it's just another new year's eve

The text message came at almost seven this morning. "Happy new year," it said.

I knew who sent it. My mind went back to that last morning that Benjamin and I went jogging by the seaside, the sunrise shining on Manila Bay whose waters sparkle under the blue sky.

We were sitting at one of the restaurant tables one morning after our jog. He was well aware that it was my last day and we sat and chat a lot longer that day.

"What if it had been us?" he said, lips smiling, but his eyes almost seemed sad.

"You would have left me after a few years," I replied.

He turned, the disappointment evident in his face. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I could never have children. And you men want to have children." I stretched a leg to another chair nearby, avoiding his gaze.

"You know I am not like that."

Did I hurt his feelings? I thought not. He was simply declaring.

"I know you're not. But your life wouldn't be complete without children," I said, briefly glancing at him.

"When you love someone," I heard him say, then he corrected himself, "When I loved you, it was unconditional."

I straightened up, leaned across the table from him and looked at him square in the eye. "Do you still love me?"

He made a brief chuckle and joked about the seriousness of my face. I eased back into my chair. We laughed together while he fiddled with his Blackberry, put on a song that was part of a file I gave him the day before, then placed the Blackberry between us on the table, Eydie Gorme blaring, competing with the sounds of the waves and the drone of the people around, along with helicopter sound above and the traffic behind us.

"I'm constantly thinking about you." He mumbled something else.

Our eyes locked for a moment before we burst into another giggling fit.

"I heard that. Rockin' solid, man! I heard that!" I said in between giggling and breathing.

His face suddenly became serious.

"Is that true, what you just said?" I asked, my voice uncharacteristically softer and lower.

He looked at me and smiled, a sad smile, I reckoned.

"What does your wife say about that?" I asked.

He stretched his legs as he relaxed, took the Blackberry and put on a Lani Hall song. I Don't Want You To Go blared between us.

disappointment

Why is it that you do not make my heart beat faster now that we're together?

I swear we are two different people from last spring - when I was so excited to hear your voice, when I missed you when you didn't call or text me, when just the mere ringing of the phone filled me with anticipation and imagining it was you calling.

You touch me and I shiver - from disgust. I force myself to reach out and touch you, caress you, but inside my senses are revolting.

You're not who I have built up to be in my mind. You do not sound like him. You do not smell like him. You do not speak like him. You do not feel like him. Him. The you who I thought I love.

When I take my clothes off, I feel shame. My body looks good, my skin feels smooth, but I feel shame when you touch me. When you kiss me, I want to vomit. When I down the cocktail, it is to cleanse my mouth and to blur my senses so I could have physical contact with you.

So when you have said that it would make things difficult for both of us, inside I rejoice. When I withdraw my hands from your neck, I rejoice. When I grab my clothes and cover my body, I rejoice. You are still holding my arm as I walk away to put my clothes on. You think you may have offended me, but fireworks go inside my head. I feel the elation that the protesters showed on TV upon learning that Ghadaffi has died. That is how bad it is being with you. That is my measuring stick being there alone with you.

I laugh so loud after I get out of the room and close the door. Good thing the pool is only a few feet away. I am still laughing when I dive into the water, and water enters my mouth and nose, my head aches but I am happy. Ghadaffi's dead, and I don't love you.

I feel so happy that after two laps, I jump and pump my fist up in the air!

"Yes! Yesssss!!"

I think that you know how I feel. But you don't want to admit it to yourself or to me. I love you in my own distorted way, only I want that thirty thousand miles between us. I love the idea of loving you, the you I knew forty years ago. You are no longer that you. And it is that you that I hold dear and won't forget. I'm sorry that I came for you but instead found somebody new.

Thank you for setting me free. Please don't call me anymore.

The First Time

The first time he approached her, he smelled of rhum.

She had seen him hanging around with his friends at the store just outside the school's massive gates. He was wearing his basketball uniform, white with light blue trimmings. It was the first time she had seen him and she didn't know who he was.

"Psssst! Psssst!" he said, but she pretended she didn't hear, and she tried not to look at him. She entered the gates and just before the guard closed the door shut, she glanced back to see him looking at her.

Two hours later, after she had finished practicing her oratorical piece, she saw him again with three boys including her boisterous classmate Vicente. She was crossing the almost empty quadrangle to the canteen when he took a few strides towards her.

"What's your name?"

She didn't know if it was a friendly question because she thought he wasn't even smiling. But boys had already started to notice and took interest in her and she thought it was just one of those boys. She felt her heart racing for no apparent reason. She started to say her name when she noticed the smell of rhum. Just a trace, but she was familiar with the smell: her father always had a shot of rhum in the evening.

"Why?" was all she managed to say, she herself not knowing if the why was for "why are you asking?" or "why did you drink?"

"Jason! Let's go." It was one of the boys he was with. And he walked away from her. She made a mental note to ask Vicente about him the next day.

Benjamin (again)

"Come!" he said, motioned with a non-chalant move of his hand for me to come towards him, while he continued to walk. I took several giant steps before I could reach him and by the time I did, his one foot was outside the door of the main gate.

"Wait!" I said. "Where are we going?" I felt my face flushed. How dare this man make me follow him.

But he smiled and said in a low voice, "Let's leave Mila and Danny. I think something's bound to happen tonight."

"But my books are with her," I said and looked back as the security guard closed the metal door of the college's gate. I stopped and hesitated in the middle of the street. But Benjamin continued walking, and I followed him until we reached the jeepney stop. He hailed one going north to Escolta. My face was full of questions, and he knew what those questions were. But his gentle touch at my elbow, as he nudged me to board the jeepney, seemed to calm me and I got inside. He handed the driver some coins.

We got off at Brown Derby on Taft Avenue.

"Have you been here before? The food here is good, right?"

"No, I've never been here before," I replied.

We sat at a table on the quietest corner of the restaurant. Immediately, a uniformed waitress came with a small menu. He ordered a hamburger and Pepsi. I scoffed at him, playfully, though. I ordered a foot long hotdog and Coke.

"I told Danny that bridges sometimes give way to the river's waters, especially when the current is strong," he said, his eyes sparkled in the restaurant lights, the smile in his lips reveal some kind of giddiness. I cocked my head, not understanding what he meant.

Danny, his friend, was fervently wooing me. Danny had asked Benjamin to be his "bridge", meaning he, Benjamin, would woo me for him, Danny. Benjamin had been talking to me almost everyday, telling me how Danny felt. Mila, my friend, however, had this huge crush on Danny. I had told Danny in no uncertain terms that he is not my type. I wasn't particularly into anyone at the time, not even Benjamin.

"So, when you had told Danny for certain it's a no, I told Danny I will have to cross the bridge I built."

"Me?" I asked, pointing at myself as I realized what Benjamin was trying to say.

"Yes," he said.

The number one song of the week was being played on the jukebox: Bobby Goldsboro's version of the song "And I Love You So".

He took my hand and placed it on his chest. "I would have died if you had liked Danny."

I ate my foot-long hotdog with a grin on my face. I had scored the hottest boy in college.

PROMPT - sunset

The kitchen window of our first house, the one that my father built on a piece of land by the public cemetery, faced west. I remember the orange light casting a long rectangular reflection on our floor. I would sit on the floor, right in the middle of that rectangular reflection and would move as the reflection moved until it disappeared. Sometimes, our backdoor would be open and long shadows of crosses from the tombs in the cemetery were cast on the floor.

I liked to watch the sun as it set and disappear beyond the distant crosses and the mango trees. My mother used to tell me not to look at the sun for it will damage my eyes. But the setting sun was different. It had a soft quality about it, almost candy-like. I used to imagine that the orange-coloured clouds were cotton candies and the fiery setting sun a large lollipop.

Ihor appreciated my love of the sunset. The first time we went out of town, we went to Laoag, La Union, about four hours drive north-west of Manila. The place was then known (probably still is) as a resort town, with long stretches of pristine beaches facing the South China sea. We swam in the sea the whole day and had a late lunch. We explored the town afterwards, taking pictures of old Spanish houses and churches. While he napped in the late afternoon, I went to walk on the beach to watch the sun setting on the sea. I found a rocky place at the far end of the beach about a mile from the hotel. I picked up little shells and threw tiny pebbles on the rushing waves. The tide was fast coming inland. I sat on a flat rock and watched as crabs scurried as the sea water rushed in. On that rock I had a magnificent view of the horizon, the sun squarely in the middle of the wide expanse as it slowly turned from bright orange then fiery red and until it disappeared.

It was dark when I reached the hotel premises. Ihor wondered where I was. Later I learned someone told him I walked "that" way towards the rocks. When he saw me, without him saying anything, he took my hand and we walked on the shore together until it was so dark we couldn't see anything anymore, just the distant flickering of lamps on the houses nearby, and the sound of the waves that sometimes caressed our bare feet.

"What is it about the sunset that you have to watch it?" he asked.

PROMPT - a justifiable sin

From Judy Reeves' "A Writer's Book of Days" - "Write about a a justifiable sin."

A Justifiable Sin

I feel used and abused. And I feel cheap.

That's about how I felt every morning after Richard and I had a date. The routine was he would phone me at the office, ask if I'm free in the evening, convince me to see a movie with him. At the movie, in the darkest corner of the balcony section, we (or he, for most times, I happen to like watching the movie) would pet or neck until my lips were swollen from being sucked by him, my breasts aching from too much squeezing by him, and of late, when all has become too much for him to bear, he would do everything "except that" in the back seat of his car.

For two years that was the routine. A few months ago, he showed up at the office, all dressed up and carrying a big bunch of flowers. I got a good teasing from my officemates. We all thought I'd come back to work the next day with an engagement ring on my finger. Well, he did propose, sort of. He wanted me to be exclusively his and maybe someday we will get married. I took note of the word "maybe".

Instead of going to a restaurant, he drove up to an expensive and out-of-the-way motel, the kind where the rooms had a carport underneath so no one can recognize your car, just in case. The ante-room had a nice table for two with a small plastic flower arrangement in the middle. There was a menu card to order dinner at a nearby restaurant. The bedroom had a king size bed with white sheets and large pillows, and a checkered coverlet. The entire ceiling was mirrored. Yes, mirror-ed.

Needless to say, we went all the way that night. After that sex pretty much happened at least once a week since then. A pattern has developed. Somehow we managed to argue about something and fight. He won't call for days and when he does there's more arguing until somehow everything ends up being my fault. So I end up apologizing. Then he would "punish" me by not seeing me. I had come to a point when I really do not care if he sees me or not. But somehow, when he did come to see me, we always end up in a motel, having sex.

One night, he was on top of me, muttering how great it felt to be inside me, so on and so forth. When once I opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of myself in the ceiling mirror, with Richard's naked body on top of me, one leg stretched almost at a right angle from my body, the other wrapped around his waist as he holds me by the knee. This was the night I realized there was no love in me for him. Not anymore. But I do it with him for comfort's sake, my body had become comfortable with him. This was when I realized that love and sex do not necessarily go hand in hand.


So. Richard had punished me yet again, this time by making a business trip somewhere. He wanted me to think about my actions. I wanted to but I forgot what it was that I did to deserve such punishment. He would call. Everyday. Wanting me to apologize. I had already said I'm sorry, but he wanted me to articulate what it was that I had done. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember it. He got mad. "Think about it!" he told me.

John appears in my office holding an affidavit. Can I notarize it? Sure, I say. I take out my notarial journal, jot in the details of the affidavit and I stick a notarial stamp on the paper. I ask him to raise his hand and swear that all he says in the affidavit is true to the best of his knowledge. He does so and he signs the affidavit and I sign the notary's portion.

"No date tonight?" he asks. I shrug my shoulders and pout my lips. "Awww," he says.

Then the surprise: "I'll take you to dinner, come!"

John and I have been exchanging stories about anything, mostly about his marriage that is crumbling. There is no other woman. Yet.

He stands by my office door with a "So?" look on his face. As I lock my desk drawers, I look at him and I say, "Sure, why not?"

At dinner, I voice out my discontent about Richard. Suddenly, I have a friend I can tell my Richard troubles to. My girlfriends all think Richard is a great catch, a sweet man and no one believes me when I tell them how Richard actually treats me. They all think I just invent the stories of mental and emotional abuse.

The next time I stay late at work, John shows up. He has just arrived from a business trip in Germany and has been away for two weeks.

"Dinner?" he asks. Then, "I missed you!" He lobs a small flowery box of Nina Ricci perfume and I catch it with one hand.

"Well, I missed you, too, buddy," I say playfully. "I had no one intelligent to talk to around here. So glad you're back."

In the car, as he drives, I think he might have thought my knee is the gear shift.

At L'Orange, a fine dining French restaurant hidden in the farthest corner of Forbes Park, he holds my hand like I was a delicate porcelain figurine. We talk in whispers, giggle discreetly at "green" jokes, and taste each other's food. Looking at him over the rim of my glass of red wine, I smile and I run the tip of my tongue on my upper lip. When he rubs my leg with his leg, I rub back.

That night, John and I start our affair.

DWP - "The blind (wo)man said to me..."

The blind woman says to me as I stare at her in awe, "Yes, look at me, look at my eyes. Disgusting, aren't they?"

"No," I whisper. She is perfect: the perfectly oval face, framed by the perfectly white curly hair, the perfect nose, the perfectly full red lips. Even her eyes are in complete symmetry to the shape of her face, only they're totally white. She is like an unfinished drawing and the artist forgot to draw the iris. She looks like a white statue. But she isn't. She can talk and she can move. "No," I repeat, a little louder this time.

She turns her face towards the window and for a moment I imagine she was looking at the bright full moon that has risen above the shadows of the distant valley. She smiles.

"Twenty-four hours in this house," she continues, "twenty-four hours will do this to you. There is stil time for you to escape this curse."

"But I come to help. To help you and the others."

"No, you cannot help us anymore."

Tears roll down her cheeks.

"Can you see the door?" she asks.

I turn towards the doorway, it is open, and the wonderful scents of kalachuchi and ylang-ylang waft inside.

"Yes," I reply.

"Then leave. Now. For if you don't, that door will close and you shall never leave. Your eyes will become white. And you shall never see again."

She cups her ivory face in her pale hands and her shoulders tremble.

PROMPT - my name is...

Chico. I remember my mother calling me Chico. But that was a long time ago. In another land. In another life. Now everyone calls me Ricky. That's the name Richard has chosen to call me.

Three years ago, I was five and I had not seen a foreigner before. We lived in an island where the shores are covered with very fine and very white sands. Strangers, people from other islands, the main island and even from the capital far away to the north, would come to our island. Some took pictures, others just lie down on the white sand and rubbed lotion on their bodies. Most of the time, they buy the fish that my father and his friends caught from the sea.

My mother said Richard was not only a "stranger", he was also a "foreigner". Strangers were people we did not know, but foreigners were people we did not know who came from other lands. Not just from the capital city up north, but from another country.

I could not take off my eyes from Richard the first time I saw him. He was a foreigner. He was from America. He had gold hair, blond they called the color. His eyes were blue, unlike ours. And his skin was very white. I had not seen such white person before and Richard looked like the gods in the comics drawings. And he spoke a different language.

"What is your name?" he asked me.

"Chico," I replied. "My real name is Ricardo, but my Inang calls me Chico."

Richard, he said, is the American name of my name.

"Chico, how would you like to go to school in America?" Richard asked.

"Are there a lot of books in the school in America?"

"Of course! Not just books, but also radio, colored TV." I didn't understand what a TV was.

"I don't have a son, Chico. How would you like to be my son?"

"Okay," I said.

Richard gave my father two hundred dollars so I could be his son. My father took the money, but Richard didn't take me with him that day. When he came back the next day, my father denied that he took the money. He said Richard only promised to give money but that he never gave it.

So, for two hundred dollars, he could take me as his son. Richard pulled his wallet, took out some money and handed it to my father. My father took them and put it in his pants pocket. Richard gave him some big white papers and told him to sign them. My father shook his head, and told Richard if Richard is adopting me, he would have to pay more.

"How much more?" Richard asked.

My father looked at my mother who sat on the floor at the far end of the house cleaning the bottoms of a pan with soot-blackened bottom. She did not look at my father although I knew she could hear him.

"One thousand dollars!" my father said.

"Okay, so I gave you two hundred the other day, two hundred today, here's another two hundred." Richard pushed more bills into my father's hand. "That's all, and if you still didn't sign these papers, I will call the military and tell them that you thieved the money from me."

My father looked at the white papers. He handed it back to Richard saying, "I cannot read and I cannot write."

Richard smiled. "It simply says that you have permitted me to take Chico to America so he could study there." Then Richard took out a fountain pen and drew something on my father's right thumb. "Here," he said, "press your thumb on this line here."


In America, Richard tells me my name is now Richard Jr., my nickname is Ricky and that he is now my father. He brings me to school every day. He buys me nice clothes and shoes. He takes me with him everywhere he goes, sometimes we drive, sometimes we ride our bikes. Richard always tells me that he is taking good care of me. But I do not believe him. Because at night, whenever he comes to my room and slips under the sheets with me, he hurts me.

VIGNETTE - Jan

Jan Mintoff looks like the young Alexander Godunov in the movie Money Pit. Blond hair that rest on his shoulders, the smiling eyes, the chiseled chin and the agility of his body as he moves from his desk to the door of the office to meet me.

"I'm looking for Peter Harrington, is he here?" I ask.

His mouth breaks into a big smile, perfectly crowned teeth flashing.

"No, Peter's out, but he told me you were coming," he says.

And he's a smooth talker, too. God knows Peter Harrington does not even know who I am let alone I'm coming to see him. Jan looks out at the parking lot and points at the red Miata. "Nice wheels you have there."

"Company car." He raises his eyebrows and his eyes bulge. Perhaps because I say "company car" so non-chalantly.

"You must be important!"

I turn to the woman at the desk nearest me. "Are you Mr. Harrington's assistant?"

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

"I would like to see one of your two-bedroom units. My secretary was trying to call this morning to make an appointment..."

The woman starts to stand up but Jan Mintoff comes between us and declares, "I'll attend to this. Don't worry." Turning to me, he says, "I'll show you the best unit in the building."

Hatat house is one of the newest residences in downtown Muscat, an L-shaped, five-story condominium building that the Minister of Petroleum has recommended to the office for my accommodation. In the Minister's words, "total luxury living", with an outdoor regulation clay tennis court, a squash court and an Olympic sized swimming pool. The price has been settled, all I need to do is choose which unit I want to occupy, hence my visit.

Jan Mintoff, though, is obviously in love with the red Miata he saw me drive coming in. "Who are you? You seem very important!"

"I'm not important," I say not hiding my ennui. "My boss only happens to have the right connections."

He consults the folder in his hands. Again the eyes bulge at seeing that our company's patron is the Minister of Petroleum. There are only two other big shots in the Omani government below His Excellency the Sultan: his top adviser and the Petroleum Minister. The Miata indicates my status as only the oil companies can afford to provide their employees with a Miata or other "high end" car.

Presently, we arrive at the 'show' unit - a well appointed two-bedroom apartment with two and a half baths, a large living room, an even larger dining room and a kitchen half the size of the large living room.

"Can we have coffee later on?" he asks as we walk around the apartment.

The afternoon sun shines through the glass doors of the back terrace. Jan Mintoff stands by the glass doors, his back towards the sun. I stand in the middle of the room and when I turn to look at him to ask a question, all I can make out is his silhoutte. Something caught me off guard as I look at him.

He stands with his legs apart and his trousers are thin enough for the light to shine through and I can make out the shape of his legs. Above the knee, mid-thigh, I make out his penis dangling from his boxers. I suddenly burst out laughing. No, I giggle first and that's when I have lost control and I burst out laughing. I hear him say, "What?"

I cover my face with both my hands and look away. I see the half-opened door of the dishwashing machine and I walk over to close it. He is instantly behind me.

"So, can we go for coffee later on?"

"My Miata can't go for coffee with you, young man." I am still laughing and losing composure fast. "And I have a boyfriend who works at the Hotel Intercontinental so I will have to ask permission from him if I can drive my Miata so it can have coffee with you."

"That's mean," he says quietly. "I wasn't interested in your car."

He's a good actor, too.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I didn't mean it that way. But thank you for the coffee. Now, can I see the actual unit that had been reserved for me?"

He smiles and we walk out of the show unit.

"What do you do at Atlantic Oil?" His eyes are again smiling. He holds my elbow as we enter the elevator.

"Executive Assistant. A glorified secretary, if you will."

"Wow! I know the British girl who works there. What's her name?" He squints his eyes and flicks his fingers, willing the name to come to his mouth. "Leila?"

"Leslie," I say.

"Leslie!"

And then it dawns on me. Leslie has been telling me about this guy she's dating, one of the rugby players for the city, who has got a really long penis. Not good in bed and not a very bright guy, but his "dick" is good enough for her.

"So what sport do you play, Jan?" I ask.

"How do you know I play sport?"

"Oh," I say, "You look athletic." I can bullshit, too, when I want. "What is it, soccer? Rugby?"

"Rugby." He pulls me towards him, and cups my face with his hands, the fingers sifting my hair. "Coffee, tea or me?"

I burst out laughing. "No, thank you," I manage to say after I slip away from him.

"Don't think so, buddy." I head for the door. "But tell Harrington to have this unit ready by the weekend." All business-like.

"Where can I call you?" He stands against the sunlight again. "Please let me call you." He knows the novelty has worn off.

"At my office. You have the number." I point at the folder in his hand with the car key.

He watches as I drive away in my red Miata.

VIGNETTE - Cristina (a character development)

Setting: Cristina is in her apartment in Amsterdam, The Netherlands. The year is 1988. Her hair dyed blonde, she easily passes for a Caucasian - she has fair skin, the long upturned eyes have lashes so thick men used to fall for her dreamy eyes and her luscious mouth. She looks like the young Brigitte Bardot but with finer features. Born in Manila, Cristina was 16 when she was crowned Miss Philippines and went on to become a finalist in the Miss Universe pageant. But that was a long time ago. Now she has gained a lot of weight ever since she lived in Europe. Her favourite snack is Belgian chocolate. Tonight, she is depressed, having been dumped by her boyfriend. This is her seventh rejection in five months.

Monologue:
"Damn! Damn! Damn! He can go to hell. He can go to hell for all I care. What is the matter with these men? Damn all men! They're all liars! I hate them. I hate them!" is the thought that goes through her mind, while everything within reach and sight are being tossed against the wall or on the floor or out the opened window.

She opens the cupboard and reaches for a box of Leonida's, switches on the small TV set and lets all of her 165 pounds slump down on the papasan chair.

"They told me I'm beautiful and that I was special. If I was so goddamned special, why the fuck has everyone gone?" Her eyes start to well up and tears roll down her cheek as she unwraps the gold paper off a Gianduja.

"How come I am alone...they just wanted my body. Before sex I am the most beautiful woman in the world. After sex, they say, 'oh, Cristina, yer so fat, aren't you ashamed of yourself? You gotta lose some weight, y'know! Yer breasts are flapping all over you look like yer's going to fly!' Then I'm sure they all laughed, when I can't see or hear them. Even that stupid, ugly Ramon. He thinks he is so good looking, he thinks he's so great. He's a piece of shit! All Filipino men are. Oh, I hate Filipino men, they rough you up in bed, borrow money and never pay you back. They're never thoughtful enough to bring flowers. They want a free fuck and they won't even bring you, not even a wilted flower. They'll say 'I'll take you to dinner' and when you go, they'll either let you pay for yourself or pretend they forgot their wallet. Shit! They're all a piece of crap, those men!"

She stands up from the papasan and slowly walks to the bathroom door mirror. She stares at herself, from head to toe. She smiles at her reflection but winces as the sweeping stare reaches her bosom.

"I'm going to lose weight, one day, I'm sure I will. Then I'll be pretty again; then they'll all come after me again...I should've married when John asked me. Then I wouldn't have to worry about gaining weight. He'll send me to the slimming salon, just like when we were in Manila. Oh, I miss John, he's the only one who really cared and loved me. He's the only one who really wanted me. Someday, I'll be pretty again, they'll see. I'd be slim again. I have to stop eating these chocolates. I have to stop eating! If only I would stop eating. If only I'm beautiful enough. If only I'm slim just like Miss Universe. Damn that fucking Philippe Lowe! I had the best answer and the best body and he chooses Miss Argentina just because I had space in between my thighs. He should see my thighs now!...I really look repulsive. God, why can I not stop eating!"

VIGNETTES - 3 POINTS OF VIEW

Setting: A convenience store

Time: Late evening

The Store Clerk:

Kelvin sips the last of his coffee and places the empty cup underneath the counter, next to the alarm button. He wonders, as he does every time he works the night shift at The Arrow Convenience Store, if this is the night he might be using it. Steve, his friend and storeowner's son, has used it once when a group of young women tried to hold up the store. Funny thing is, through those chicks, Steve has met his girlfriend Sheila during the investigation. Sheila is the sister of one of the suspects.

He shakes his head and smiles at the thought of Steve. He glances over to the back and sees an Oriental woman standing by the Nestle ice cream freezer. She has been there for a good ten minutes and seems unable to decide which Drumstick to get. He has seen her holding first the plain Drumstick, then the one with fudge in the centre. He flips the pages of the day old “Sun” newspaper in front of him on the counter. When he glances at the woman again, the woman smiles at him.

Her pale yellow outfit makes him think she must be a nurse. His mother is friendly with some of the nurses at the hospital on Coxwell Avenue and he has seen them wear the same kind of uniform. Kelvin looks around and notes there is no one else in the store. He thinks the woman is a thief, and if his thinking is right, he tells himself he could easily handle her especially if she is alone. Of course there exists the possibility she has companions outside the store waiting for a signal from her.

At this instant, the door opens and a dark-skinned man enters. He wears a baseball cap under the hood of his red jacket, and Kelvin could not see his eyes. Kelvin suddenly remembers that Steve keeps a gun in a box underneath the till. Three weeks ago, he has seen Steve loading it, placing it in the box and covering it with candies. Kelvin reaches underneath the counter for the box.

He nods at the man. He casually turns the newspaper page with his left hand while he sinks his right into the candies. He feels the cold metal of the gun and feels a sudden rush of blood in his head as his heart beats fast. As the man approaches the counter, Kelvin grips the gun and puts his finger on the trigger.

The man glances at the door and slightly pulls down his baseball cap. ‘This is it,’ Kelvin thinks. He himself briefly glances at the door. Two teenagers, heads vowed down while walking, pause briefly outside the door but continue walking.
“A pack of Players,” the man says when he is a few steps away. Kelvin reaches for the cigarette from the shelf just behind him, places it on the counter and punches a button on the cash register. The numbers “5.75" appear on the digital display. The man places a bag of chips on the counter.

“5.75,” he tells the man.

“Open the cash,” the man says, as he points a gun at Kelvin.

‘Fuck,’ Kelvin thought. ‘I’m really fucked.’

He stares at him, having already positioned his knee on the alarm button underneath, presses it as he punches a key on the till. A faint ringing sound emanates from the machine and a sudden darkness envelopes the store. Kelvin lifts the gun from the candy box and points it at the man. The man fires his gun. So does Kelvin.

The Shopper:

Carmelita has resolved not to eat ice cream of any kind for at least a week. But it has been eleven days since she has had any ice cream or any sweet snacks.

“I’ve been real good,” she thinks, “and now I deserve to have a treat.”

She has lost six pounds. At Dr. Willy’s shower that afternoon, it has taken her a lot of restraint in refusing the slice of chocolate mousse cake. Enough is enough. If she just limits herself to a drumstick or a chocolate bar a day or every other day, she should be okay.

So what would it be tonight: a Drumstick or Cadbury nuts? There were three different kinds of Drumstick and the one with the fudge in the centre looks the most sumptuous.

She hears the store clerk, a young Korean man, clears his throat. She looks back at him and smile. “Goodness! He might think I’m shoplifting.” She looks at her watch and figures she has been in the store for more than ten minutes. No wonder. Finally, she takes one Drumstick and starts to walk towards the counter when she sees a tall man in red jacket entering the store. His baseball cap is pulled down so low it’s hard to make out his face. Instinct tells her to stay where she is and she pretends to look through the glass of the now shut freezer door.

The man casually picks up a big bag of Lay’s potato chips and slowly walks up to the counter. She hears him mumble something and she sees the store clerk reaches behind him for a pack of cigarette. She hides behind the shelf of cleaners and detergents to get a better look at the two men. Then she sees it: a gun in the tall man’s hand, the barrel pointing at the store clerk. The store clerk slightly shakes his head and pushes a button on the cash register. At the same time that she hears the ring from the cash register, the lights go off and the whole store is engulfed in darkness.

It happens so fast and all at the same time - the darkness, the two sparks and the two shots. Carmelita crouches on the floor and tries desperately to find her cellphone inside her oversized purse.

“Oh, my God,” she cries, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Please don’t let me die. I promise I won’t eat anymore ice cream for the rest of my life.”

The Thief:

Jamaal leaves his car deliberately. The street is deserted and only the convenience store seems to have any activity. He lights a cigarette and exhales the smoke. He stands on the pavement for a few seconds before crossing the street and heads towards the store. He feels his waist inside his red leather jacket and caresses the butt of his gun, cold and smooth.

The glass and steel door of the store opens heavily and Jamaal glances at the hinges as he steps on the blue soiled mat with the word ‘Welcome’ printed on it. He hears a faint ringing.

The young man at the counter gives him a cursory glance, nods and smiles at him before slowly sitting down. Jamaal wonders if there is an alarm switch that the young man has already triggered to alert anyone or even the police. But the young man continues to read the newspaper in front of him.

Jamaal picks up a large bag of potato chips as he ambles toward the store clerk.

“A pack of Players,” he mumbles. He hears a soft cough at the back and notices a small woman leaning down the freezer with the “Nestle” drumstick picture in the front. He looks at the security mirror above the man’s head. Seeing no one lese in the store, he reaches inside his jacket, pulls out his gun and points it at the clerk as the clerk tells him “5.75".

“Open the cash,” Jamaal says in a low voice. The store clerk shows no emotion. Jamaal sees him press a button on the register and as Jamaal hears the faint ringing of the cash register, the lights go off. He hears a soft shriek from the woman by the freezer. He pulls the trigger of his gun. In that brief instant, he sees a gun pointed at him, the spark from it seems brighter as he hears the bang from the gun that was not his own. He feels a dull pain in his chest.

PROMPT - a locked gate

The sound the heels of my shoes made with every step echoed back as I walked the long stretch of quiet corridors leading to the psychiatric ward in the hospital’s basement. The fluorescent lights hanging high above the ceiling emitted a monotone of buzzing that complemented the antiseptic smell and the muted green color of the walls. The shiny concrete floor gave me the eerie feeling of being in a Star Wars spaceship or something.

I reached the ward’s double gated entrance with two large locks almost the size of a small pot. I noted the large bolts above and below the gates. An armed security guard sat on an upholstered chair between the gates, his waist heavy with the chain of large keys. He stood up when he saw me.

“You’re visiting someone or are you a doctor?” he said. I detected a Visayan accent, more likely central Visayas.

“Visiting,” I replied. “Jason Lee Monaghan.”

He smiled at the name. “Ah, si Sir.” Ah, it’s Sir, giving me the impression he knew Jason. Still he checked a large blue register and finding the name, lifted the white intercom and spoke to someone. After a few “yes” and “okay”, he replaced the receiver and folded back his logbook. “Ah, ma’am,” he said to me, “you’re expected inside. His doctor is there, too.”

He unlocked the first gate to let me in. He opened a red register and made me sign my name while he locked the gate back. He unlocked the second gate and almost immediately, a large man, wearing an orderly uniform materialized and escorted me to a receiving room. He asked to see my purse, literally turning it inside out, inspecting the contents, making sure there were no pointed or sharp objects inside. He took my ballpen and my compact mirror along with the small bottle of perfume and placed them on a small plastic tray. Then he asked me to take my belt off.

“Why?” I was more concerned about how I looked when Jason saw me.

“Ma’am, this is a psychiatric ward,” he said. “Sometimes a patient can grab you, not that they are violent or anything, but you never know. They can use the belt to try and kill themselves or you.”

I took off my belt and handed it to him. He rolled it and placed it on the same plastic tray.

We walked down another long corridor. Then through another iron grill gate, we entered the inner sanctum that was the psychiatric ward. A few patients, men and women, stood leaning against the walls. Some greeted me with a smile, but one man approached me, grabbed my arm and shook my hand. “Hello, don’t forget to vote for me, Sebastian Hoy, for governor!”

The orderly promptly pulled him away. The man meekly stood aside and muttered, “I’m going to be governor!” which elicited a “No, congressman” “no, Senator” from two other patients.

We went through a swinging door marked “Alcoholics Anonymous” then stopped at a half opened door. The orderly knocked while looking sideways keeping watch on the other patients loitering in the hallway. I heard Jason’s voice saying “Come in.”

He lay on his side wearing his favorite blue pyjamas, as he talked to a young nurse. He sat up. The nurse adjusted the bed for him.

“Your wife?” she asked.

“No,” I said simultaneously with his “Yes”.

SHORT STORY - The Pink Panther

"Do you know where we are right now?" Sue Clarinton asks, her cheeks flushed from Salalah’s 45 degree heat, her plump right hand adjusting her Ray-Ban sunglasses while her left fans herself furiously with a leaf fan; the gold bangles she has bought earlier at the soukh in downtown Salalah make jingling sounds as she moves the fan. She wears a bright pink track suit and a large bright pink voile scarf wrapped around her head and her neck.

"Nope!" Beads of sweat form on my forehead and I reach to turn on the AC of the SAAB full blast. The engine roars as the car accelerates up the hill, my feet pumping on the gas pedal, unsure where we are going. Black goats and white sheeps dot the barren hillsides, feeding on dried bushes.

"This is not right!" Liz Phelan says from the back seat. She wipes her sweaty face with her palm. I tell her to use the box of Kleenex behind her. "We’re lost. Why those bloody bastards went ahead and not even wait for us is beyond me." She kicks the floor of the car. "It's just rocky hills, dried bushes and stupid goats and sheeps all around. I'm sure this is hell, what with this heat!"

Sue Clarinton is the General Manager of the Austin Eye Clinic and Liz Phelan is her Office Administrator. They have come with a team of eye doctors from Texas and have arrived two days ago in Muscat, the capital of Oman. The owner of the company I work for, Atlantic World Oil, has sponsored the team as a contribution to a project planned by Shiek Al Bin Khalfan, the Minister of Petroleum and patron of Atlantic World Oil. After visiting possible sites for a clinic in downtown Salalah and inspecting a few hospitals, Shiek Al Bin Khalfan tells us we will have a picnic atop the hills.

We have started earlier with our convoy of four cars: Shiek Al Bin Khalfan in a brand new Range Rover with Dr. Steve, Dr. Shawn, Dr. Billy and one bodyguard, Suleiman, who is also our guide. Seven more bodyguards are packed in like sardines in an older Range Rover. My boss, Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Al-Sajeed, the minister's assistant, drive in a rented Mercedes Benz while Sue and Liz ride with me in my rented SAAB. For thirty minutes, we follow the three cars, with Shiek Al Bin Khalfan at the head, as they zig-zag their way through traffic and highways up to the small town leading to the "hills" for the picnic. At a turn off, a small "tornado" forms, a mini-funnel like wind that gathers dirt and messes up the sands and effectively blocks our view of the three cars ahead of us. When the wind settles, we find ourselves on a rough path leading up the hills that suddenly appears in front of us.

Liz pushes her blond hair with the palm of her hand. "We have picnic at top of hills, beautiful view. You enjoy it, I know," she says, mimicking Shiek Bin Khalfan’s accent. "That fuckin’ asshole." She grabs the hem of her long skirt and dabs the sweat off her face and neck. "And you haven’t been there at all, have you, Victoria?"

"Are you kidding me?" I say, shrugging my shoulders and glancing at her through the rear-view mirror. "This is the first time I’ve come to Salalah. I don’t even know why I had to come!"

"Obviously they needed someone to drive Sue and me around," Liz says, the fabric of her skirt muffles her voice. "Those morons clearly don’t want women in their stupid cars. I want to kill that stupid minister."

"I don’t really care wherever we are right now, I just need to pee real bad," Sue declares. "I don’t know how much longer I can take it, Victoria, but my bladder is about to burst with this rough road we’re in."

A skinny dog darts from a thick bush and crosses the path in front of us.

"Shit!" Sue and Liz say in unison as I step on the brakes. Sue drops her leaf fan and her hands clasp her bulky gut, in an attempt not to urinate on the passenger seat.

"Fucking shitty dog, crossing the road like some idiot….hmp… hmp… dog." I say. I look sideways at Sue. "Did you go or what?"

She looks at me and seeing my dog-like grin, she yells, "Shut up, Victoria!"

I continue to drive, my own bladder building up its own pressure. The SAAB's AC couldn't keep up with the heat of three women, two of them on the verge of menopause.

"Shit, I got to go, too, damnit!" Liz says from the back seat. "Victoria, do you think we can stop somewhere and we can go behind a thick bush or something? There wouldn't be anybody around here, would you say?"

I pull over and roll down my window, the heat slapping my face. I stick my head out, careful not to release the break that my right foot is straining now to press. The sky is a clear blue and the sun hangs directly above us like it would not set for another ten or twelve hours. I hear the hodgepodge of crickets and goats and sheep’s sounds, and the distant whirl of the hot air being blown from the direction of the Yemeni desert. My left foot loses the clutch pedal and the car shakes before the engine stops dead. Seeing that we are parked on the very edge of the road with a deep ravine at their side, Sue and Liz holler "Watch out!"

I sit back and re-start the car. I look forward, backward (through the rear-view mirror), sideways.

"What?" both women ask.

"I don't know," I say. "It's 2:30, maybe the animal keepers are having their naps."

"Victoria," Sue says, "We never saw any houses or igloos around here. I'm sure the animal keepers are down in the village."

I giggle at the mention of "igloo" and drive the car a few feet before I say, "They have small caves around these hills, that's where they stay." Two pairs of eyes roll up in exasperation.

The car's engine strains as it follows the upward path. We drive for another ten minutes and we reach the top of the hill where we have a view of the valley below, dried brown bushes and bare trees among the maze of small dirt roads, going down to the village, where the color turns green with the date palms and olive orchards. On the horizon, the blueness of the sky meets the deep blue of the Arabian Ocean. A light wind blows and it suddenly feels pleasant. We got off the car and surveyed the place. A few feet away, we found a large bush.

"Perfect!" Liz exclaims. "I think we can do our bathroom duties here. We can see when people are coming."

"Oh no," Sue says, adjusting her large pink scarf. "We came from that side," she points west, "so if they come, they would be around there, not here," she points east.

"Which means?" Liz asks.

"Which means, we can pee and nobody will see us." Sue looks at me for approval.

"Up to you guys, I myself don't mind. We used to do this in the Philippines all the time."

"No," they both shake their heads. Liz says, "I haven't done anything like this at all in my entire life."

"The hell. Let's go." Sue proceeds to lower her pink track pants.

Liz follows. "Well, there's always a first time!"

I join the two women. We look around first just to make sure nobody can see us.

It seems endless, this bladder, I comment when it seems we could not stop peeing. A bee buzzes by.

"Damn you," Liz says.

Sue jokes, "What if it mistakes our assholes for its nest?"

We all laugh, the flow of our pee becoming choppy.

Another bee flies by.

"Another one!" For a moment, Liz makes an attempt to stand up, but crouches back again. "My pee won't stop, I'm not finished yet!"

Suddenly, from the distance, dusts rise and I spot sparkling reflections of the sun against glass. Then the image of a car appears. It’s Minister Al Bin Khalfan’s Range Rover, with the second Range Rover and the Mercedes in its dusty wake.

"Holy camoley," I say. Since I have finished, I pull up my drawers and, still in crouching position, move towards the other side of the bush, out of the cars' view.

Liz follows me. "Fuck, Sue, we are on the wrong side of the fucking bush!"

"Well, who's to know." Then Sue shouts,"Holy shit!" Her scarf gets caught in a small dried branch while pulling her pants up. She almost falls, her fat bum facing the path where the cars are now coming closer at full speed.

"Come on, Sue, quick!" Liz yells. "They're coming! They'll see you!"

"What the hell do you think I’m trying to do! Ballroom dancing?"

Sue swears and utters all obscenities while she tries to compose herself and pull up her blazing pink pants as well, as Liz and I fall on the ground, clutching our stomachs, laughing hard.

When the three cars reach us, the Minister comes out first, grinning. His bodyguards quickly unload mats and blankets, large containers of food and styrofoam boxes of beer, wine and juice buried in crushed ice.

"How you know this is where we go?" he asks in his heavily accented English. His tall imposing figure towers above me. He wears a long beige cardigan over his clothing and as he places his hand on his hip, I see a gun tucked together with his kanjah.

"I just followed the road," I reply, staring at the gun which is at my eye level.

"What took you so long?" Liz asks, her arms akimbo, not exactly hiding her displeasure.

But the Minister ignores her. "What you doing in the bush?" he asks again.

"There's no toilet around, here, Your Excellency," I say. "We had an emergency!"

I glance at Sue and Liz, their faces red from heat and embarrassment, darting angry glances at the Minister.

The Minister grins, a gold molar glinting in the bright afternoon sun, and turns to Sue, "Oh, is good we saw you. I thought there is pink panther in bushes." He smirks. "I ask Suleiman to shoot!"

A STORY - PART 1 - Aunt Minnie

The frantic knock startles me as I read my book. I close the book and look up at Aunt Minnie. She does not stir from her rocking chair that faces the window. She stares outside, unblinking in the brightness of the afternoon sun. This April day has started chilly and she would not venture into her garden; her arthritis is on the attack. All afternoon though, since my arrival, all that she has said is that the one beautiful butterfly in the garden seems to be an omen.
“Shall I open the door?” I ask.
Aunt Minnie does not move, except for a slight shrug of her shoulder. She rocks the chair slowly.
I open the door. Father Bert stands outside waiting.
“Father,” I say.
He nods at me. He takes off his hat and steps inside, wiping his shoes on the black rubber mat before entering the sitting room.
“Minerva,” he calls softly. Aunt Minnie only stares outside.
“Auntie,” I said, “Father Bert is here.” She stops rocking, leans slightly towards the window and cranes her neck as she stares at the solitary butterfly in the front garden.
“Minerva,” Father Bert calls again.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Father,” she finally says. “You know it’s useless.”
“You don’t answer my calls,” he says.
The phone has never rang this afternoon. I look at the phone and follow the trail of its cord to the wall: it is unplugged.
“I know why you’re here, Father, and the answer is still ‘no’.” She leans back on her rocking chair. When Father Bert places his hand on her left shoulder, she brushes it off with one hand.
“His lawyers didn’t get a stay on the execution,” Father Bert says. Aunt Minnie stops moving but still does not look at the priest. He continues, “President Estrada is busy in his impeachment trial.” He pauses and waits for a reaction from her. Nothing.
“They had been trying to call you from Manila. The execution proceeds in two hours,” he continues.
“Good,” Aunt Minnie finally says. “Call me when he’s dead so I can open the bottle.” She points to the liquor cabinet by the kitchen door.
“Minerva, a good Christian...”
“Don’t tell me this, Father,” she says, her voice rising. “I was not the one who killed my father. It was that bastard!”
“You came from the same womb, the same seed,” Father Bert replies.
“Yes, but I never killed anyone. I’m so ashamed he’s my brother.” I note the slight quiver in her voice. “I hate him for killing Papa.”
“Domingo did it for...” Father Bert tries to say, but Aunt Minnie’s words cut him off once again.
“I hate him. They should have killed him a long time ago. They shouldn’t have waited this long. I hate him.”
Her words sound more deliberate. And cold. She continues to stare outside. Father Bert stands beside her, holding his hat. He stares outside, too, as if contemplating the butterfly that now flutters around the crocuses just outside the screen door to the garden. Momentarily, it clings itself to the screen.
Father Bert turns around and walks over to the other side of the living room and picks up the phone. Realizing the line is dead, he bends down, reaches for the cord and looks at me. I look at him and shrug my shoulder while I slowly shake my head. He looks at Aunt Minnie before plugging in the cord into the wall socket. The phone rings instantly. A long and two short rings indicate the call is long distance, from overseas. Father Bert picks up the receiver.
“Hello,” he says softly. “Yes, she’s here.” He turns to Aunt Minnie and clears his throat before speaking. “Minerva, he wants to speak to you.”
Aunt Minnie stops. Silence envelopes the bright sitting room. My eyes shift from Father Bert to Aunt Minnie.
“Please, Minerva. He’s dying and all he wants is your forgiveness.”
Nothing. I hear a shrill sound coming from the phone Father Bert is holding and he listens. Then he speaks again.
“Minerva, even if you don’t forgive him, just speak to him. It’s his last request.”
I walk closer to Aunt Minnie, but she stops rocking, leans forward and stands up. When she faces us, I see the fierceness in her face, the hooded lids almost masking her eyes, the eyebrows knitted, the lines emphasizing her age. I remember her to be a very beautiful woman. Today, there is just hatred in her beautiful face.
She walks over to where Father Bert stands and grabs the phone from him. They both stare at each other and I wonder who will blink first. Finally, she places the receiver to her ear. The tautness of her face eases as she opens her mouth, still staring at the priest.
“I...” she starts to say, “...hate...you.” She slams the phone down.

When the phone rings again, I recognize the number from the call display as my parents’. I lift the receiver.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. Mom and Aunt Minnie have never talked to each other ever since I could remember. Dad has always been their bridge and I have since shared that duty with Dad. But the two women just wouldn’t talk. I never know why and I never understand.
“Come home quickly, Alessia,” Dad says. “We’re taking Mom to the hospital.” I hear voices in the background and sirens.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” I ask. I feel Father Bert and Aunt Minnie’s eyes on me.
“Just come home. If we’re not here, wait here and I’ll call you,” he continues.
“But, what’s wrong with Mom?” I shriek and start to cry.
“Honey, drive safely, okay?” Dad says and he hangs up.
I put the receiver down and look at Aunt Minnie. “I have to go,” I say, picking up my book and car keys. I wave at Father Bert. Aunt Minnie stands up from her chair and rushes to the door.
"What's wrong with Marina?" she asks. I don’t look at her. I get in my car and I drive away.

VIGNETTE - Cristina

The five-floor building on Koestraat where Cristina lives stands amidst the seedy neighborhood of old Amsterdam. Like a huge square box, with narrow arched windows, its walls are of big stone slabs blackened and ravaged by years, maybe even the war, with little gargoyles spaced between floor windows eerily gawking at the streets below. The ground floor is a venue for sex shops, as are most buildings in the area. The three shops fronting the building are prostitution parlours where women display themselves, much like mannequins in a clothier's display window, their images framed by imitation lace curtains and bright neon lights. A woman, much older than fifty, sits in one of the display wndows: she wears a tight black corset and black stockings held up by black satin garters, sagging skins in her arms and the ripply, stretch-marked thighs repulsively on display. Her heavy make up sadly betrays the coarse wrinkled skin, caked aquamarine eyelids drooping like leather hanging in a tanner's shop. She watches jealously yet another prostitute, overweight, but younger, her plump breasts almost bursting out of the cups of her scarlet bustier, haggling with two American tourists.

In the third booth, a couple sits on an old meridien armchair. The man wears only a pair of cut-off denim shorts, a thin gold chain hangs around his neck, the small gold cross resting on his chest hairs which becomes thicker as it reaches his half-openedfly. He is young; his tanned skin glistens in the bright neon ligts. His partner fixes the terry towel wrapped around her and sits on his lap. The man pops the gum in his mouth as Cristina passes by, then licks the coloured bubble gum mess off his lips in an obscene way, at the same time rubbing his partner's crotch. Cristina looks away, her face expressionless, as if this everyday sight has rendered her senses numbed.

She enters the building's lobby and nods at the old man sitting at the run-down concierge's desk in the corner; the old man does not really look at her but nods back in acknowledgement. Three men, sitting on the beat up sofa on the opposite side, their eyes glazed, high on dope, make small sounds of wolf whistles as she passes. She hurriedly crosses the lobby to the elevator, her heels making loud clicking noise as they hit the concrete floors. She presses the "up" arrow button and the elevator doors open. She steps inside, presses the number 5 button and waits for the elevator to move. The elevator smells of fresh paint and she takes care not to lean on the walls: there had been graffitis on them,most prominently a large black swastika which was painted over sloppily with dark blue paint when one of the residents complained. The overhead light flickers as if gasping for life, making small crackling noises in the process. The elevator jolts then creaks its way up.

Cristina's apartment is a total contrast to the chaos of that outside world. Her sanctuary opens to a spacious living room: the floors are covered with off-white shaggy carpeting, the glass wall overlooking the city is covered by sheer lace curtains and off-white heavy drapes, a suite in soft white leather and tables decorated by white marble sculptures of horses' heads dominate the room. The fourth side of the room has floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with books. German, French, Dutch and English volumes, of all topics: engineering, literature, sex, philosophy, whatever. The only sign of disarray is a stray little book strewn open on the floor: "Le Petit Prince" is still damp with red wine stains from the previous night.

She opens a cabinet and reaches for an almost empty bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape, pulls the cork up and drinks straight from the bottle. She swirls the red liquid in her mouth, the bitter taste of tannin assaulting her palate - she could never get used to the taste of alcohol. She slumps on one of the armchairs, breathes in deeply as she closes her eyes, soaking in the peace and quiet and for a while forgetting the reality of her dark, sad world.
c.v.summerfield, 1986