This can of mushroom soup in my hand should be in your cart. We should be passing through the aisles of your local grocer and you’d have my arm in one hand and a carton of milk in the other. You’d tell me, “This is for your cereal, baby.”  I’d give you a smile and trip on your feet and my shoes get run over by the shopping cart wheels.  You’d be laughing so hard, and I’d say “Come on, let’s go get some bagels.”

Instead I put the can in my basket at Glori’s Supermarket. The lines are long and my slippers are wet from walking in the rain. Gina, the cashier, asks me where my kasamang balikbayan is. “Umuwi na siya e,” I answer with a fourth of a grin, and Gina stretches her lips forward, pointing at the sky, as she packs my groceries. “Kelan ka susunod?” she says while handing me my change. I shrug and walk out the door.

Maamo Street is packed with cars today, as the mass is just starting. Outside the church, the green mango cart is passing with mangoes on sticks bobbing in water. I’m rushing past the sweet corn and embotido vendors towards the blue gate of my apartment.  Inside it smells like Tide and cigarettes, and the faint odor of cat litter. Java meows, rubbing against my legs as I walk to the kitchen to put my bags down. 

The garbage can is half full, and on top of the ball of fur I swept from the floor the other day, is an apple core with your teeth marks still on it. Your mouth was just here, you ran your lips across the shiny redness of that apple, taking a bite and then a lick while your eyes gazed at me, then giving me a wink.

I smiled and grabbed the apple away from you and threw it to the corner of the bed. You were sitting with your elbows on your knees covered by the blue blanket, and I was leaning on the wall, gulping down water from the bottle. You got up to get your apple back, only to nudge the bottle away from my mouth, spilling cold water all over my chest. I laughed hard and choked on the water in my mouth as you frantically tried to wipe my body off  with the blanket, restraining your smile, pretending to be sorry.

I touched your arm and you gave up your attempt at remorse to kiss me, your breath smelling like fruit and alcohol, like punch at a birthday party.  But now you’re gone, and I’m taking out the trash and your apple for the truck to take away. 

We knew it from the start, but like children told to stay out of the first rain after summer, we ran away from our umbrellas to the middle of the street where it poured strongest, where lightning or speeding cars could strike and end it all happy.  Of course, the rain stops not abruptly, but fading away into a slight drizzle, then into the cold wind and wet concrete with puddles drying from outside going in, leaving us waiting for the next shower, hoping we won’t be alone when it comes. 

I forget about my age sometimes. I’m looking at the mirror wondering where my eyes have been, looking so exhausted regardless of the amount of rest they’ve had.  You always said I was too young for you, except when I‘m on top of you moving slow, staring at you with my tired eyes almost piercing.   I left the light on for you to take notice of them, and for me to take notice of your forehead wrinkling, breaking into a sweat. They were tiny beads of glass forming on your neck down to your breasts. I sucked on them with my mouth and my tongue made you quiver as I opened your legs wide with my knee.  Babies don’t fuck this well.

My hands are cold. In between my fingers it feels like there are rings from when they were last inside you.   I do the dishes to douse the numbness away, but taking care not to use too much Joy Dishwashing Liquid because I still want to smell you on them. 

Stay out of trouble. Be productive. Stay focused. Your last words are playing like John Mayer in my head, except that the background music sounds like the evening news.  You were standing at my doorway giving me a long hug, then you pushed my chin up with your hand. “We had the most incredible time together, yeah?”  you said in your thirty-something this-is-the-way-things-are voice. “Yeah we did,” I said, giving you a smirk with raised eyebrows, etching the scene in my head, hoping you didn’t notice my voice break. 

I open the can of soup and pour it into the pot.  I put in a cup of milk and some basil, plus a bit of garlic.  I can hear myself telling you my stories about homegrown basil and garlic juice, wondering if you’d even remember all the things I told you. 

The phone rings. I let it ring for three until I’m satisfied with my soup’s consistency. I pick up. 

“Hey, baby.”  It was you.

“Hi,”  I said nervously.

“Oh my god, the traffic was so bad from the airport to Brooklyn! But I’m home now, and you know what, the food on the plane was really good.  It was grilled chicken, with a delectable sauce which reminded me of kikiam at Glori’s, and I even had four martinis! I was so drunk and …”  Yadada-dada. I just had to interrupt you.

“You know what, sweetie? You don’t have to call me na, you know. I’ll understand,”  I said, torturing myself thinking of what the end of that sentence would have been.

“But I want to.”

“You want to?” I answered, breaking into a smile. “Ok, then that’s good to know.”

“Well anyway,” you went on, “going home it started raining so hard, which only made the traffic worse, and I had to carry my heavy luggage up, and by the time I got in, man! I was soaking wet and it was so cold and I’m so fucking hungry…”

“Then you should taste the soup I just made. It’s heavenly. I put in some basil. Yumyumyumyum! Open wide, I’ll feed you.”

“Oh your mom sent you some of her homegrown basil again, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” I said, smiling wide, hearing the rain pouring outside, glad I wasn’t alone.