked at each other and I guess, i could only say that, working with flowers as long as I have, it was just in that moment that i understood it at all, the way some moments change everything. I understood everything about the delicate petals, the fragrant smell, the colorful wrappings and why, when dealing with abstract feelings and such, flowers fill in where words fail. Words didn't fail us this time though, because soon after, I heard what must be the funniest, most hopeful words i've heard in quite a while.

"I'm more of a book person, actually." Sarah said as she leaned closer to me.

I am Jon and I love delivering flowers.

She says she’s starting a project and that I would take no part of it. I would be just a shadow. I would be someone unknown. I said that I was fine with it although deep inside, I knew all along that I was jealous of her paintbrushes. I was jealous of her writings. She did them all with the air of a child playing with her favorite doll—comfortable and without hesitation. I often wondered how someone so ordinary could be so talented. Once, I asked her this question and she just smirked at me. ‘And what is it to you?’ she said. I never asked her again.

                One day, she surprised me with a crayon sketch of myself. It was done in long playful strokes and all the colors were there, mixing and folding into one another into a bizarre rainbow of my face, looking straight into some distant point, my almond eyes squinting ever so slightly along with my bushy eyebrows. In the picture, I was serious and yet betraying a certain mischievous character that she concluded must be my core personality. In honor of this assertion, she drew my face into a page of coupon bond, frayed at the edges, and, if someone looked closely, had the markings of another picture, before being erased.

                “You could’ve used a fresh sheet of paper, you know?” was all I could say.

             She called me up just last week, ‘to check up on things.’ She asked all the trivial questions people use to be updated on someone’s life at an exact moment. How are you? How’s your job? What’s new? Did I disturb you by calling? Do you still remember me? I was not in the mood for talking but I could not bear to give her the cold shoulder. After all, she was the one who called, and well I, I had a feeling about her voice from the moment she said hello. I’m fine, I said. My second book will be published in a month. I now wear a goatee, and no, you did not disturb me by calling. In fact, I had been waiting for the time when my phone rang and it was her on the other line, wanting reminiscing about old times and hoping things could’ve worked out right, that you and me might possibly be on a beach, talking about literature while sipping some strong beer. No, you didn’t disturb was all I could say, to tell the truth.

                She said that she was in a sentimental mood over the past week and well, even though I must be busy with my book being published and all (Really? That’s great! I’m going to buy one, so sign it okay?), would I be willing to blow a couple of hours in a restaurant or maybe just walk around the park we used to go to? I listened to the silence on the line before she spoke again. “Hey,” she said. “It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

                What else was I supposed to do?

                It was during this meeting, at this quirky place in Quezon City, that she told me of her project. After the necessary niceties and small talk (she had perfect manners), she ordered our drinks and dived squarely into the subject.

                She said that she never really wanted to pursue whatever it was (up till then she didn’t tell me), that she just kept the thing away under lock and key, never to be opened until the day she couldn’t chew her own food. It was her favorite expression. She would, for instance, cough up the line whenever I asked her when she planned to change colors and switch over to support my favorite basketball team instead of the one she supported who has just about the same success rate as someone trying to make a hole in one. I would say, “Admit it! Your team is the punching bag of the entire league” and she would say, “…at least we’re resilient.” Now, as I looked upon those deceivingly strong features—high cheekbones, slightly squinting eyes with delicately long eyelashes, and a smile that formed a perfect crescent (on its back) on top of a square chin—I was reminded of how she would look after her team lost after a well fought game: she would grin like losing was the most natural thing in the world, act like nothing happened but silently mumbling to herself how close they came to winning. And then I would notice a slight wavering in her gaze, like she’s trying hard, in her very gut, not to cry. Not to look hopeless. Not to look defeated.

                The waitress came over with our drinks, black coffee for me, iced tea for her, and well, we talked. We talked about college, about graduation. We exchanged stories about acquaintances and what were they doing now. Who married whom and who are still on the market. She referred to her project every once in a while, never really saying what it was and how I was supposed to stay away and yet be involved. It was pretty confusing if you weren’t used to her. She would suddenly come up with a remark like “yeah, I could use that for the thing. You know? Hhmmm…I have to think about it. But how is dear old miss taking it?”

                After almost an hour of this, I could make up a mental image of what she wanted to do. This was our system after all. This was our game. She always started out with something vague. Something she would be shy about at first but gradually faded out to a playful hinting at what was it she really wanted to say. After a few years of playing, I had become pretty good at it. Sometimes knowing what she wanted to express before she could even hint at the second clue. Although a little rusty (I haven’t seen her in a while of course), I was confident with what I came up with. Her project consisted of gathering a variety of things—a collection—of mementoes that she would get from everyone that has made an impact on her life. Well, anything at all for that matter. She wanted to paint a picture, make a collage on the world according to Yumi. And I think, as I think about it now, that for all the things she said about me not helping, what she really wanted was to share this with me. I never realized until not too long ago that with all the noise and the laughter and the friendly banter, she really was shy when I was around.

                I met Yumi at a writing class I took up in a bid to further my beginnings of writing for our school organ and to see if there was something there. A mutual friend introduced us to each other and confirming to what I usually did back then, forgot all about the girl with er…the girl with the long eyelashes. I always felt awkward (I still do, in fact) meeting new people. I never knew what to say and when I do speak up, I mess things up by saying something obvious. Something no one would say in any conversation, especially when you’re just being introduced. Once, I made the mistake of saying to someone “Hey, did you get enough sleep? You like kind of haggard.” My victim was not sure what to do, so she looked at me with reproachful eyes and retorted: “Sorry! While some of us just bum around and write whatever, there are some who actually study!” she walked away from me and well, let’s just say we never reached the point where mere acquaintances become friends. It was the same with Yumi.

                During the course of the semester, we would occasionally be able to talk, not in the friendly, amorous way of some people but rather, we talked like there was this great distance between us and when we spoke, it felt like we were doing so out of respect and because we knew each other’s names.

                Gradually, our little conversations took on a more real feel to it. By the time our final piece to be written came along, we would let each other read each other’s manuscripts. It’s amazing how small talk can accumulate until you can finally keep up with someone, talk with them, and share their ideas with them. Although most of what interacts between two people is only on the surface, I say the best way of building a mine to haul up whatever riches lies beneath, is to start on the surface. Before the semester ended, we were close friends and would remain so up until I made the mistake of falling for her.

                I don’t know how to explain it but I suddenly looked at her in a different way. This may all seem stereotypical, and I really think it is, but to describe what happened to me whenever she was around, though it has been put forth in a million songs and poems, is still as unique as when Adam first described what he felt for Eve. Common, everyday words feel like clay in Michelangelo’s hands, phrases like paint for Da Vinci’s brushes.   My best line for what she did to me had always been ‘I saw a hundred shades of gray in a single drop of rain.’

                She was talented. She painted, she sang, she could wiggle her ears voluntarily, the way some people wiggled their nostrils. She wrote serious work about important things, the kind of essays that could win you trips to foreign lands or maybe even in a magazine for politicians, works with titles like “The Current Socio-Political Influence of the Upper Middle Class and its Effects on the Status Quo,” “Impeachment, When to do it and when to not do it,” and if she was feeling quite nicely, she would lighten her critical pen and write something like “How OFWs Should Spend Their Free Time.” With all her seriousness though, she was a remarkably silly girl. She was a walking contradiction if ever there was one. Once, she wrote a tongue-in-cheek account of a friend’s dating habits where she detailed her friend’s style, his pick-up lines, even his chosen clothes for looking all suave and slick just to impress a girl. It was entitled “I’m Not Myself When I’m With You.” The day she changed, in my eyes, from the girl with the long eyelashes to the girl with the eyes I gladly would’ve drowned in came a few months after we first met. Up to now I don’t know the exact moment when it happened. And I wouldn’t dream of pinpointing this change to a single event. I guess i am just grateful that it did.

                It is perhaps a little uncalled for, to be thinking of these events once again while sitting directly across the one who caused it all. How many years has it been? Reminiscing about what had happened just made me feel like I had a toothache and my jaw was numb.

                She continued on the details of her project, listing off the things that she said she needed, the ones I was supposed to help her gather. I said, “If you didn’t want me to interfere, then why should I help you hunt down trinkets and other knick knacks? I thought I was to take no part in this at all.” I regretted having said this the moment it left my mouth. I sensed her tensing up a bit after I took on my defensive air. She sighed, the way professors sigh when their most promising student, the teacher’s pet suddenly revealed himself to be nothing more but a common book worm—someone who just memorizes details and stands by facts like they were the only thing permanent in this world. Her answer came, an annoyance clearly discernable in her tone yet softer and perhaps a little more forceful: “I need you. I need your help with what I want to do. I just don’t want you to interfere with my choices.” It became clear to me then, that she didn’t really need me to do this project; she just wanted me to be there while she finished it. I hated myself for my childishness.

                I was touched by inspiration the midnight after she handed my heart back to me, all those years ago, bruised yet a little tougher. I was struck by lightning in the middle of my delirious stupor: I will write a great something. It was vague and it might seem silly but I believed in it with all of my being. I will write a story, a novel, a play, a poem—anything—and it will be great. It will capture whatever it is that I was trying to say or capture and everyone would be talking about it for years to come. It was conceited, like predicting your own success, but the inspiration felt like it was coming from beyond me. Who was I to refuse? I was merely a pawn, a puppet for whatever it was that destiny had in plan. I vowed then that I would do whatever it I can to fulfill the demand of that moment. And so I wrote.

                She on the other hand, carried on as if nothing had happened. She continued on with her life, her school work, her talents and her hobbies. She took up sports. She went back to nature, which really meant was she made a tour of the best beaches around. Every week saw her doing something that was, well, normal.

                It has been 3 years after college, 7 years since we first met and I guess I could say that we had the best of friendships (which we had) and that we have a mutual respect and admiration for each other (which we did) without sounding the way everyone who says these about themselves—sometimes too limited and too put-up. We had been busy with living, true, but we never forget the people who had as much influence on the directions we would take in life as much as we have on our own. Our collective past wouldn’t have been the same, our histories wouldn’t have been rich the way we knew it to be.

                But I didn’t know that when she said she wanted to travel, that it would be a travel of a different sort entirely. And that the people who you always wanted to be with, maybe some kind of cosmic joke no one laughs about, are the very same people who goes away.

                We left the restaurant and walked out into the rain. She loved the rain but I always said to her, “Everyone loves the rain, whether they say it or not. It’s impossible not to. If people love it for making everything look refreshed, shiny and more vibrant, or the way the drops fall down to the earth, connecting the sky with the ground, then people should also love it for its dark and dismal effects. Making everything look gray and gloomy once in a while provides contrast to everything else. If I wore a gray shirt and you, something bright, people would notice your shirt all the more.”  She would make a face at me by this point and I would raise both my arms, as if to say, “Why bother?”

                We rushed to her car glistening, with drops of water still on our arms and faces. We were breathing faster from the running and felt a little giddy at first. There was nothing but the sound of our breathing and the splatter of rain on the car. I looked at her once more, admiring her cheeks, vibrantly pink from running, and looking like a shiny apple. I took notice of the shape of her eyebrows, the bridge of her nose, the delicate, yet strong smile (it sounds contradictory but I don’t know how else to describe it, it just is). Her hair, rich with curls, clung to her face and her neck as if to smother her completely in a ripple of blackness and a shine of water. Her eyes, still the same, still the same. She had never looked as beautiful as she did then and it was ironic and heartbreakingly sad. Because I finally realized the gravity of what she said to me, the objective of her project and what it meant to her. She was making a collection—her last farewell. Yumi, the one love of my life, told me that rainy afternoon, in our favorite restaurant, over black tea, that she was dying. And that was the sad part. The ironic part was that as I looked at her inside the car, with the rain pounding on the windshield, with her hair clinging to her face as if to swallow her, I knew at that moment that she had loved me as much as I had loved her. I looked at her eyes, the ones that I would’ve been glad to drown myself in, and I imagined that each drop of rain was a tear. It was a deluge of deep sadness. All mine.

                It was Saturday and I decided to invite her for a day out, a break from school and from studying, and a walk (we were juniors then, not quite as naïve, yet not quite jaded with academics).We always took walks. It was lunchtime when we met. She ordered a chicken sandwich, no mayonnaise, and a Caesar’s Salad. I ordered grilled chicken with rice and gravy. We both drank orange juice and as usual, with the both of us, we were already laughing and talking about all sorts of things. She took out her leather bound sketchpad and took out works one by one. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, today’s auction will be for the benefit of The Society of Street Children Without Criminal Backing, also known as The Real Deal,” she said, sounding very much like the an uptight, snobbish auctioneer. I clapped my hands.

                “This first piece, was made by premium quality charcoal on premium quality paper, made by a premium quality artist (or so she says) and features a premium quality sunset landscape. Bidding starts at the premium quality amount of 28 million pesos.”

                We played that game over lunch and she paraded her works at the moment and I played the part of a wealthy billionaire all set on saving the world one auction piece at a time. After lunch, we opted to the bookstore and pretended that we owned every book in the place. We decided to leave when the guard started giving us dagger looks.

                And so we found ourselves walking to her place (which was really far away) and we looked around at people. We did this all the time. We looked at the people passing us by and we would try to guess what the unique thing about that person was. We hunted for quirks at every turn. “That guy,” I would say, “has a collection of Batibot merchandise.” She would counter with “That girl was once a Batibot puppeteer!”

                “…bites only the toenails of her right foot!”

                “…prefers tall, lanky guys!”

                I threw a fastball at her as a guy who obviously worked out ran past as wearing really, really short shorts.

                “That guy orders a cheeseburger meal and extra rice!”

                She looked at me, puzzled all of a sudden. “What?”

                I laughed. “You see, he takes out the burger patty from the burger, eats it with rice. So ends up with a burger steak with rice and a cheese sandwich with drinks and fries.”

                We grew silent after a little while and I was thinking on how to tell her what I felt about her. It was hard with a situation like ours. The only questions that mattered were ‘Is the love strong enough to absorb the friendship, make it as a foundation?’ and ‘Is the friendship strong enough to endure even after love has gone?’ I weighed these questions very carefully as we were nearing her house. As it turns out, I would have help reaching my decision. We were crossing an intersection when she just, she didn’t look, didn’t pay attention. She just walked as if she forgot where she was. I pulled her back in time, before a car went speeding by the spot she was in just a few seconds ago. I was shaken up and I embraced her as tight as I could, a hug that reassured for me that she was still there. She looked at me slowly; like she was being careful not to show any emotion, but as our gaze met I caught the very thing that she was trying to hide. In that intersection, right after she almost got hit by a car, she gave me a look of sadness.

                I told her I had fallen for her that night and by midnight I knew that I was destined to write a great work. I just hadn’t figured out then that the one great thing I would write would be a eulogy—the last part of her project and the one I would be reading at her funeral.

                She was there on the launching of my new book. I was sitting on a table in the middle of the room, signing copies and shaking hands with everybody. She appeared at the door suddenly, as if she materialized out of thin air. I watched her as she took out my book from a shelf and methodically walked over to the back of the line and waited for her turn to get her book signed and for me to shake her hand. Her turn came after a few minutes and she smiled at me, that delicate, strong smile, and I smiled in return. I said, “Thanks for buying my book. To whom do you want me to address the autograph?” She thought briefly, I could see the fleeting moment of concentration on her face (she squinted a little when she did this, and her eyebrows would almost meet) before she said, “Address it to Mayumi. Write I will remember you.”

--i am your prisoner since that day--the knight without armor, nor sword, nor horse. i am the darkness that surrounds your light. for no light can exist without shadow. and no shadow exists without light. no one can live without death.

To Airen

I

no one's happy living in the slums of life. Misery begets misery. loneliness is loneliness. love is hopeless. it kills. oh! how it kills! the parasite that rots flesh, organs and blood has taken root in my blood. it swells in my mind, tears at my heart and devours my soul. i scream and i hurt and all this in silence; the silence of the cloudless, moonless night with no stars, only shadows.

i met you in a perfect day, that sweet november. and i didn't know! i didn't know you would be my death. That you would pain me. you would haunt me. you would defeat me. if only i had known! i would never have come. i would never have listened, never would have received you in, my distraught and aimless existence. but still, time does not pity anyone. as ruthless as a predator hunts his helpless preydoes time brings the chance that i get to glance upon your face, your eyes, your smile. such is the irony that i would fall for you--you who i can never have.

and then before i knew what was happening, i had fallen into your unknowingly placed trap. the manacles bind me to you, it's teeth digging in my leg. my strength is drained. you have captured the prey. there is nothing else to do. anyone care for lunch?

the instance of our first meeting is etched in my mind.

i am your prisoner since that day--the knight without armor, nor sword, nor horse. i am the darkness that surrounds your light. for no light can exist without shadow. and no shadow exists without light. no one can live without death.

ever so slowly, time passes and the cogs of fate begin to turn. all events are recorded; inside time's chest and i aim to nudge one out. poking through the lock, the keyhole called dreams. i use a fragile pole, a stick that is my memory. i try and i fail. i remember and so i forget. how much time has passed? i am exhausted and so i give up. i sit by the proverbial chest and as i was contemplating the means to kill my dreams, one slips out. one very tiny speck of time has shown itself. a grain of sand can tell the story of the universe.

all time is encompassed by a single star. a man can hold the essence of his being in the palm of his hand. a second can change a life.

and that is exactly what you did.

i began to see the beauty in the darkness, the hope in the hopeless. death became my friend and life embraced us both. i had new eyes and new heart. the slums of life wasn't so bad after all. the manacles did not bind nor its teeth bite. there are just shadow between street lights. a single chain looks like a loop. a loop without limits. the parasite was my spirit long forgotten; my soul enters into my hardened shell.

II

a hot summer's day and i am walking under the sun. i am going home but then i pause i look around. i kept on doing this since a long time ago--little glances of hope. i'm never going to see you again. Might as well accept the fact. except that you were there. you really are beautiful. the color of night suits you.

and i approach, slow at first. i look at youand i try to catch a stare; closer and closer, step by step, i hear you breathing, i smell your scent. i walk past you and you didn't notice. you didn't notice.

i try once again. i fake going back and turning around, i look at you once more, with your hair pulled back, a slightly annoyed look painted at your face. i laugh inside. you look cute annoyed.

and i pass by you again. i had enough. i call your name. you turn towards me. i wave a "hi." you smile back. i am the happiest man in the universe.

so how are you?

"a bit annoyed, actually!" you flash the mischievous grin.

we talk. we chat a bit. then i say goodbye. goodbye.

"goodbye."

for the third time i walk pass you again, content with the world. i look back once and you were still there. i look back again and you were gone. pathetic. idealist.

wish you looked back.

i rolled down the window because the air freshener--lemon scent--is making me throw up. my sinuses are already taking a beating with all the dust in the backseat, but perhaps i could find some coins? i wonder if the money in my wallet's going to be enough to cover the fare. i still have your picture there you know. wrapped inside a trading card plastic protector is your high school grad pic. it's amazing how nothing has changed since then, you still have the same nose, the same pair of cheekbones and the same smile--the one i used to stare at whenever you're not looking at me. i planned to put the picture away but i couldn't bear to do it. i'd rather have a glimpse of you everytime i pay for the butterscotch you love so much. remember? i hated those before. i complained that it sticks to my teeth but you wouldn't let me sit with you unless i had some. but it didn't stop there, did it? you forced me to eat a lot of things. until i met you i thought betamax was just the grandfather of DVD, kwek-kwek was some obscure comedian and shawarma was a place in the middle east. this cab driver smells like the vinegar that comes with isaw at the ilang-ilang.

the traffic hasn't moved since twenty minutes ago. maybe if i was two kilometers to your place i'd just jog the remaining distance. i realize though that i have dress shoes on and i'm wearing my best pair of slacks so i guess i'll just have to make that decision when i get there. you pulled me once, i remember, when i couldn't finish two rounds around the oval. i almost had an asthma attack but you didn't care. you had your athlete mode on and you looked like a walking model for adidas. i realized then that you had shapely armas and excellent posture. you had bigger biceps than mine. i wonder if you'll be surprised to know that i joined the fencing team?

it's amazing how much detail you miss the first time. for instance, the seven dwarfs attached to the rear window all have the same faces. the driver has removed one shoe off ad his socks are mismatched. you'd love the radio station he's got on--oldies. how could you love them so much? you had me playing the oldies on my guitar the first time i met you, on our first date, the day you said you coudn't stand me anymore. you couldn't stand my voice, couldn't stand my eccentricities, couldn't stand the fact that my being always there for you made you feel guilty. you couldn't stand that i made you believe in yourself again, made you take up voice lessons even if you can't sing for shit, pushed you to get the job you've always wanted. you couldn't stand it when i told you that i'd be leaving for two years to study.

the cab just passed by the bottle neck. there was a car accident near the intersection. i wonder, will you be surprised to see me? or would you even recognize me? i wear my hair long now you see, not unlike the last time we met at our favorite chinese fast food. i wear glasses now as well. besides, i'm not the skinny guy you used to push around. i have a gift for you. it's my first book and it's about you. the policeman was talking to the drivers involved in the accident and they seem to have lost their edge. i could hear what they're saying through my open window. something about speeding and not signalling. i smell unleaded gasoline wafting through the air and the policeman's saying to the drivers:

'patch things up.'

THREE WEEKS. IT’S been exactly three weeks and the shoe is still there. I wonder, does anybody else notice the shoe hanging off a tree on the side of the circumferential road? There it is still, swaying with the acacia, tied to a branch with one shoelace, a shoe so frayed, so battered, so utterly beat up that it has two holes—one on top, one at the bottom, a shoe (now that I look more closely) without a sole.

            It hung pretty low too, with its red color getting darker, turning into black with each passing day.

            I wonder. I wonder what the owner of the shoe is like. Where did he get that pair? Maybe somebody gave it to him, a present perhaps on a birthday, his mother gibing him a package wrapped with last Christmas’ gift wrapper—still with marks where the tape were very carefully removed—over pancit guisado and Ritchie orange juice. Or maybe he bought it with two weeks’ salary off a stall in Ever or Cubao where they sell cheap Nike knockoffs as well as thirty minute designer perfume.

            Come to think of it, it’s not really out in the open. The acacia’s leaves block the shoe. You’ll have to strain your eyes a little and tilt your head a certain angle before you can see it. After seeing it though, you might dismiss it from your thoughts immediately. Just another prank perhaps, somewhere, a kid might be crying over the loss of one of his shoes, and another one might be laughing his head off.

But the shoe has a story to tell.

I wonder if nobody notices other shoes hung off other trees, sometimes fences, walls, in other parts of the city. There’s the ladies shoe in Diliman, basketball shoes in Fairview, then there is even a kid’s dino light shoe somewhere in Anonas.

Does Imelda Marcos ever lose a shoe?

I wonder what she’ll say about the shoe hanging there. Would she consider including it in her collection? How many other people went missing, taken advantage of or killed because of her shoes?

Three weeks ago, the police didn’t notice the red shoe hanging above them. Those ‘experts’ did not have a clue what they were doing. All they did was cause a lot of traffic in the circle. I wonder if they tried hard enough, would they have found her all of 26 years ago, after the black men took her away. Don’t they realize that an 8 year old boy needs his mother? Doesn’t she realize that I need my mother?

            The red shoe still hung where I tied it. It was the missing shoe the police didn’t find. Probably lost in the struggle, they said. But the teenager didn’t put up much of a fight really. It was all over in a few minutes, the same as all the others. I wonder sometimes about who these people were, but there’s no use. They’re all just steps along the way.