When she called to him, he hollered back to the kitchen. “Give me a minute, Sugar, I just need to finish what I’m scribbling.” He listened. No answer.

He was supposed to be writing today. But it snowed the last two days, three feet, and he had begged her relentlessly to go play outside with him before it melted. He had bought a blue plastic toboggan with a sticker on it that said “Wacky Carpet.” Already the white was falling off the power lines, even if it was still 10 below. Sunny and gorgeous and cruel. Last night everything was frosted like a marshmallow cake, softening all the hard edges of the world outside. But from the window in his study this morning he could see crusted snow wilting precariously from the tourelles of the buildings across the street. Imogen had never made a snowman. She’d only seen snow twice. More excuses for him not to write today. He was supposed to be writing about prize-winning things, unspeakable violences or unarticulated tendernesses, the minutiae of life, the grandeur of death. If not death, then at least about cancer.

Or grandparents in the holocaust. So many contests needed winners, but first they required $15 reading fees, self-addressed stamped envelopes, double-spacing, hope, a dash of arrogance. If only he was a Jewish writer. Uh-oh, he thought, was that anti-Semitic? He liked to write in the third person so that he could get away with writing about what he knew intimately.

The kettle whistled and again he listened for Imogen. Her footfalls creaked the slanted floorboards of their little apartment, and the whistling descended then died. Eventually, you live with someone long enough you don’t need words.

Though sometimes in those silences you listen for what you fear may not be there. Seeing as she was occupied, he quickly checked his Facebook. He had recently reconnected with his old friend, Zeynep in Istanbul. When she friended him back last week, he saw her profile and recognised a common friend among her network. Susannah was someone he had neither seen nor thought of in years. Sometimes he thought of her, but it was more that he thought of the guilt. He hardly knew her, but he knew himself all too well. Anyway, Susannah looked happy. She was one of those types who put as her profile picture a photo of her smiling with her boyfriend. They both sure looked happy. But in the photos we choose, aren’t we all? Photos always have elements of wishing.

After seeing that picture, he had written Zeynep, asking if he could ask her advice. Permission to ask for advice. That’s the difference when you’ve fallen out of touch. They’d been good friends in Paris, many years ago. They often reserved the studio and the digital Canon, and practiced taking glamour shots of each other. They were amazed at the miracle of good studio lights, even though the pics turned out more like those in the Kmart catalogues. Not great for their fashion photography portfolios. Usually he and Zeynep just sat in cafés, or she took him along with the Turkish contingent to alumni events at The American University in Paris, where everyone mercifully spoke English. He was amazed at how good it felt to be understood on even the most basic level. Even if he didn’t like the students there at all. There’s something garish about American students in Paris. But he liked the Turks. Just like Filipinos, they remembered splendor and had long grown accustomed to waiting for better times.

Eventually, you live with someone long enough you don’t need words. Though sometimes in those silences you listen for what you fear may not be there.

Zeynep responded to his e-mail: “Sure,” she said, “ask away.” She even used a smiley face emoticon. “I was in Vienna last weekend, saw some old college friends,” she also wrote, “and it was nice. I could be myself, no judgements, if you know what I mean.” Another smiley emoticon.

He thought maybe she knew what he wanted to ask her. How could she? Had Susannah talked to her about what happened? If so, what had she said? Such self-regard, he thought, ashamed of himself, Why on earth would she bother talking about me anyway? Sometimes I forget not all women are Manila girls: virginal and coy and perfumed, every boy they kiss is their prospective husband (whom they’ll marry without test driving, who will cheat on them, who will make them wish divorce was legal and thank the Blessed Virgin that the Church allows annulments to rich people). Susannah wasn’t a Manila girl. She had tattoos, big ones. On her shoulder and her back. He doesn’t remember what they were, because it was dark in his bedroom. Only that she had big tattoos and a voice that didn’t match them.

Anyway, he decided to come out with it and ask Zeynep. While he was writing her, Imogen came into his room with a bowl of sliced apples and oranges. He quickly switched browser windows when he heard her coming. The BBC news page. He’s always worried about Israel and Palestine. Even though this thing with Susannah happened years before Imogen, he felt like he was doing something transgressive. Not that it was wrong. Maybe embarrassing. He didn’t want Imogen to think of him that way. Like other guys. Even for a night a long time ago. Nobody wants to be a cliché.

Imogen stood beside him. “It’s nearly midnight in Manila. Aren’t you going to call your father for his birthday?” she said.

“Nope.”

“It’s his birthday.”

“Yup.”

“Don’t you think you should call him?”

When she left, he continued with his e-mail. He didn’t reveal everything to Zeynep either. He clicked “Send.” Then went and played in the snow with Imogen. Their laughter was a balm. Though he found himself wondering if she was playing it up. Sometimes we try so hard we lose track of what’s real.

What had happened with Susannah, see, was that six years ago he arrived in New York. It was summer and the start of his new life. He wanted to hook up his old friend Lorenz with Susannah. For three reasons. One: Lorenz didn’t have a girlfriend. Two: he did, back in Manila. Three: because he didn’t like Susannah’s teeth. She was cute, though, especially when she smiled with her mouth closed. When he called her, she suggested they meet at a café on MacDougal Street in the Village. Near her place. He couldn’t believe she mispronounced it. Mac-Doo-Gul. He wanted to ask her, Isn’t it pronounced Mac-Duh-Gal? But he didn’t. He did ask if it was a Chinese joint. “No,” she said, “it’s Italian.” He said, “Café Chow?” She said, “Uh, yeah.” When he arrived, he couldn’t find it. Then he saw it. Café Ciao. He was embarrassed and went straight to the bathroom to powder his nose.

When he stepped out, Lorenz was already there.

“Oh!” Lorenz said. “Mister MacSniffles!” As they shook hands, he passed Lorenz the vial. Lorenz smiled, ducked his head and looped some of his long hair behind his ear.

Susannah arrived. Petite, pretty, in those goldy-flowery-Canal-Street Chinese sandals every girl was wearing those days. Good in theory. Except he hated those sandals. Her voice was really sweet. And possibly annoying. She’s
really sweet, he thought, I wonder if Lorenz will dig her? They ordered sangrias and fiddled with their menus. They looked at each other across the table, the way people do at tables. The waitress came, produced a pen from behind her ear, like a magician, and inquired if they’d enough time. They asked for another minute.

“Are you boys hungry?” Susannah asked. “The pizzas are kinda big here. Let’s just split one?”

“The Del Mar sounds good,” he said.

“Where’s that?” Susannah said.

“Um, number twelve. It’s got garlic, shrimp, anchovies . . .”

“I don’t do anchovies,” Lorenz said.

“Why not? Allergic?”

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