(Published sometime in the 90s)
"Buhos na ulan, aking mundo'y lunuring tuluyan
Tulad ng pag-agos mo, di mapipigil and puso kong nagliliyab
Pag-ibig ko'y umaapaw,
Damdamin ko'y humihiayaaw sa tuwa. Tuwing umuulan at kapiling ka.
Pagmasdan ang ulan, unti-unting tumitila,
Ikaw ri'y magpapaalam na"
They lay there exhausted. Neither of them smoked but she thought if she did this would be a good time to light up and inhale the smoke deep down to her toes. She was tingling all over.
It they died right now and a news story were to be printed in the papers, she wondered if they would be described as half-clothed or half-naked. She pondered the proverbial half-empty/half-full glass, and reached for the bottle of apple wine that she knew was somewhere on the floor.
The fluorescent bulb was droning away, that noise - was it a faulty ballast or starter? She could never remember which. In any case, it would give in soon. The noise and that tell-tale orange glow at the ends. Yes, she would tell him to replace that. Incandescent bulbs gave a softer glow anyway.
Beside her his eyes were closed, but she knew he was awake. She wondered what he was thinking and it didn't surprise her that just then his hand groped for her waist, pulling her close to him.
She has beautiful eyes, he thought. Tender, tragic eyes. He knew what they were like when she was angry. Piercing and pained. He would write a poem about those eyes. But not today. Today he could still gaze at them, if she would only turn and look at him.
What day was it? What time was it? Not that it mattered really, except maybe she was hungry. She must be tired too. He was.
They had started work on the room early that morning.
It was a tiny room, three meters squared with four blank walls punctuated only by an air-conditioner and two little doors - one of which led to an even tinier bathroom, another to the world outside. He didn't care to think of the world outside.
She was so still, that for a moment he thought she might have dozed off. But he knew, instinctively, as he did most things about her, that she was listening to the rain.
It was late October but the rains seemed like they would never let up. He felt as if it had been raining unabatedly since that evening in August when they first realized that they had fallen in love.
She loved the rain, it put her in a quiet, languid mood, and while that depressed most, she was happiest that way.
He felt her shiver a little and snuggle closer, her back chilly against his bare chest. I have to so something about the dampness in here, he decided.
The room was in the basement, long neglected as a store room for things that had seen better days, and would probably never be needed again. It was musty and moldy, and it had flooded when the rains came until the household had finally managed to unclog the drainage system.
They had spent a better part of the morning chasing the frogs away. It had been a riot, the two of them waving newspapers, shouting at the poor little creatures. They didn't want to hurt them, just drive them away. The frogs had no place to hide except in the bathroom or under the bed, the single piece of furniture in that basement room. But there were so many of them hopping about it seemed like an amphibian version of a Hitchcock movie.
After they were rid of the frogs, they had scrubbed the walls and the cement floor, peeling off paint where necessary. She did her work with great determination. They didn't exchange any words, but the silence never bothered them. Now and then he stopped what he was doing and watched her. He loved the seriousness in her face, the way she bit her lower lip when she came across a tough spot. She'd know he was watching her and when she felt his gaze move on she would stop and watch him, too. What did she see in him?
Sometimes they would catch each other's eyes and she might smile or draw him for a kiss. It wasn't hard, the room was so tiny, he was always an arm's length away.
By the time they had finished painting it was well into late afternoon. She dropped onto the bed, exhausted, unmindful of its bareness and the faint stickiness of damp dust.
They both knew she couldn't stay much longer because He would be at her house soon, picking her up for the movies. She had peeked out the door, the curtain of rain falling steadily, its mist caught in the tangles of her now tousled hair. It's raining too hard to go, he said. So they went back to the bed, and they had made love.
She hadn't really wanted to fall in love with him, already having made this other commitment. Neither had he wanted to fall in love with her, just having had his heart broken and not wanting any more of Love. Besides He was a Good Friend.
They didn't want it, and yet they wanted it, and so it happened.
He had complained that there was no window in the room and so she suggested that when he replaced the dilapidated door, he should put a little window in the upper portion.
He liked that, it seemed European, Old Worldish. He excitedly decided to make the window himself, as he was learning to work with stained glass. An art nouveau design, definitely, with half a sun, a rising sun, in the center, and maybe some vines with flowers on the border.
How will one know it's a rising sun, she had asked. It could be setting. Yellow, he had answered simply. I'll make it yellow, for the sun is yellow in the morning. A setting sun would be orange.
Now as she lay close to him she thought of that half-sun. She knew, in a wounded part of her heart that in the end he would make it orange. Maybe the pale orange of the fluorescent bulb about to go bust.
She sighed and squeezed his hand.
Maybe I should go, she said, breaking the stillness.
He embraced her tighter still, burying his face in her nape, taking in the sweetness of Narcissus mingled with the scent of her perspiration.
She finished dressing first and had turned to open the door. Evening had come upon them and a fresh burst of air came gushing in. He heard her draw in a deep breath but thought it sounded strange. He turned to face the door and saw that it had stopped raining.
