Ginger Ale

Chapter 5: Antonio

Rocky walks slightly in front of me, visibly unsure. His black backpack hangs casually on his right shoulder. His hair, cut short on the sides, is disheveled from the wind blasting across our face when we were riding the jeepney to Maginhawa Street. He hasn't said a word to me since the end of class.

I understand that what he means by "go out" is a casual hang. As friends. No, not even that. As acquaintances. As new roommates, and now elective classmates. Nothing more. With our paths crossing these many times, asking me for a casual hang is the polite thing to do.

But I cannot deny how tight my chest had felt when he asked me to go out. It came so unexpectedly, out of nowhere. I was so certain he wouldn't want anything to do with me after the events of two days ago. That's how these straight boys are. The moment they sense a hint of queerness in you, you're invisible to them. Or worse, they see you as a threat. It's frustrating, but that's the story of my life. I've lost friendships for simply being who I really am.

Rocky seems different, though. He's kind to forget about the incident. Or at least to not make too much of a deal about it. He walks fast, with long strides, and his eyes are focused in front. I don't tell him, but I'm struggling trying to keep up.

I finally break the silence.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, um..." He looks at me now. "There's a cafe here that I love. Brando's, have you been before?"

I shake my head.

"Their coffee's pretty good. And they have the best burgers in Magin."

He stops in his tracks. "Shit. Sorry, I didn't even you ask for what you wanted."

I let out a small chuckle. "No, it's okay. I'm fine with coffee."

He looks down at his shoes for a moment, shaking his head. We continue walking. "I'm bad at this," I hear him say, to noone in particular.

Bad at what, I wonder.

Rocky points to somewhere across the street, and so we cross. Squashed between a 7-Eleven and a Korean barbeque place is a small two-storey boutique with white-washed walls. Pink bougainvillea creeps up the walls and flourishes in an explosion across the terrace, perfectly framing the camel-colored awning. Written on the front flap in small letters is "Brando's Cafe." It's strange. I've walked this street so many times before but I'd never noticed there was a cafe right here.

We enter through the glass door, and I'm overcome by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The white wash continues inside, but the walls are adorned with gorgeous blue-and-white Spanish tiles in intricate designs. Pots of ferns and trailing vines hang from the ceiling. We walk across the room, Rocky leading the way. His stride is confident, more relaxed. He leads me towards the back door, and we emerge into a small garden of sorts, wicker tables and chairs spread across the Manila grass. I smell the faint, sweet scent from the sampaguita flowers potted in white planters. The late afternoon sun paints everything a soft golden hue.

We sit on one of the tables, beside a tall ficus. A woman in a brown apron finishes taking the order from another table and spots us. She approaches, already smiling a cheeky smile.

"Well, well, well...If it isn't my favorite customer," she says.

I see Rocky's eyes soften. "Hi, Elyse," he says.

Elyse appears to be in her mid-30s. She's sporting a pixie cut styled to the side. Underneath her apron, she's wearing a red flannel shirt and black jeans. From where she's rolled up her sleeves, I can see a few tattoos peeking through.

"And who do we have here?", Elyse turns to me.
Rocky introduces us. "Elyse, this is Antonio. Antonio, Elyse." He speaks to me. "She owns this place."