#SimpolQuicks
“Can you keep a secret?” she asked, turning her gaze toward me.
“I need to know you ca—”
“Yes,” I answered immediately. “I can.”
Her eyes were stern. I saw passion and frustration building from the corners of her eyes — years of suppressed emotions boiling beneath the tightness of her grip on my hand. Her shoulder leaned against mine, and I stayed still so she could lean harder.
She inched her face closer. “Good,” she whispered.
That was five months ago. She came up with a strict set of rules that I had to follow — and follow rigorously I did. Or at least, I tried to.
It’s her messages I look forward to every day, no matter how much they sting sometimes. She knows my daily schedule better than I do. Yet after years of knowing her, I’ve only managed to uncover a few of her secrets. She despises anything related to pork. She values punctuality. She loves espresso. She has a collection of black, beige, and red bras and panties, which she wears on specific days of the week. She dreams of becoming a successful architect. She loves my short poems. She hates her petite stature. She’s miserable with her boyfriend. She loves the security he provides.
She’s still an enigma to me, despite all that.
My phone vibrated in my pocket as I walked out of my last class of the day. My eyes lit up when I saw her name on the screen.
“Check this out,” her message read, along with a Spotify link to “California Dreamin’” by the Mamas and the Papas.
I bet she had just finished watching my copy of Chungking Express.
“I added it to our playlist,” she wrote.
“I’m listening to it,” I replied.
“Hey,” a classmate said, tapping me on the shoulder. “We’re going out for a drink. Wanna come?”
“No thanks,” I told him. “I have plans.”
I headed out to the street and hailed a jeepney. I could have walked to her condo, but she didn’t need me to bring anything, so I figured I’d just get there as fast as I could. I needed it, especially after a few days of not hearing from her. Her thesis must’ve taken most of her time.
I got off four blocks away from campus and hurried to her condo. I’d been there a few times, but for some reason I kept forgetting which floor and unit were hers. I took out my phone and scrolled through our messages.
“I have 9 sticks of cigarettes here, and 14 lighters,” she had texted five months ago.
I rode the elevator to the ninth floor and walked to her unit. After knocking a beat that was uniquely ours, she opened the door.
She grabbed me by the collar and kissed me as hard as she could. I barely had time to set down my bag and close the door before my hands found her hips. We moved to her bed, where she lay down and pulled me with her. I traced the outline of her waist with my palms, then up to the soft skin of her face. Her hair smelled like lavender. Her breath was hot. I kissed her neck and collarbones as I moved her robe aside. She was wearing her beige bra and panties.
It was Friday.
I unfastened her bra just as she pulled my face to hers. Her lips were soft and tender, her tongue furiously playing with mine. I caressed her cheeks as she unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it aside. My lips moved to her chest, then down her stomach. I had long since memorized the patterns on her thighs. She pulled me back toward her. Her deep, hazel eyes peered into mine. Her cheeks were flushed pink. A strand of her auburn hair rested on the corner of her lips.
“I missed you,” I whispered.
“I know,” she whispered back.
The sun had just begun to set when we started our dance. Trial and error led us to the peak of pleasure we had come to know. Our skin steamed, sweat soaking her white bedsheets. Pillows fell off the bed as it rocked with a rhythm absent for days. My arms clung to every second I had with her, my lips whispering wishes of eternity in brief moments of bliss. Passion dug its nails into my back, but I didn’t care. My body felt no pain, only a sliver of carnal joy I could never fully grasp. I wondered what it would be like to experience her in the quieter, softer moments. But these moments were all I had. In them, she was mine. In all the others, she belonged to someone else.
And yet, in every moment of my waking hours, I belonged to her.
We lay side by side as our dance ended. We heaved, trying to catch the breaths we had lost. Our eyes met, and we smiled.
“I missed you,” I whispered again. This time, she said nothing.
She sat up against the headboard and lit a cigarette with one of her 14 lighters. She offered me one, but I declined. I sat up with her, both of us staring at the white walls of her room.
Silence crept into the space, broken only by the quiet puffs of her cigarette.
“How was your week?” she asked.
“Not the best. You?”
“Pretty busy too. I found time for Chungking Express, though. Great movie.”
“Told you so.”
I fumbled for the right words. My thoughts were crystal clear; I knew what I wanted to say.
“Hey,” I began. “We’ve been doing this for months now. Don’t you think it’s time to…”
I looked at her, unsure how to finish, hoping she’d understand. She didn’t look back. Her silence told me she already knew.
“Do you remember our rules?” she asked.
“What?” I was startled.
“Our rules.”
“I… yeah.”
“What are they?”
I thought for a moment, recalling the foundation she laid for our arrangement.
“Rule 1: A new song added by you to our playlist means you’re calling for me. If I can’t come right away, I’ll say I’ll listen later. Any other reply means I’m on my way.”
“Good. Next?”
“Rule 2: A request for a song by me is me asking if I can come over. If you’re not in the mood, I get no reply in 10 minutes, or you’ll tell me to wait. A song suggestion from you means I can come over.”
“Alright. And then?”
“I…”
“What’s Rule 3?”
I sighed.
“Rule 3: The songs in our playlist are only for dancing. We can’t attach any feelings to them, or the playlist ends.”
She looked at me with knowing eyes. “Do you still understand why that rule matters?”
I nodded silently. We spoke in elegant codes — so much so that entire conversations could be made up of them. I’d still understand every word.
It didn’t make it hurt any less.
She put out her cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed and looked at me the way a kind stranger might look at a wounded dog on the street.
“I’m sorry. I enjoy what we have, but this is all I can give you.”
I nodded again and began dressing, gathering my things. I felt her eyes on me as I stepped out of her condo.
I had a lot of assignments to get through this week.
Hopefully, they’d keep me distracted until the next update to our playlist.
***
Editor’s Note: #SimpolQuicks features quick laughs, deep realizations, feel-good moments, and easy-to-digest stories contributed by our Simpol Pips that fit right into your busy day. This story is a work of fiction, crafted for reading pleasure and reflection, designed to make you pause, smile, and think for a moment.
