The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 5

THE BOY only acknowledges the girl after five seconds of staring. "Eh?" he asks with eyelids halfway down. He gawks at the girl as if he were painting a fresh white canvas with an unused brush dipped in blue and yellow and all of a sudden there was a dab of purple.

"Are you with someone?" the girl asks, head low, gaze withdrawn.

"Not really," the boy says. He wonders what kind of dilemma the girl has gone through so as to deserve the calamitous event of being an open recipient of the deluge of rain that morning. He also wonders how he can redeem himself; the girl is obviously peeved by his lack of response earlier.

"Well, can I sit here?" the girl asks, but it sounds more of a statement.

"Of course!" the boy says, a little too loudly, "Sure!" and he begins to collect the farraginous of books on the table, most of which are thick and huge and heavy— The New Strong's Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible, a textbook on the syntax and grammar of Koine Greek by Summers, The Complete Word Study: Old Testament by Zodhiates, The Bible Knowledge Commentary penned by Walvoord in collaboration with Zuck— and a bunch of others.

"Heh. Owner's my friend, so I can put my books here," the boy explains as he neatly piles up the books under the table just beside his matte black full-face helmet— the biggest first to the smallest. He usually keeps them there, silent and strong as a tower, for days, sometimes even weeks. "I even leave them! So far, they haven't attracted any thieves!" He chuckles nervously.

The girl pulls back the chair and almost collapses into it; there is a thump when her bum gains contact with the upholstery. She bends over and with much haste removes her mud-wet flats. She brings her knees together— her feet up to one side, and starts massaging them— the callouses on her posterior heels first, then her ankles, proceeding to the arches, and lastly to the toe mounds. The girl brings her knees up, tucks her skirt by the back, then embraces reclination and rests the full length of her back on the seat bone, hands on either arm of the chair. She closes her eyes and lightly sighs.

Perhaps the boy should get back to his own business, but curiosity gets the best of him. He gathers his sheets of creased paper, files them in one methodical sweep, and inserts them in an unkempt folder, edges jutting. He rounds up his collection of different brands of pens and highlighters and places it in his bag so that the table is all clear.

"Uh," the boy says, sitting up straight on his seat, fighting the impulse to lean forward too close to the girl. He devises a distraction by removing his glasses, wiping the lenses with the edge of his white cotton shirt, and putting them back on. Whether it has been intentional or inadvertent, or both, he cannot decide; but his vision clears by sixty-five percent and now he can perceive the girl more in the semi-dim lights of the café.

The girl does not move, except for her eyes, which she merely rolls to his direction. And they stare at each other for a while. Both silent and surrounded by the constant murmur of hushed tones and occasional repressed coughs and laughter. The song in the background has changed into a playlist of country songs.

"I'm not a maniac or anything," the boy says, trying to remember if he has his usual extra shirt in his bag, "but I can see that you're tired," squinting at her hair, "and drenched. Can I get you something?"

"No thanks—" and her shoulders cave in. Her head falls low again.

"You're hungry. I can sense it." Most of the boy's friends have already taken great note of it— the way he can easily sense things— so he has grown accustomed to using the word himself a lot. Not that his discernment is perfect, but using the word has become some kind of a verbal habit of his.

And not that the girl's hunger isn't obvious anyway. She opens her mouth, and at once closes it before burping and wincing her face in disgust, or pain, or embarrassment.

"Let me get you something."

The boy stands up, but sits back when the girl stutters, "I don't— I don't have—"

"My treat, don't worry. Just received my allowance from Dad yesterday and I have a few bucks to spare. What fancies you—"

"I'm serious." The girl almost glares at the boy.

"I'm serious, too. There are no strings attached here. I'm not even going to ask for your number." The boy grins. "Or your name. Swear."

Though no apparent mood manifests in the girl's face— not even a tinge of incredulity, which he has rather, admittedly, expected— he can tell the evident shift in the atmosphere between them; the ice is breaking.

"So churros and hot chocolate? Coffee and—" the boy stops once the girl tears her gaze away from him. Her countenance holds much impassivity and refuses to betray her; yet perhaps that little gesture signals birthing alarm.

The boy clears his throat. "Sorry. Got carried away."

"Anything's fine, really," the girl responds, not looking back at him. She continues to stare at the auburn wallpaper of the café, the one with light golden imprints of roses and thorny vines.

"Okay. I'll get you sushi. Easy to eat but heavy." The boy swiftly stands and sits back again. "Wait, you don't have any food allergies, do you?"

"Yeah, sushi's good," the girl says, and she immediately falls silent, almost not finishing her last word. She pinches the front of her shirt and lifts the fabric which has stuck flat on her meager chest. "Anything really..." she almost whispers the last line. She looks so famished it seems like she would be grateful even if it were just a small plate of roasted peanuts.

"Okay. I'll get you something warm to drink, too." The boy grabs his bag, delves into it, produces a plain white V-neck shirt in a ranger roll, exactly like the one he wears, and sets it on the table. "You can change into that if you like. Haven't worn it. It's an extra I always bring. Been in my bag for around," he hmms, "two months. But if you smell it, there'd still be a hint of Downy Perfume. The violet one." He wears his bag before standing up, bumping one of his knees on the edge of the table. He lets go of a little whelp before sprinting his way to the cash register.

The boy slips into the growing line and while scanning the menu board he begins to wonder of so many things.

"Blessed morning! Welcome to Redemption Café! How may I help you, brother?" His friend, Leo, is on duty this morning.

"One serving of Maki, please. And—" The boy wonders if he should order a slice of chocolate fudge but he also wonders if that would be too much. "...and two slices of chocolate fudge. One cold latte, bottomless cup. One twelve-ounce cappuccino." He wonders if the girl wants milk with her coffee.

"Anything else for the chick you're with?" Leo grins.

The boy squints at Leo. "Just tell me how much."

Leo gives a hearty laugh before encoding the boy's order into the register. "That would be four hundred and eighty-seven pesos, sir."

The boy produces his payment, wondering why he feels this way. Like the planets being aligned or something. Is it just him, or is the girl whom he has just conversed with the unknown stranger he has been praying for earlier?