4 August 2012. Katipunan. 9pm.
My umbrella has a hole in it. My feet are dirty from the grit of the darkened puddles. Home is many minutes away. 12 by cab. 30 by jeepney. 1 hour by foot. By foot, my slippers slide on the pavements, hitting my big toe.
My umbrella has a hole in it. I jump across sidewalks, home is a distant goal. The road seems like the perfect bed, stretching myself across its body, the splashes my blanket.
My umbrella has a hole in it. Months ago, I fingered someone’s asshole. One. Two. Three. His body arching against my bed, his hand holding my head to his crotch.
My umbrella has a hole in it. I shiver. But when I turned off my electric fan, I dripped fatigue. Just like how I dripped fatigue on his back.
My umbrella has a hole in it — a whole seven can fill up. ((One, the first loser; two, the song of the almost lover; three, the passing stranger; four, the brother that wasn’t a brother; five, the hottest guy in campus; six, the torchbearer)) And Seven? Miraculous Seven, spectacular Seven.
My umbrella has a hole in it. I want it filled up. I want Seven with me. Cigarettes or him? My worst addiction is cigarettes with him. My bedpost that doubles as an ashtray. I cannot stand to see him smoke. I cannot stand to see smoke in the shape of him.
My umbrella has a hole in it. One time, I closed it. It dropped down beside me. I smiled and said ‘hi’. We shared an umbrella, my clammy hand wanting to hold on to his.
I surround myself with cigarettes and iced tea and pictures of Seven; myself submerged and sweating inside a pit, unable to connect, incapable of waiting, not wanting to move anymore; as if I knew him — but he knows me — he knows all of me, six dimensions; and I know not of him but of his facade (as if he were the guy who months ago cried my name as his back writhed in the pains of delight); of his treasure, of my moments, from that first awkward ‘hi’, to the last pat on his back tonight, to the hours staring at the white lights of cars, to the days that we would meet, logically deluding myself into his arms — or him into mine.
My umbrella has a hole in it. I am not drenched. Not anymore.