The Littlest Things

2 AM

Bad Blood. Small hands. The tips of her fingers at the nape of my neck. Pink. Yellow. Her warm breath that tickles and her whispered secrets. Husky voice. The smell of her hair. Her punches and pinches and her after-shower kisses. These are the things that I find myself missing as I sit on the couch, slightly drunk but fully awake, with Kath's brother snoring loudly a few feet away. Kevin is the one who invited me over to talk about "basketball," but the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels now sitting atop the center table proves that he just wants to have someone to drink with. I guess he's sad. I guess I am, too. But we didn't talk about it.

I glance at the digital clock beside the television. It's 2 AM. Normally, her family forbids me to go home at this time of the night when I had a drink or two, so I just stay over until sunrise. But this time, I feel like I have to go home. Kath and I haven't talked to each other for two days now, and my pride tells me not to stay. I don't want to see her. I'm hurt. She should apologize. The usual bullshit I tell myself whenever we fight even though every atom in my body screams, "Putang ina, Daniel. Ikaw na lang mag-sorry." No. Fuck you, DJ. Not this time. Not talking to her is making me stark raving mad, but I want to hear her say sorry first. In fact, I miss her creative way of apologizing, like that Eiffel Tower painting last year, and I think I'm immature enough to want the same now.

At 2:15, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Even without checking, I know – based on how my five senses suddenly seem so hyperactive and how I feel like a newborn child waiting to be held – that it's her. But because I'm stubborn when I want to be, I pretend I don't notice anything and simply continue my senseless sitting on the couch, scanning the room for spiders, or sign, or my own sanity.

I wait, not so patiently, as I hear the click of a stove and the clank of a pan coming from the kitchen. The house is too silent, save for Kevin's snores, that even the tiniest movement can be heard. I think I even hear her hips sway.

At 2:25, the smell of corned beef fills my nostrils, sending my heart into overdrive, so I stand up and walk towards the kitchen, forgetting my pride and my pretense, because, fuck apologies, I can't miss the sight of her cooking my favorite food. But when I get to the kitchen, she's already done cooking. I then get the feeling that she's simply waiting for me to approach her, for when I lean on the doorway [to try to be cute] to watch her, she turns around to face me with two plates of rice and corned beef in her hands and eyes that look so big and round and ready to say sorry.

"Hi," I greet her, feeling so awkward and turned on at the same time.

"Hi," she greets back. 

Silence. 

After a few frenzy heartbeats, she moves her head in a way that tells me to sit at the dining table. I do so, and I wordlessly watch her as she sets the plates on the table and sits down as well.

"I cooked food for you," she manages to say.

"Nakikita ko nga." I almost smirk when I see her roll her eyes but I don't want to look like I'm flirting. "Pwede na kumain?"

"Yah," she answers before looking down at her own food. We eat in silence after that silly exchange, and I keep thinking to myself, as I wolf down the best corned beef ever, that I probably don't mind getting hurt if it means it will lead to her playing wife and me playing husband [and us making babies] after we fight.

I'm the one who finishes the food first, so I just stare at her like a total creep as she eats. She tries her hardest to avoid my gaze, to look as serene as ever, but I know her well, and I can spot the tension on her brows and jaw. Smiling to myself, I watch her even more. Two days of not talking feel like twelve years, and I miss her so much that my body might disintegrate if she touches me. (But she's not touching me.) I miss her even when she's just three 12-inch rulers away.