Small Things

The linen-white color of nails after a bath at the end of the day, when exams are over and fresh clothes have been laid out on the bed.

Bring offered a seat by a good-looking guy on the bus from Taft Avenue to Baclaran, and again by a better-looking guy on the bus from Baclaran to Casimiro.

Bathing with lemon soap that fills the bathroom with the smell of honey-lemon Halls.

A message from a friend whose advice is simple: get up, move on, forget.

A shared glance with the boy I pined for not so long ago; he still wears his hair long and wavy, still sports the same trimmed goatee, and goes to class in a T-shirt, shorts, and rugged rubber slippers.

Finding a can of tuna chunks in vegetable oil in a kitchen cabinet when I wake up in the middle of the night with a grumbling stomach and no memory of eating dinner.

A pink tongue licking my hand, a wet nose inspecting my clothes, furry ears waiting to be scratched and dirty paws leaning on my legs, craving acknowledgement.

Reading the blogs of friends and acquaintances, catching up with lives already heading in opposite directions, and sharing snippets of conversation that are anywhere from hours to days in between.

An old photo of my brother and his wife before they were married above the TV in my room, which used to be his; their faces are two halves of the same moon, one white, the other black, smiles identical, wide and bright.