Part 1: The Opening Salvo

Kilometer 3

He waited still, even though he knew in his heart that she would not be coming. The cool night breeze brought goosebumps on his exposed skin and a shudder through his frame. His hair was wet from the dripping underside of the road above; the vehicular underpass where he was standing was quiet. He looked at his watch, it was already past midnight. He waited.

They were always together, until the time he stood her up. They were in the university library, reading for the quiz that they would be taking that day.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he said, closing the book he was perusing.

“Ok, where?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the book.

“Let’s meet at the Kilometer 3 marker at the vehicular underpass on Quezon Boulevard, the one going to Central Market,” he suggested, looking at her.

“Hmm, why there?” she asked, giving him a puzzled look.

“Change of pace?”

“I don’t know. Quiapo is dangerous at that time of night, and−”

“I’ll be there,” he said, cutting her off. “Don’t worry, at midnight we’ll see each other there.”

That night, due to the annual awards show that he had won in, he went out with his friends to celebrate, and got drunk. He awoke with a terrible headache, the throbbing in his temples never stopped from pounding. A Kitty Barracuda song was playing over and over in his mind, as he tried to remember what he was supposed to have done last night. And then, he remembered.

At first, he tried calling her. She never answered her phone, or whenever her family answered, they would immediately hang up the phone. He got worked up that he tried to go to her house, pleading to see her. He was never welcome there; the cold reception of her family towards him was understandable. He knew it was his fault; he never should have stood her up.

He tried to text her apologies, love messages, and other what-not to let him see her, but she never texted back. He thought of other ways to woo her again, but to no avail. After a week, he was about to give up when she texted him to meet her again at the marker that night.

Here he was, a week of waiting for her to take him back, still waiting. Each tick of his watch, each passing second became a lifetime. He shivered as the wind blew again. He looked in front of him, the dirty column supporting a length of Recto seem to him dark as the night, even with the glare of the orange lamps illuminating the underpass. The dirt clung to it, angry black fingers that seem to choke it like it was his neck. He swallowed his spit, and hugged himself.

He looked at his watched for the nth time; it was five minutes after one, when he saw a movement in his peripherals. He looked up and saw her, standing in the middle of the road and looking at him. She beckoned him to come to her, which he did. He heard her chuckle as a speeding jeepney slammed in to him.