On a street corner

I dodge cars and trucks speeding by carelessly. I reach the other side of the road. Crossing the street without you holding my hand feels like tempting Death.

Standing on this street corner, I think of you. (I always think of you, of course, but tonight particularly.) I'm waiting for a bus to take me away from here and I suddenly remember how much I miss going home with you. It's August and it's cold, the rainy season's starting—do you still remember how we kissed under a light drizzle, on this very street corner? Or how we took so long to get home because we couldn't take our eyes off each other for a second even to glance at the jeepney signboards?

Glass on Water

You’re a shy girl of sixteen. You keep your head down when you walk through the hallways, wear a shirt-and-jeans combo every day, keep to your circle of friends. In high school, when everyone’s obsessed with labels – jock, geek, loser, prom queen – you feel invisible, like glass on water, aimlessly floating adrift along the current.

You stand against your locker, just another no-name generic in your scruffy Chucks, when suddenly this boy, the most incredible, beautiful boy, gives you a smile. You look around; is that smile for you? Yes, it seems, as the boy walks up to you and asks oh-so-charmingly if maybe, just maybe, you’d like to go out with him.

You’re dumbfounded, and who can blame you? In a world of labels – wannabe, dork, freak, nerd —you don’t even exist, and yet this boy, an incredible, beautiful boy, the quintessential High School Jock-slash-Mr. Popularity, noticed you. Stuttering, you answer, yes, yes, I would love to go out with you.

You wear a dress on your date, a change of routine for you, and you blush crimson when he compliments it. You get in his car and try not to show your nerves when he starts conversing easily. You get awkward looking directly at him so you focus on the passing scenery. Sidewalks. Streetlights. Strangers.