aforementioned mirror in the first place. But then again, she’s quite naked and there are mostly men about—and men will always be men, pretty face or slightly plump or the cleanliness of a dog nuzzling refuse aside. The men whistle, gawk, call out offensive sentiments, they move their hands as if to reach out and touch her chest, her ass, but no one dares come near. The men all part as she passes, and she is oblivious to them. The woman is crossing the road now; for someone whose sanity line’s been cut, she’s walking rather conscientiously on the fat white stripes that make up the entirety of the pedestrian lane, and I catch the corner of my mouth turning up as I watch. People are pointing at her now, wondering aloud what to do with her. Wondering what she’ll do with herself. Now she stops. She faces the oncoming cars. She sits. She seems to be waiting for something, there, in the middle of the most dangerous road in the Philippines, with the patience of a saint on her face. She didn’t have to wait long. A beige Honda Civic screeches to a halt just inches before hitting her. The well-to-do young couple inside the car panics: the driver, a young man in his twenties, reaches for his iPhone as the young woman in the passenger seat fumbles with her seatbelt and the car door. Meanwhile, the woman slides her ass across the cutting gravel of the road. She grips the underside of the bumper with both hands and slides her lower body further under the car, perhaps lodging her feet into some mechanism. My jeep arrives just then. It’s the sort with the better spray paint job, the kind with more precise colors and softer edges. I get in first, beating almost all the other potential passengers to the seat nearest the driver. The jeep quickly begins to fill with strangers and chatter and body heat. I talk to no one, look at no one. We take a while to leave, for the driver is collecting details from the other passerby standing by his seat. 14
heights