Wanna Bet?

Part 7

The days that followed The Kiss were full of the kind of small magic that I thought only existed in my youth: that heady infatuation of a deep and sharp crush, like a knife to the heart; how all the puzzle pieces in the world snapped together into place when that crush is reciprocated. Those tentative first few days saying 'we' in my head: steady and potent like a strong, intoxicating brew, irresistible like magnets drawn together.

What I mean to say, before the words get away from me in a poor excuse for poetry, is that whenever I saw Kiko, I'd feel a tide engulfing me. It made me smile uncontrollably and do funny shit like tuck my hair behind my ears and look at him from under my lashes. He'd smile back, rush to me and loop his arms around my waist. It was a small concession to our dignity that he refrained from carrying and spinning me around, making the hallway in front of our units a set for a cheesy 80s film. The best part was when he'd kiss me, and before long we'd find ourselves making out: at the stairs between our floor and the gym, in a small corner by the pool that no one ever walked past, by the treadmills when Kuya Gibby was busy, in his place, at mine.

It was like being 16 again and discovering all the interesting things one could do with a kiss; how holding hands while watching Netflix together could turn into a sensual wrestling match between fingers and palms. We kept it PG, however. I didn't want to push, and he seemed to be comfortable with our teenage hi-jinks, though I was just about ready to jump him. If he wanted to be jumped on, that is. Gah. I sincerely hoped he was.

Happy two-week-versary.

I was at work, but the notification on my screen had me momentarily forgetting the search request I had for a patent filed in 1986. I grabbed my phone and stared at his message. I may have even clutched it to my heart.

"Uy, in love si ma'am!" Boris, the team's assistant manager, hooted across our table.

"Yes," I grinned. "I'm also in love with this patent that I can't find. Wasn't it supposed to be in the batch we digitized last year? If someone hasn't been following the naming conventions..."

"Sabi ko nga, ma'am, I'm on it."

I pretended not to see him exchange winks with his seatmate. It was fine. Kiko and I had made it official after day three of non-stop necking and it was our two-week-versary. All was right with the world, nosy officemates included.

Two-week-versary? I texted back, with a dizzy emoji. Hihi.

Any plans tonight?

None at all. :)

I have a surprise for you. :) Come by at 7? Dinner on me.

Oooh. Can't wait. See you tonight.

I couldn't shower and change out of my work clothes fast enough. I pressed my ear against our shared wall to figure out what he had in store for the evening. All I could make out was very soft music––hurrah for our building's soundproofing, I guess. I smoothed down the day dress I picked out, dabbed a bit more cheek tint and spritzed on cologne on my neck and cleavage.

He was all smiles when he opened the door to me. I had to squint because his pad was dark and he was backlit by a soft glow.

"What's going on?" I asked, as he took my hand and pulled me inside. I couldn't see until we cleared the short hallway to reveal what he put up in his room.

It was a tent. He set up a tent in the middle of his living and sleeping space. He'd moved his table and TV away to make space for it, and there it sat against his sofa bed.

But that wasn't all. He had a small, circular lamp balanced on the arm chair of the sofa, and it was throwing star-shaped shadows on the walls and the ceiling, rotating slowly in the subdued golden light from the camp lamps set up in the corners of the room. There was a thick blanket on the floor by the tent's entrance, and across the blanket was an electric hibachi grill, where a couple of sausages and skewered pork were happily sizzling, paper plates, plastic forks and extra skewers in a small tray beside it.