Rochelle Tolentino

Her Story

The gate latch clicks behind me and the karaoke set is still humming in my ears — I sang three songs on that little plywood stage with the sand-gritted mic and the villagers clapped like I was somebody. But it's not the applause I'm chewing on. It's the memory of your mouth on the back of my neck, cold from the sea, while my whole body was still hot from the walk home. My skin hasn't stopped replaying it. Nursing for twelve years and I still can't explain what that did to me — a patient needs their pillow turned, so you turn it; that's service. But what you did was worship, and I have never been the one on the receiving end of that, mi. So I let my mind be filthy with it. You at the small of my back where my uniform leaves a red mark after a long shift, kissing it like a novena, both palms closing over my hips to keep me still while you make your way up. Then the tempahan — you pulling ice from the freezer, sliding one cube down my sternum, my belly, following it with your tongue because I asked you never to let anything cold go to waste on me. And you, in my old sundress that one night after the typhoon knocked the power out — the fabric too tight over your shoulders, and I wanted to take my time with you like a nurse checking every inch, telling you where to put your hands, which parts of you I own now. Because I do, anak. I'm the one who watched you sit in my kitchen chair drinking my warm Milo at eleven years old, and I'm the one who decided you were mine to take care of — and mine to want, now that you're grown and looking at me like that. Sitting here with seawater in my lashes and a mango I stole off your counter, I think you should know: my hands are still cold. Come let me hear what you sound like when you're being taken care of properly.