Still

iii.

2019
int. miranda residence - morning

"What time are they picking you up?" Mama asks. She puts a plate next to me, pinching my cheek when she senses me about to complain about her adding to my mount of dishes to wash.

"Around seven."

"That late?" Papa asks, peeking from behind the newspaper.

"You already gave me your permission last week, Pa," I remind him, raising a foamy fork.

"Oh, did I? Can I go back on my word?"

I shake my head, grinning. Mama gathers her hair into a bun, going outside to tend her plants. After I finish washing the plates, I hear her happily exclaiming that her sweet potatoes are ready for harvest. She calls my brother down to help, and in seconds my younger brother, in the glory of his bare skinny torso and Spongebob boxers, speeds down the stairs and out of the door.

"Put on a shirt!" I hear my mother yell at him.

He returns inside. Before he climbs up the stairs I make sure he catches the satisfied smirk on my face.

Mama pops her head into view, a raised shovel pointed at my face. "And you, prinsesa, buy some sitaw. Make sure you buy the freshest ones."

"I have a deadline for tonight-" I begin, already facing the staircase.

"So why are you going out with your friends?" she asks, crossing her arms in front of her.

"Freshest ones, got it. Should I buy cooking oil, too?"

-

"Yep. This is the place," Darylle says as the car comes to a stop in a huge parking lot.

"Why did you choose to park here? It's the farthest possible spot from the building," Mara complains.

From the driver's seat, Pamela shakes her head. Darylle glares at Mara through the rearview mirror. She is about to retaliate, but Pamela puts a hand on top of hers and shakes her head. Like the mature one she is, Darylle sticks her tongue out at Mara instead.

We get down from the car, and I try not to show how impressed I still am by my group of friends to this day. Physically, we aren't unattractive. Pamela, the mom of our group, sticks to her staple straight blue jeans but went for a smokey makeup look tonight. For some reason, she can pull it off. Darylle cops a Parisian look as usual, donning a beige jumpsuit and heels. Mara hasn't forgotten to wear her sharp black eyeliner tonight, her black ensemble making her blend in with the environment the most. And Emilio...

"Don't you think I look increasingly attractive every time we go out?" he asks no one in particular, waving the bottom hem of his flamingo buttondown.

"Shut up, bootleg Harry Styles," Mara remarks as we reach the front of the pub. The letters of the pub name blink at us in red: "Gemini".

"I know this pub's last name," Emilio says, nudging me.

I force out a laugh. "Please, no."

"Miranda."

No one laughs.

"Gemini... Miranda," he says, trying to make any one of us acknowledge his joke.

"You could be funny, Em, but you see... you're not," Pamela tells him with a mock serious face. This is the remark that earns laughter, making Emilio stick his bottom lip out in disappointment.

Mara finally pushes the front doors open, and the vibe instantly shifts as we are welcomed by pop jazz music, violet and red accents defining the lights inside the pub. Unlike pubs familiar to me, which are empty at this time and occupied by a few uncles and beer-bellied men, this one has a fair amount of customers with ages ranging from our age group to forty-something-year-olds, men and women alike. A pair of red couches next to the window located across from the stage calls to us.

"Wow," we say in unison.

-

"First!" Emilio exclaims, forcefully putting down his empty mug on the table.

Pamela and I exchange a look.

"Bitch, you thought," I mutter, trying my best not to laugh as Emilio's proud grin slowly dissolves into a disappointed frown. His eyes flit from my face to the empty mug in front of me.

"You cheated," he accuses.

"You saw Pamela filling our mugs to the brim, didn't you?" I point out, raising a brow.

"Next game," Daryl butts in before Emilio could think of another accusation, pushing her half-empty mug aside. Mara finishes last, but she takes the last bottle of beer from one of the pails and pours more into her mug.

"Wait," I say, standing up and placing my hand on the center of the table with my palm facing up. "Give it to momma."

The three drunk people grunt, fishing out a one hundred-peso bill from their respective wallets. I turn to look at Pamela, who sends me an incredulous look.

"Yes, you too," I say as an answer to her unvoiced question.

"I get nothing good from this friendship," Pamela deadpans, handing me her money at last.

"You get a handsome friend like me," Emilio tells her, brushing his sweaty fringe to the side.

"Like I said, nothing good."

I hastily stash the collected four hundred pesos into my dress pocket and excuse myself to the bathroom. As I try not to trip on my sandals, I can hear my friends arguing about what to buy next, whether it's a pail of San Mig Apple for Emilio's low-toll drunken ass or Pale Pilsen for everyone else.

As I sit on the red toilet bowl, I try to make a guess of the decision they came to.

-

"Don't call me an idiot, you dumbass."

In my tipsy state, the statement startles me right when I open the cubicle door. The four one-hundred peso bills fall to the tiled floor. Cursing, I pick them up one by one and fold them, putting them back in my pocket carefully. I stand back up, relieved to see that it was just one girl on her phone who made the remark.

I go to the sink beside her, sneaking glances at her reflection in the mirror. Aside from her height, the other thing visible in the mirror was the number of tattoos scattered on her body. I have never seen a girl with that many tattoos in real life. I thought they only existed in Pinterest. As I squeeze some liquid soap onto my palm, I sneak another glance and she finally catches me, raising both brows in question. I lower my head, hurriedly finishing washing my hands.

"Mark rushed me, so I left my key there... Yeah, just let me know if ever, okay?... Bye."

I dry my hands with paper towels, quickly exiting the bathroom to escape her gaze and mentally reproaching myself for possibly appearing like a creep.

-

author's notes

sitaw - green beans

san miguel apple - has 3% alcohol content

san miguel pale pilsen - has 5% alcohol content