Manila Typhoon – Part 2: The Long Night

They drank the wine from paper coffee cups, because the glasses had been packed away. It was warm and rough and tasted faintly of oak. Bea pulled her chair to the window and curled her feet up under her, and Paolo sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one arm resting on his bent knee.

Outside, the wind shrieked around the tower, and the lights of the city flickered and dimmed.

"Tell me something," Bea said. "Something you've never told anyone at work."

Paolo swirled his cup. "I wanted to be a chef."

She stared at him. "You're joking."

"I'm very serious. I went to culinary school for a year. Then my father lost his shop in Pampanga, and I came to Manila to send money home. I got a job in an insurance office because it paid better, and I told myself I'd go back to the kitchen someday." He shrugged. "Two years turned into six. Now I make spreadsheets for a living and cook for myself on Sundays."

"What do you cook?"

"Sinigang, mostly. My mother's recipe. It's the only thing I'm certain I got right."

Bea smiled. "I'd like to try it."

"Then you'll have to come to dinner. My place is terrible, but the sinigang is excellent."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's a typhoon confession," Paolo said, and she laughed.

It was her turn, and she found herself talking more easily than she had in years. About her mother, who ran a small sari-sari store in Cavite and believed every problem could be solved with a bowl of soup and a stern look. About her father's death when she was seventeen, and the years she had spent pretending to be fine. About how she had chosen this job because the numbers were predictable, and people were not.

"I'm not very good with people," she admitted.

"You're good with me," said Paolo quietly.

She looked at him. He was watching her with that same soft expression she had seen earlier, and the storm seemed to pause for a breath around them.

"I've been good with you for two years," she said. "I just never let myself notice."

"Why not?"

"Because you were the one person at work I didn't have to pretend around. And that scared me more than any deadline."

He did not say anything. He just pushed himself up from the floor, slowly, and came to kneel in front of her chair, his hands resting on the arms, his face level with hers.

"You don't have to pretend now," he said softly.

"I know."

"Then tell me what you want."

She had been asked that question by men before, usually in bars with loud music and expensive drinks, and she had always answered with a joke. This time, the answer came out simply.

"I want you to kiss me," she whispered. "And then I want to see whether I'm still good with you in the morning."

He smiled, a little unsteady, and leaned in.

The first kiss was slow and careful, his mouth warm and tasting of wine. Bea sighed against him, her fingers sliding into his hair, and he made a soft sound of relief and deepened it. His hand came to rest at her waist, firm and gentle, pulling her a little closer, and she felt the heat of him all the way through her blouse.

The storm howled against the glass. The office lights flickered and went out, leaving them in a glow of city light and the faint blue of the emergency exit sign.

"Still with me?" Paolo murmured against her lips.

"Still with you," Bea said, and kissed him again, harder this time, laughing softly when he gasped.

They stayed by the window until the wind began to drop around three in the morning. When the rain finally eased, Bea lay curled against Paolo on the carpet, his jacket over both of them, listening to his heartbeat slow.

"We're still stuck," she murmured.

"Mm," said Paolo, half asleep. "Good."

Outside, the first grey light was creeping over Manila Bay, and the city was beginning to wake, slowly, as if nothing had happened at all. Inside the empty office, two colleagues who had been careful for two years were not careful anymore, and neither of them wanted to go home just yet.

---

Next: Read more romance: Second Honeymoon and Pujor Raat, or browse all categories from the home page.