fiction chenes

He waits for his arrival, for the boy who never wears underwear and who quotes Ginsberg. The smoke crawls out from the ashtray and runs off into the air. The ants make a beeline to the half-eaten tapsilog on his kitchen table. He waits for his arrival and looks at his cellphone, waiting for it to beep. Suddenly, quite inappropriately, he smiles. Wasn’t there a play by Jean Genet where a mistress waits for her lover’s call? Didn’t she use the cord to kill herself after he broke up with her? Just how many times should he hit himself with his phone before first drop of blood is drawn? He holds this thought for a few seconds and laughs. What a silly idea, he tells himself.

In the bathroom the faucet leaks, dropping water every few seconds. Above the fluorescent lights hum as electricity cruises through the delicate glass. In his room, the electric fan sways its head, breathing hot breeze into the room. Save for a few muffled noises, the entire apartment is completely silent.

He waits for the boy, barely making a move.

In his mind, the boy is hailing a cab. He jumps in and slumps at the rear seat. He could smell the sweat and alcohol oozing out of the boy’s skin. He could feel the heat emanating from his body. The cab speeds along EDSA, driving through flyovers and snaking through roads that probably look like veins when seen from mid-air. Just how long does it take for his blood to course through the entire body and find its way to his heart?

Hours pass and he is still there, in the very same chair, in the very same room where the boy left him. He could feel his emotions slowly coiling around his neck, suffocating him. In the stillness of the night, as he waits for the boy to come up, his affection, second by second, finally festers into anger.

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