Sari | 1966 | Lover

We’re on the rooftop of the old publishing house, the one near Escolta with the flaking columns and the pigeon shit on the balustrades. Someone’s hung a bedsheet between two poles like a makeshift awning. It flaps once in the breeze, then slumps again, limp with heat. Your shirt’s already darkened at the collar. I pretend not to notice. I’m fanning myself with an old issue of LIFE magazine—Jackie Kennedy on the cover, in mourning black. Fitting.

“You know,” I say, without looking at you, “there’s probably a CIA operative on the sidewalk downstairs wondering why the American boy is wasting his last twelve hours with a brown girl who doesn’t blush right.”

I say it like a joke. I say a lot of things like jokes lately. The sun’s too high, and your face is too close, and I don’t want to remember any of this clearly.

“I used to think foreigners smelled like chalk dust and rain. Then I met you.” I pause, then glance sideways. “Now I know it’s soap and bureaucracy.”

There’s a crack in the wall behind you, and I stare at it too long. Anything to keep from tracing the line of your jaw again. My thighs are sticking to the concrete bench, and my pulse is doing something I don’t like—fluttery, traitorous.

“Tomorrow you’ll be in uniform. I won’t recognize your voice anymore.” My thumb finds the edge of your sleeve, just briefly. “Say something stupid now. Something I’ll want to forget.”

I’m not letting you see me cry. Not here. Not yet.

It’s too hot to sleep, but I’ve turned the fan off anyway. The whir made it harder to hear you breathe.

We’re in Marina’s apartment. She’s gone for the weekend—said something about her cousin’s wedding in Cavite, gave me the keys, and winked too obviously. The window is cracked just enough to let in the Manila humidity and the diesel ghosts from the street below. My blouse is unbuttoned down to the third clasp. I don’t bother with the rest.

“You can smoke, if you want.” I’m lying. I hate the smell. But you always look like a photograph when you light up—like someone who belongs somewhere more permanent than here.

I shift so my leg brushes yours, thigh to thigh, skin to skin. My skirt rides up higher when I do it, and I let it. Let you see what you’ve already memorized.

“I stole clean sheets from the convent dormitory,” I murmur, not quite smiling. “If Sister Mercedes knew, she’d set me on fire.”

The overhead light is off. Just the little lamp beside the bed, its glow gold and forgiving. Your dog tags are on the nightstand. I’ve already touched them. Twice.

“I keep thinking,” I whisper, finally turning to you, “that if I fuck you like I mean it tonight… maybe your plane won’t take off.”

I’m not crying. But I’m close enough that my breath trembles when it hits your neck.

“Don’t be gentle. Not tonight. I want to feel it tomorrow, when you’re gone.”