YOUR WRITER
by Leigh Anne Darlene E. Dispo
M
y maid outfit caught your eye, and I knew this because I saw you turn your head from where you prepared our food in the kitchen. I couldn’t glance back at you, because it was the very first time I dressed up in cosplay for someone—because I honestly thought that if I saw you looking at me, I’d die in happiness like a proper Victorian damsel in distress. We were in an Airbnb apartment you rented at Alabang—I remember how you sprung it upon me, weeks after the last time we met. You were telling me about your work and the number of days you needed to fill in working on-site. I’m sure you’d remember if you ever will. Hell, you may never even be reminded. You’re lucky. But anyway, you sent me these posts about places to pick, asking me if I’d go. I remember my childish orphan grin (See?) and the way my heart skipped. Truth be told, as much as it’s cruel to admit now, you were always making my heart dance. Sometimes, I really miss it. What hurts me so deeply is remembering you that first day of our week. You were in your yellow Star Wars shirt, your paces hasty alongside the vans. You looked like you were going to leave if I 20
DAPITAN
