I think I should go back to flash fiction once in a while. :)
She stands still in front of her closet, not moving; only her
eyes examine the little set of clothes she had managed to hang on the rack.
She hears the faint buzz of her mobile phone she knows is somewhere near her
pillow. She ignores it and raises her right hand to grab the only gray shirt
she has. Her pupils dilate as she traces her fingers along the faded image on
the cloth. It was his college shirt, and she wonders if he would love it if she
wears them today. Her phone buzzes again, but she keeps her eyes on the shirt,
mind in a different setting (and perhaps in a different story).
The sky is rather clearer than usual, but news on the
television announces a coming typhoon. She turns towards the back of her door
and her stare lingers for a while at an old, folded umbrella, sitting perfectly
there, as if it had not been forgotten for months. Again, she wonders if she should
take it with her today.
“You should take it with you if you’re going out,” Her yaya suggests, eyes on the shelf she has
been cleaning for the past thirty minutes. She takes out a damp cloth and
starts with the top of the shelf all over again. “It might rain today. Hay naku. You really shouldn’t trust the
clear sky all the time these days.”
She thinks her yaya might nag some more if she doesn’t take
it with her, so she picks up the umbrella and keeps it in her denim cross-body
bag, along with a bag of his favorite chips and a small water bottle for
herself. Her watch says she still has a couple of minutes to spare so she makes
a stop in front of her mirror and examines her face – a routine she has been
doing every day ever since she came home from vacation.
The stitches on her forehead have not yet healed, but the
rest of her face looks perfectly fine, she thinks. Taking her compact powder,
she dabs the sponge applicator on her face, before fixing her pale lips with
the tinted lip balm her mother gave her last summer. Better, she thinks,
ironing the gray shirt and her shorts with both her hands.
She hears thunder, but when she walks out their door, she
realizes the sky is still clear, and the sun was up.
“Thunder is actually the sound reaction of two clouds
rubbing against each other,” he had told her when they were in third grade. He
had always known so much, she remembers, and he loved to talk. She only
listened silently, nodding her head to his trivial talks, but inside her were
always butterflies that never were still. She wants to see him now. She wants
to hear his voice again that always reassured her of what is to come. She wants
him to make her laugh again. Oh, how she misses him!
Taking a turn towards the park, she remembers the bag of
chips on her bag and decides to find a seat before opening it. She thinks of the
shirt again, and wonders if he’d find it lovely on her smaller physique. He had
always remarked on how skinny she was, and how she feels like a little tree
whenever he hugs her. He, on the other hand, had always been bulkier and
taller. He took after his father who was of European descent.
She, after taking the usual seat they both always had at the
park, stares straight ahead at the road where hundreds of cars and trucks drive
mercilessly fast, she barely sees the details and they barely notice her,
alone. Tears prick her eyes as she reaches for the bag of chips and her water
bottle. He will come, she assures herself. He will. It is, after all, their
third anniversary. Last year, he didn’t come, because he had been sick. But he
will come this time. He told her a year ago before he got sick.
“I will meet you there, I promise,” he had told her in his
baby blue hospital gown. “I love you so much, baby.”
She continues to stare ahead but there is no sign of him,
except traces of his scent on the gray shirt. Fondling the hem of the shirt,
she asks God if he truly is going to see her. She hears the thunder clap and looking
up, she finally sees dark clouds gathering in a rapid pace. Smiling bitterly,
she drags her bag closer to her.
She opens the bag of chips and the sealed air escapes,
merging into the rest of the air she has been taking in. Then the final clap of
thunder gives its signal and drops of the rain her yaya was talking about fall on her face and on her stitches. The folded umbrella remains unopened.
