Departure

He could not miss him: pink-skinned, gold-haired, and pot-bellied. Most tourists in the pier take at least one of those characteristics. Even with the saltwater in his eyes and the choreographed swimming he and the other little boys are doing, he could single out Pink Skin’s flowery summer shirt among the crowd. You see, he needs someone like Pink Skin so he might at last leave the pier today.

It does not matter to him if this man is American, or German, or French. What he cares about is that foreigners like him have a lot of spare coins in their purses. He could already see Manila as he regards him boisterously laughing with his Filipina wife.

Being a child who had never known a home, he could not feel he belongs to the pier, or to any place in fact. Already, he wants to see different scenery; no matter if it is another pier, only he wants it to be different.

He now swims back to the wharf with the other boys in a V-formation they had been perfecting for weeks. “Like little brown birds flying in the water!” he hears Pink Skin exclaiming to his wife.

As they near the edge of the pier, there is a rain of coins from the spectators. Pink Skin claps his fat hands appreciatively but makes no move to toss a coin. A lot of people, however, are eagerly throwing coins. He dives underwater for these, and as he emerges out of the water triumphantly, he waves each peso at the crowd. These little treats he pops into his mouth for safekeeping.

A nearby ship blows horn to signal departure and the group prepares to follow it. Oftentimes, they would follow ships as far as half a kilometer from the pier, all the while anticipating peso coins from amused passengers on the ship’s deck.

But as the other boys resumed their V-formation, he leaves them, and heads back to the pier. He could barely see Pink Skin’s flowery backside as the crowd disperses, the people returning to their respective businesses.

There is hardly space in his mouth for his tongue to move about but a few coins more and he could finally buy a ticket to Manila. He leaves the water, clambers onto the stony lip of the quay, and runs after Pink Skin, his mouth stuffed with what he reckons is already 20 pesos.

As Pink Skin and his wife go past an old lamp post, he catches up with them. He yanks Pink Skin’s neatly pressed khaki shorts, mumbling that he wants coins.

Pink Skin stops in his tracks and attempts to pry away the little hands tugging at his clothes.

But he would not let go.

He murmurs again that he is asking for coins. But “Lemme go!” says Pink Skin, giving him a push that sends him flying, like a big brown fish swimming in the air.

Pink Skin’s wife gives out a gasp as boy’s head hits a lamp post, as coins burst out of his mouth.

His head in mingled pain and warmth of something liquid trickling down his nape, the boy sees Pink Skin looking horrorstruck, while the wife clutches at her chest, looking nervously around to see if someone saw what happened.

Then Pink Skin produces a dollar bill from his wallet and, muttering expletives, he drops the money beside the prostrate body of the boy.

Before everything turns all black, the boy’s face breaks into a pained and beautiful smile. He is leaving the pier today.

[599 words]

Between Stations

There is something with the way the bearded man's eyes are taking the whole inside of the train, he decides as he seats himself in one of the blue benches. Two beeps, the train doors closing by themselves, the train lurching forward, leaving Ayala station in the stifling darkness behind.

He tries concentrating on his copy of Business Today but would always find himself staring at the bearded man every time he looks out the window at the end of a paragraph. He is someone who pauses a lot when reading, as if his perpetually distracted mind could only take a sentence, a phrase, a word at a time. And numerical figures need to be savored before swallowed.

The bearded man reminds him of Jude Law in Cold Mountain. Long slender arms opening a backpack, producing a bottle of mineral water. He is also someone who likes long slender arms in a man. But Jude Law does not drink, just holds the bottle in his hands. Aren't mineral water bottles banned in the MRT?

In his mind, he imagines Jude Law (seemingly) casually shaking the mineral water bottle, imagines how the froth of the liquid inside would look. Then Jude Law would suddenly flick out a cigarette lighter, an explosion, and the train would be on fire. Or perhaps that is not the way these explosives work. How do you murder about a hundred people?

How to plan escape, if escape still is possible? Send perhaps an alarm signal to the train operator. But that would make everyone, including Jude Law, panic. Wrestle the bottle away from Jude Law, maybe. He thinks of the instant when their bodies would touch, rub, one forcing the other to its will, that moment of violent intimacy. Will Jude Law overpower him?

The train nearing Buendia, entering darkness akin to the cold blackness of untouched coffee. He waits, but when the train finally stops, Jude Law still has not moved.

The rush of passengers getting off the train reminding him this is his station. He gets out, vaguely sees Jude Law drinking from his bottle. Then a blurred nothing.

In the noise of the leaving train, he could not hear a young woman, calling towards him, waving her arms frantically. All he could hear is a well-worn sigh. Because after that familiar anticipation of something, in the end there is only disappointment. As always.

"Hi, honey, dearest. Can't you hear me there? I've been waiting forever. Was it the merger again? I told you many times already: you should drive, yourself." ■