while i'm still happy about this

i finished writing a story about 2 minutes ago. it was written for the milflores anthology of flash fiction. i just emailed my entry to the editor a minute ago and i'm still feeling pretty happy about it. really hope it gets accepted. started writing the story around 7 p.m. sunday, and i finished it 1 a.m. monday. for the first time, i jumped into the writing without first knowing and seeing the whole story in my head. it's a scary approach, and i'm not sure i'll be doing that again soon.


Palm Sunday
740 words

She walks into Myeongdong Cathedral, a small wet cedar leaf in her hand. An old gentleman at the church door keeps the leaves fresh in a bucket of water, and hands them out in lieu of the customary palm fronds. Dressed in jeogori and paji, the traditional pajama-like outfits worn by monks and old people in Korea, the man greets her in English. He is the only person there to smile at her. Being the only foreigner in church, she stands out, and is mostly ignored.

Inside, the cathedral is more than half empty. The oldest church in Seoul was built in the gothic style, and remains unheated to this day. The air inside is damp and chill, the high vaulted ceiling is crowded with ghosts and echoes. The faithful are largely in their Sunday best: the men in suits, the women in traditional layers of silk reserved for special occasions. Their long coats and pashminas are their only concession to weather. Most matrons have lace veils perched like doilies over lacquered hair dyed in shades of caramel and milky tea. In their spring hanbok, the women bloom like rows of tulips, with teal, cerise, chartreuse, and mauve petals.

The mass begins with chimes and clouds of incense. An acolyte speaks from a lectern, the words ringing through the cathedral’s nave even without a microphone. As the cold seeps from the granite floor through her shoes, her socks and into the ankle bones, she realizes her mistake: the mass will be in Korean. Clearly, the English service for foreigners is being held elsewhere. Another look around confirms another suspicion: only she and a young Korean man on the pew behind her appear under fifty. With her brown skin and his fuzzy pink sweater, they are the only ones who look out of place.

The mass is in chumdemal, the formal language used to address authority figures and those of higher rank like parents, professors, middle management, and God. She knows this from the imnidas that regularly appear at the end of each sentence. This early, in her language studies, the most she can do is half-heartedly bow and mumble Annyong haseyo at anyone who pays her any attention. She doesn't understand the sermon but takes comfort in knowing that after the rumbling and the hissing, a soft imnida will be murmured at the end. Unlike the fluorescent-lit clap-intensive tambourine-and-guitar charismatic masses back in Manila, this one is a solemn affair. Every single utterance bears the weight of remorse, and the old faithful beat their breasts in a synchronized ritual that feels very pre-Vatican II.

She shivers. The thin wool sweater over her cotton blouse is no match for the damp chill that hangs in the air. The young man behind her seems uncomfortable as well. She imagines he is embarrassed. His shoes squeak each time he moves to kneel or stand along with the rest of the congregation. From the creak of leather, she knows he has dropped to his knees, like everyone else. She, on the other hand, has chosen to stay seated on the wooden pew, trying to keep warm. There is a rustle behind her, barely discernible from the murmuring all around.

A hand touches the small of her back. At first, just a fingertip tracing a few millimeters of skin between the waistband of her skirt and the hem of her sweater. Then a man’s palm, warm and rough, slides under her clothes to rest briefly on the deep curve above her hip. A moment later, it is gone. For more than an hour, she sits, then stands, then kneels. But she no longer listens for the imnidas, just waits for the unseen palm to touch her again. It never comes. A series of chimes signal the end of mass. She gathers the courage to turn and look at the man behind her. But he is gone. She walks out into the sun this early spring morning, and takes the long subway ride back to her dorm.

Years later, in her tiny Mandaluyong apartment, she will dream of a day in church. A warm hand against her skin and a man’s voice, rumbling and hissing in that language she no longer understands. She will wake up at dawn and see there is no one else in the room. As sunlight slowly filters through the curtains, she will tell herself over and over: it happened. It really happened.

an old friend

exactly one week ago, i met up with an old friend, whom i had last seen at a train station in seoul last year. it was great to see him again in warmer weather and happier circumstances. we had agreed to meet in UP, which he attended the same time i did. funny how we met only last spring in seoul, when we actually had a common friend back in college.

so this was how i saw him again: i was sitting under a tree at the sunken garden, across the street from the educ building. kitty, the love of my life, was peeing and pooping and snuffling at the grass all around me. we had both just come from the vet. then i see my friend walking from the direction of vinzons hall, smiling and waving at me. it's the smile that gets me every time.

i won't bore you with details anymore. but in that one day, it was like we were back in seoul again, just talking and laughing for hours over really good food. except there was no kimchi because he wanted filipino food. he was occasionally snitty at the wait staff, just as he was in seoul, when things were served less than perfectly. and there was also the dancing, not in a bar surrounded by old drunks and working girls, but at the phil stock exchange building on ayala avenue.

it was midnight, and the place was deserted except for the janitors and security guards doing their rounds. we had been sitting there and talking about saudade, that feeling of sadness and longing that you get when you miss someone or something you really like. i got out my palm and made him listen to a madeleine peyroux cover of leonard cohen's "dance me to the end of love" which i plan to dance to at my wedding next year. i told him to listen closely to the words and i watched his feet tapping while he listened with his eyes closed.

he didn't say anything at the end of the song. he just hooked up his ipod to his ear and then to mine, pulled me to my feet and started teaching me the salsa. quick-quick-slow, quick-quick-slow. there were was a lone jogger making his way down ayala avenue, past the line of taxis waiting for passengers. the only light came from the 24-hour mcdonald's across the street. at around 1 a.m., we ran out of songs and decided to call it a night.

between the quick hug and the slam of the taxi door: "you made me happy today." i don't know when or whether i'll ever see him again. either way, it was the kind of goodbye we both needed.