Beautiful PainRV EscatronMy eyes were still fixated on the remnants of the bonfire when she emerged naked from the water. Her pool-toned body formed a silhouette against the full moon.
“Here, take this towel. You might catch cold.†I offered.
She came near me, grabbed the towel and wrapped herself.
“The water is warm, you should try it.†She whispered, her breathing sent a tingling sensation in my earlobes, as water came dripping into my right shoulder, sliding down to my back.
“Later.†I answered her in a puppy-dog-eye look. Then smiled.
“Sorry to kept you waiting
ha?â€
“Not a problem.â€
Earlier, straight from picking her at the city airport, I accompanied her scouring for bikinis and flip-flops at the only city mall. When she found nothing that suited her fancy, we headed to the grocery and rummaged through the wine and spirits section. Took a bottle of Bordeaux, a Scotch and two dozens of Pilsen. To complete the list, I took bars of dark chocolate and packs of fried cashew nuts, and she, not failing to remember my appetite for cheesecakes, ordered one from the bakeshop.
As I watched her joined the queue at the counter, I couldn’t help but be amazed with the changes in her. A lot. From the naïve college girl seven years back, she morphed into this high-strung woman I was with that Saturday afternoon. At thirty-one, she still maintained a body that could give a bikini open champ a run for her money.
“Santi?†she called.
“Coming, er, right up!†Caught off-guard, I stammered, trailed at her with two bottles in one hand and the chocolate and cashew on the other.
“We’re missin’ somethin’?†in a distinct NYC accent.
“Oh, yeah, I know it.†I smirked.
A bottle of Gilbey’s and lime—the ultimate potion back in college when we had to stretch our meager allowance for a night of booze and god-knows-what. “We have this new flavor sir.†Interrupted the salesgirl. “There is also a premixed sir.†She persuaded in broken English. “No. Thank you Miss.†I still prefer the way we used to do it. It brings back the memories—of the cold sea breeze whisking our faces, the sound of the palm leaves pelting each other.
The cab driver obliged to take us to Doljo Point.
“No news yet?†Reema was now in front of me. I nodded.
She wrapped herself. “So, I’ll just have to see you at the cottage later.â€
“All right.â€
And she blended with the darkness and underneath the thick foliage. “Lest I forget, the bed near the terrace door is mine!†I hollered, chancing if she still heard me.
At the taxi earlier, she started talking about her hiatus that made me puzzled for years. Not really much of a story. It was more like a teaser. She narrated about how her life went about. Sheltered in a hut in a famous town nestled in the mighty Cordillera. It fog there everyday—that by two in the afternoon, transportation is at halt. Visibility is zero. One has to wait the next day. It was a life of simplicity and solitude, or so she thought. Then she met Abata-a native who went to the State University in Manila for college. He was the unconventional
Igorot who worked for Murdoch and Bach Advertising in Makati.
There was hissing from my back. “Sant, this fleece blanket will keep us warm for the night.†She reached out for the last can of beer, squat beside me and lighted a cigarette. “Since when did you learn to smoke?†“You know how life is in the big city, duh.†She puffed and threw me the familiar look. Yes. Those eyes that smiled every time it meet mine. This couldn't be happening again. Must be the beer. Dang!
Smoke covered the space between us. "Care for a walk to that boulder Sant, what do you say?â€
We opted to trail the dirt path. The illumination coming from the moon, partly hidden by the overcast, provided us enough light. We settled at the clearing below the boulder.
Pamilacan Island, a few nautical miles from where we crouched appeared obscure from afar. The chirping crickets provided us solace. While the romantic cycle of the waves that soaked our feet provided us comfort. It was a quarter past midnight.
Amid the stillness, I nursed my sixth can of beer. “Somehow, your alcohol tolerance has never gone down rock bottom, no? Geez.†She smirked. “Let's just put it on this term. Over the years, I did, but only seven.â€
Like the bitter aftertaste of the first gulp, the memories of what transpired in the last eight years still lingered in my mind. But as drinking progressed, a sweet tangy sensation soon replaced it.
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