From Cecilia Brainard: I am proud to share MELISSA SALVA'S short story, GAME. This is part of my Love Stories Series featured in my blog. Melissa's story developed in a Filipina Women's Writing Workshop, that included Melissa, Susan Evangelista, Cecilia Brainard, and Nadine Sarreal. All articles and photos are copyrighted by the individual authors. All rights reserved. This is featured in my blog with permission from the author.
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MELISSA SALVA (aka Melissa Ramos) writes fiction, poetry, and children’s books. Her work appeared in national publications as well as in anthologies published in the Philippines, the US, and Singapore. She is the author of five books, including Marawi, Land of the Brave, which was shortlisted in the Philippines’ 6th National Children’s Book Awards. Her children’s book on the Spanish artist Juvenal Sansó is forthcoming.
GAME
Copyright by Melissa Salva. All rights reserved.
THE CLOCK on the
dashboard read 10:26. KC sighed and climbed out, because being late went
against her nature. A time had been agreed upon. If it were merely a suggestion
then it would have been vague (“between ten and eleven”) or implied (“brunch.”)
She disliked the notion of suggestions. But for the time being, she was willing
to wait before asking point-blank. She didn’t want to scare this one away.
None of her previous
dates ever showed up on time. None of them referred to their meetings as dates,
either. It confused her so much that she always pulled her wallet out when the
waiter came with the bill. She insisted on paying her share so aggressively
that the men could do nothing but concede. What she wanted to say was, “if this
were a date, of course I’d let you pay.” But what came across was, “you didn’t
say this was a date!”
This one was
different. He was, for starters, tall—it was so hard to find men she could
literally look up to, and it had become an important consideration. He was so
intelligent she couldn’t always get him. He had comebacks to anything she said,
so witty she couldn’t think of anything to top them. And the teasing. He teased
her endlessly, in a way that made her wonder if he was flirting with her or
patronizing her. She didn’t know how to deal with one or the other. At any
rate, he paid her enough attention to make her think he was interested in her,
but held back enough to make her wonder if he had serious intentions.
For instance: he had
just moved to Bohol on an artist’s grant, but was here in Manila for the
weekend. Was he here just to see her? She couldn’t ask. They were playing that
game where they’re not supposed to show that they really like each other. What
she did know was he was here, this morning, to see her.
At 10:28, KC was at
the street entrance of the underground parking, getting ready to walk over to
the Starbucks on the opposite side. She wondered at the choice—why not at Dome,
where we could order at the table, instead of Starbucks where we have to order
at the counter? She scanned the area. It was the only place that was open.
She calmed her
trembling stomach and reprimanded herself, “It’s coffee at 10:30 a.m. On a
Sunday. How can it be a date?!” But when she glanced across the street to the
coffee shop’s outdoor seating area, there he was, sitting back in his chair,
his legs stretched out in front of him. He saw her as she got off the curb, and
because they were not yet within hearing distance of each other, she gave a
small wave, the hand moving almost like a salute. She didn’t wiggle her
fingers; she didn’t want to come across as a girly-girl. Generic, unisex,
harmless—that was what she had always been. But under his gaze, KC felt she was
feminine. Alluring.
She focused all of her
attention to walking now, mindful of her pace (must not appear too eager) and
posture. She was wearing shoes with higher heels than she was used to. She must
not trip.
When she got to the
table, he greeted her but didn’t stand up.
Nope, not a date.
She set her bag down,
pulled out her wallet, then excused herself to get her own drink inside. He
nodded, “Okay.”
Not a date.
When she took her seat
across from him, she saw that his coffee cup was nearly empty and its contents
no longer hot. He was almost finished with his first cigarette. He had been
here for a while.
A date!
“Have you been here
long?” she couldn’t resist asking. Please say you’ve been waiting for me, as
I’ve been waiting for you the whole week.
He shrugged and teased
her, “You were late.”
“By a minute,” she
replied, a smile tugging a corner of her mouth. She was already feeling giddy.
She settled in her chair and stirred the contents of a packet of sugar into her
iced coffee to neutralize its bitterness. She emptied another packet, intending
to munch on the crystals with each sip.
He took a drag from
his cigarette. “So where did you come from, before you came here? Church?”
Uh-oh. Loaded
question. What he really wanted to know was if their meeting was just one of
many morning activities, a breather squeezed between errands. She hadn’t gone
anywhere beforehand; not to church, because she doesn’t go, or any stores,
because they were all closed. She was too busy that morning trying to dress
like she was interested in him but also like it wasn’t a big deal. She was
aiming for “dress to go to the mall but first meet up with the guy I kind of
like.” She had come straight from the house, which was an hour away.
“I don’t go to
church.”
“Ooh,” he teased
again, as if she had just said it to be defiant.
“Do you?”
He smiled, a little
serious now. “No.”
It was one of the
things she assumed about him, details her imagination filled in until he said
or wrote something that confirmed them. What did he do on Sundays? Where did he
live? She knew that this place was the mid-point between where they both
stayed, but only guessed that he suggested this area because he had errands
here later in the day.
Her thoughts drifted
to the people who had gone to church to hear mid-morning Mass. And she thought
of the two of them, traveling from opposite sides of the city, seeing each
other on a day of worship. Somehow it felt a little blasphemous. When she
snapped out of her reverie, she saw that he was watching her as he took another
leisurely puff.
“What?” she asked,
smiling.
He gestured to the
sugar packet she just tore open. “That’s your third one.”
“I’m twenty-one. I’ll
live.” Immediately, she second-guessed this quip. Was it wise to bring up their
five-year age difference? She wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
“A-ha.”
He was right, though.
She didn’t need to feel any more overexcited than she was already secretly
feeling. “So. What have you been doing in Bohol?”
He told her he had
just started learning bookmaking techniques and weaving from fellow artists who
were also on a one-year residency, and was taking up calligraphy again—on top
of writing a novel. “We only have two hours of electricity every day. It makes
one surprisingly productive.”
“And do you like it
there? Apart from the lack of electricity?”
“The residency
requires me to finish a work of art within a year. So I finished it.”
“Within a month of
being there?” she sipped her cold coffee, looking down so he wouldn’t see how
impressed she was. “Nerd.”
He laughed.
She held out her hand.
“Can I see it?”
“It’s a
four-by-five-foot painting. I don’t carry that sort of thing around,” he
sounded slightly incredulous, but pulled a picture of it out of his shirt
pocket.
“Ha.” She gave him a
look that was almost a wink. She looked at the picture for a long moment. “So
since you’ve fulfilled your obligation, does it mean you can come back here?”
She noticed him
discreetly study her reaction as he answered, “Technically, yes.”
“Technically.”
“There’s the novel,”
“Which you can write
anywhere,” she pointed out. “Writing being a portable activity.”
“True.”
She handed the picture
back to him. “That’s a nice nude-slash-landscape-slash-existentialist abstract
art sort of thing.”
He laughed.
“Oh, but I read
somewhere that abstract art is not about what the image is but how it makes you
feel.”
“And?”
“Your painting makes
me feel happy and confused.”
He threw his head back
and laughed again.
Like now, she said
between her teeth.
His tragic flaw, she
thought, looking at the column of smoke he blew out through his mouth, is this.
I can’t be with someone who smokes. But if he does like me, this can’t be the
deal breaker.
I want to be with him.
When he exhaled, she
silently conducted a social test: she coughed a little and fanned her face with
two inconsequential waves of her hand. Immediately, he turned his head to blow
to the side away from her, then moved the ashtray to the far end of the table.
“I have something for
you,” he said now, pushing a tiny red accordion book in front of her. “But
don’t open it here,” he said quickly.
“Why not?” she opened
to the first page now, defying him.
“Don’t…! Oh,” he
briefly threw his hands up in resignation, then just sat back again and
continued smoking, less leisurely now.
It wasn’t until she
reached the middle of it that she realized it was a love letter. He had made
the accordion book himself, took the photos that comprised the artwork, and
devised the clever 3D paper art that unfolded as she stretched out the entire
length of paper. The words were in his beautiful, flowing handwriting. Among
them was “Dear,” but it didn’t precede her name. The letter didn’t have her
name, but the initial of the male character in a book they both liked. In it,
two strangers wrote each other in artful postcards they made themselves. And
while they shared details about their lives, they didn’t feel the urgency to
meet. He and KC discussed the artwork and the premise, but not the intensifying
romantic undercurrent in the correspondence.
She admired the thin
strips of pictures. One was a panorama of the beach and an unassuming
silhouette of him in it. He wrote about his first month in Bohol but didn’t say
he missed her. He referred to a big movie that just played in the theaters but
didn’t ask if she had seen it or if she wanted to. He didn’t write “Love.” He
signed it with an initial. Not his, but of the female character in the book.
The only thing he didn’t subvert was the beauty of the medium. Ha, she thought.
Very clever.
She knew his eyes were
on her as she read and touched each page. There, right in front of her was an
artifact of who he was, the most he had revealed of himself so far. The
trembling in her stomach was gone, but she was on fire from the chest up. She
knew she must be that color a child’s face is when standing upside down. Her
breathing was shallow and irregular. Ironically, she who couldn’t control her
pseudo-romantic relationships, had complete control over her involuntary
reflexes. She meant for him to see the blood rushing up to her neck and her
face. She idly ran a finger across her lower lip.
I will not tell you
that I like you, either.
When she raised her
eyes to look at him, she hoped she had shown him enough to let him know what
she wanted him to do right then.
But he didn’t lean
over and kiss her.
“Beautiful. Thank
you,” she said quietly. That moment felt like a wave that had risen to its
maximum height. The surf was up, but neither of them had gotten on it. And now
things were coming to an end whether or not they were ready. Of the many things
she didn’t know, one of them was when it was good timing to fold up the little
book.
He nodded, smiled. She
thought that for a microsecond he looked unsettled, as if events had just taken
an unexpected turn. She couldn’t tell. He blew another column of smoke, this
time in her direction, and her view was once again obscured.
~End~
READ ALSO:
The Mechanism of Moving Forward by Nikki Alfar - Love Stories Series #1
A Simple Grace by Geronimo Tagatac - Love Stories Series #2
The Virgin's Last Night by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard - Love Stories Series #3
Fossil by Angelo R. Laceusta - Love Stories Series #4
Rose Petal Tea and a Small Inn by the Sea by Susan Evangelista - Love Series #5
Game by Melissa Salva - Love Stories Series #6
Cecilia Brainard Fiction: The One-Night Stand at the Frankfurt Book Fair
How I Became a Writer Series
Tags - Philippine authors, Filipino stories, Filipino writers, Philippine literature, love story, story from the Philippines, Filipino fiction
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