Nighttime Conversation Over Wine

The darkness was premature, and the overcast sky dashed any hopes of seeing the sunset, not that anyone was at leasure to admire it at the moment.  Everyone was stuck in their own little corners of remembrance; too self-occupied to even give a cursory glance to the other people around--not that there were that many, anyways.

I was the same; too focused on my own thoughts to even wonder at the view of the city below.

And then you came to disturb me from myself.  I felt annoyed at the thought of forcing myself to try to be social; I dislike small talks, especially with strangers.

You didn't seem too bothered by my defensive stance.  Maybe you found it a challenge to engage me in conversation after my initial cold response.

And engage me, you did.  It seemed like you know which topics to broach to get me to talk.  To talk enough for me to agree at ordering wine, and extending the conversation further.

And then the rain started to fall, the raindrops obscuring our view of the city from the window beside our table.  And our talk became more personal, more intimate.  I wouldn't have believed that I would be able to comfortably talk about my life with a stranger.  You exude that charm, that warmth.

It was getting late, later than I ever planned on staying at this place.  I told you that I should go, and you didn't try to stop me.  As I was standing, you mirrored my movements and stood in front of me.  You looked me straight in my eyes.  This is the first time our stares lingered that long.

You asked me for a hug.  I reluctantly agreed.

Our bodies met and the weight of your arms felt good on my shoulders.  The warmth of your breath brushed my cheeks and it felt right.  You were whispering something just outside the midst of my hearing.

And then I woke up, still feeling your chest against mine.

I never got to hear what you last said.  I feel like I should remember you, but I can't.  And everything we talked about is fading away as dreams are wont to do.

Your hug is fading and I wanted more of it.  

Old House

There used to be a big house next to where my grandparents live. Back then, others just referred to it as the "lumang bahay", and no one is allowed entry through its front or side doors.

Access was limited at the back, through a wooden staircase leading to a small reception area, where you must remove your shoes before entering. From there is a short hallway leading to the room where Ingkong, my grandfather's mother, lived.

I don't remember much of her. I was too young. But that house drew me in. During summer, when we were deported to the province, I would usually go to the old house and just wander its perimeters. Even then, I felt that there was more to that house than the wooden balcony and hallway we were permitted to enter.

There was one time I was able to enter that forbidden place beyond the bolted door by the hallway. Once, I chanced Ingkong's helper cleaning inside, and I crossed to her side. Instead of throwing me out, she told me to watch my steps, as the floor boards were creaking, and weak at some parts. 

Inside was another hallway, larger than the one leading to Ingkong's. To the right were rows of capiz windows, and at the end was a pair of bolted doors. There was another door to the left of where I was standing; more mysteries to unravel, if one were bold enough.

Only muted light was able to penetrate those capiz windows, giving the hallway the forlorn atmosphere of the forgotten. I dared not touch anything for fear that I disturb the sleep of the house, equally scared and excited that the house would awake and tell me its stories.

The old house is long gone, torn to its foundations and buried in memory. I can't even remember which side of the family belonged to that house, nor where it used to stand. But every once in a while, it appears to me in the vagueness of dreams and fading recollection.