It is a scorching Friday afternoon; the sun is burning into every surface it can reach. And one unfortunate surface is Hayge's skin. Hayge sits peacefully on her most-prided balcony that juts humbly out of her second floor room, in a pair of jammies, sipping on a cup of decaf latte, with a classic Shakespeare book on her lap, as the insane heat takes its time terrorizing her out of her wits. At this hour of the day, most of the tenants are probably either taking a catnap, or dutifully running errands, or just living their hectic life somewhere else.
Just not out here. Not out here in her balcony, exposing themselves for the sun to mercilessly torment.
But in spite of the high temperature, insanely high temperature, in spite of the sweat beads trickling down her temple, and in spite of the cool, comfy sofa begging her to come inside, she will stand her ground. She is going to stay out here.
For as long as it takes.
And she wouldn't dare give in to the temptation of going back in until she sees what she has come out here to see.
Until she sees him.
Until she sees Cutie McHottie.
Yes, yes, it is pathetic to sneakily check out the cute guy from the next building come out of the ashes every Friday afternoon, usually always at this hour, and play ball with his friends at the basketball court that, conveniently enough, is in perfect view from her balcony.
Hayge has told herself this a million times before. But does that ever stop her from doing it anyway?
Not… at... all...
Every Friday afternoon, Hayge makes sure she has no other things to worry about, like emergency meetings, the laundry, or other possible things that can get in the way. No, on Friday afternoons, she sees to it that her hand is empty.
Because Cutie McHottie has chosen Friday afternoons to be his playtime.
Not one afternoon does he miss. Ever since she discovered by accident, which was some five months ago, that there is some sort of Athenian god playing basketball at the court that faces her window, thus her balcony, at the needed angle, she comes out every week, same time, same day, pretending to read on some book while her eyes actually remain plastered on him the whole time, catching his every step, every cute hand gesture, every word of cuss, every heartfelt smile, every eyebrow curl, every eyeroll, every headshake, every adorably funny face or dance that he does every time he makes an almost impossible shot. There is a striking thing about him that has given Hayge something to look forward to every week. And for some reason, this guy never fails her. He comes out, also at the same time, same day that is expected of him, strutting in the place, and stealing Hayge out of her thoughts.
Afterwards, she is eaten by that self-deprecating sense of guilt from spying on him like a highly declassified undercover agent, observing his every move with a hawk's eye, with him all clueless and innocent, but always afterwards, when the deed is done, when there can be no undoing anymore.
And the evanescent feeling always leaves her… when she is about to commit the same naughty deed again.
Like she is now.
Hayge fidgets in her grandfather chair, trying to get into a comfortable position, tossing and turning. And then like a madman, she dashes back inside to check her face on the mirror, smoothing out the kinks on her untreated hair for the fifth time that afternoon, adjusting her correcting eyeglasses for a better fit. Even if it has never happened that Cutie McHottie looks her way, she has to know that she appears decent if ever the occasion calls for it.
Fifteen minutes and counting. Hayge peers out into the street, straining her neck, her heart beating at the thought of him emerging into her sight any minute now.
She can't explain it, really, regardless of how long and distant she stares blankly into her ceiling every night before drifting off to sleep, digging her mind for answers, why this guy has an effect on her. A strong, lingering effect – not the kind of feeling she can define on her own. Maybe she needs to consult an emotions expert. What is that – a shrink? No, shrinks are for crazy people. She isn't crazy… she is merely going through a rather… unusual phase in her life… falling victim to the seductive ropes of a mere stranger who mysteriously goes out to meet the sun at an unchanging day and time, week after week after week.
There is a sudden noise below the building, voices and laughter echoing all over the place. A thunder of heavy footsteps against concrete. It is them. They're finally here. Cutie McHottie and six other men walk into her line of vision, crossing the street to where the court stands, wearing a certain kind of swagger that suggests they reign over the whole neighborhood. Cutie McHottie is all bubbly today, she notes, judging from all the cheerful animation in his body gestures. He always has moods.
Last week he was on gloomy mode, sulking in the corner like a man who just lost a million dollars. He still carried that unmistakable air in him, but it wasn't hard to tell that something was crawling up his ass. Family problem, maybe… or that unavoidable tiresome pressure from work that was always there. Who knows, really? Hayge's limited knowledge about this guy and what he embodies only reaches so much as that he is cute (in the strictest objective sense of the word), he plays basketball with his buddies every Thursday, Gatorade is his favorite drink, and he loves saying, "Ano ba?", a Tagalog phrase that simply means "What?", in that quirky accent.
The week before that he had been all cranky and grumpy, easily getting provoked under the lightest of reasons. He'd even snapped a little bit at one of the guys, the chocolate-skinned one when he blocked one of his shots, and they'd looked like they got into an argument.
But this week is a happy week for Cutie McHottie. Happy weeks aren't hard to come by. Hayge has seen the infectious smiles, the tremor in his body whenever he hollers in laughter, and the lively intensity in his eyes, all too many times, and has fallen in love with them each time. He's just an all-around happy guy who lifts everyone's spirits with his kind, jovial ways. That is the reason why whenever he is in a sour mood, Hayge is gripped by an unexplainably strong feeling of sympathy for him, and also, no matter how inappropriate this may seem, a strong urge to go down and wipe that look of teary-eyed sadness off his face with her bare hands.
Hayge gets comfortable in her chair as the guys get ready in the court. Cutie McHottie has a Lakers jersey shorts on, the one he wore five Thursdays ago, and a snug-fitting violet shirt that screams hotness. She smiles widely at the caption written across it, "You Know You Want Me." For a fleeting second, she suspects that Cutie McHottie has an inkling that she's been checking him out. I want you indeed, she thinks.
The first couple of minutes into the game, it looks like his team's on the lead. This week, his team's composed of him, first and foremost, the black guy, and the long-haired fellow who always bears a nice, unique smile. The other team, the losing team, is made up of the three people with uniform buzz cuts, all oriental, one really short, practically looking almost five feet nothing from where Hayge is looking, one with a nicely tanned skin and a noticeable dimple when he smiles, and one with droopy Snoopy eyes – this one's definitely Korean. The last person in the lot is the tallest one, the one, coincidentally enough, who lives a floor down from her own. Hayge has run into him in the building a few times, so few that she can count them in the fingers of her one hand, and not once, has she ever had the courage to engage with him in a conversation. It's not as if he's socially intimidating in any sort of way; it's just that Hayge has lived her entire life dubbed as "the shy, timid one." With long, dark hair that drapes down and covers almost half of her face, and a pair of eyeglasses a normal person probably would never want to be caught dead in, she has proved herself to be the classic, old-school nerd. And it's just one of her typical nerd ways to avoid any conversation with anyone, be they perfectly decent-looking people. Such as this decent-looking neighbor guy.
He has that gentle demeanor about him, the one who simply smiles foolishly whenever the noisy grownups kid around like little children. Hayge gets the feeling he is the goody-two-shoes in the group. And today he's the odd one out, playing the role of the referee, which, technically, doesn't really serve any purpose if these guys are concerned. They play just the way they want to play. No rules, no regulations, just clean, safe fun.
Hayge watches intently as Neighbor Guy (she calls him that to avoid confusion) blows his whistle here and there, just for the fun of it, looking like he cares little to none if the players are sticking to the rules or breaking them in a million different ways. She proclaims herself not an expert when it comes to shooting hoops, but she knows travelling when she sees one. And Cutie McHottie is so doing it. Somehow travelling looks cute on him.
Cutie McHottie fakes right, fakes left, dribbles the ball in quick, jerky moves for a couple more times, blocked by Dimple Head (another name Hayge has made up for distinction's sake), and just when Short Stuff (try and keep up with the names) goes up sneakily behind him, he does a smooth fade-away and shoots for the goal.
He's good, Hayge thinks, sounding silly even in her own thoughts. But it is true. They may all be amateurs, but Cutie McHottie can play good ball and the best one among the lot, hands down.
"You gotta let us score any time today, man…" Hayge can faintly hear Droopy Snoopy whine. Although the court looks far enough for the voices to be drowned out, she can still pick up, and make out, words here and there. Like, when Cutie McHottie says, "Ano ba?"; Hayge heard that short, quick phrase ring out in an audible sound only once before, when Cutie McHottie seemed like he was telling a joke to his friends, but somehow, in the next Ano ba's that have come afterwards, Hayge is able hear the words just by looking at him mouthing them. "Ano ba" has been her favorite phrase ever since.
Cutie McHottie does a victory dance, hips shaking and arms swaying. It also looks like he's humming a tune – again, this is just according to and based on Hayge's familiarity over him. Because no, she can't hear a damn thing. If it weren't for her selective hearing, she probably would have heard someone say Cutie McHottie's name by now. She wishes she can address him in another way, like his name maybe. But that seems impossible when you're perfectly hidden behind your own shell, looking upon them only in a bird's eye view.
Dimple Head throws a towel at Cutie McHottie's face, whether accidentally or intentionally, she can't tell. Cutie McHottie simply gives Dimple Head a gloating look and dabs the sweat off his face. Hayge has fought against her urges to look away and let him do his business too many times before, but no way can she help herself from being lured into the moment now, not when Cutie McHottie is slowly running the towel against that hypnotizing curve of his neck, that long length of bulging arms, in an almost hypnotic way. It appears as though he's purposefully putting on a show for an unseen audience. Must he be aware that Hayge is drooling in fascination fifteen meters from him right now?
Big Smile (long-haired fellow) says something that gets everyone rolling their eyes, especially the three boys belonging to the losing team. Then Hayge hears Short Stuff bellow, "We'll so beat you this time!"
Second round (or is it quarter? They don't really follow the technical stuff), Short Stuff, Dimple Head and Droopy Snoopy appear to be making up for their initial defeat, getting three shots in straight. Not that she's ever had the self-righteousness to admit she's predisposed to bias, but Hayge is keeping her fingers crossed for the other team and siding on their victory. Because objectively speaking, Cutie McHottie has the making of a competent basketball player – strong-willed, determined, and needless to say, good and it just wouldn't be a fair fight if he didn't dust the others altogether. Dimple Head and Droopy Snoopy seem to disagree with her, though, as it looks like they're owning the game at the moment.
There's that playfully morose look of failure on Cutie McHottie's face, eyebrows meeting, forehead creasing. He may just be feigning it for the sake of dramatic effect, which Hayge finds really cute. Chocolate Man (black dude, duh?) is blocking Short Stuff, who is dribbling the ball like he has all the time to do it, and Hayge, in her mind, is screaming "DEFENSE! DEFENSE!" Short Stuff is a small, swift guy, though, so running past an opponent is where he's good at. He passes the ball to Dimple Head, who's guarding closely by the net, being blocked by Cutie McHottie, and he catches it by a few millimeters before Cutie McHottie steals it and runs back court.
Cutie McHottie tosses it to Chocolate Man, Droopy Snoopy on guard behind him; Cutie McHottie waits no time before he's situated just right below the net, signaling Chocolate Man to give back the ball to him, while Dimple Head persistently stands against him, all hands flailing about. The ball lands on Cutie McHottie's nimble hands and as Dimple Head turns to face him, Cutie McHottie grins menacingly at him, who seems to be narrowing his eyes and returning the evil grin. Cutie McHottie dribbles the ball on Dimple Head's close watch, both parties wearing arrogant "Bring it on, bitch" looks on their faces. Just when he has had enough of it, Cutie McHottie flies off the ground and goes for the basket, Chocolate Man for the assist, Dimple Head shoots off and blocks the shot with a bone-breaking slam at the ball, and sends it flying out into the sky. It goes up, up, up… and down, down, down… and lands on Hayge's balcony.
Carefully it rolls and rolls and halts at Hayge's feet. She looks at it and gulps.
Oops.
2
Honey feels too exhausted to look for her keys now. On normal days, she finds it a breeze to get off from work at six, ride a cab home, and search her purse for the keys to her apartment as she stands just outside the room. But today is not a normal day. Today is Thursday – which means it's her boss's day-off, which means her work is multiplied by five hundred, which means her bones right now feel like they're made of mush. She just wants to burst open the goddamned door and fall dead on her bed, or even the floor, damn it. But no… her keys seem to be so keen on ruining her night and refuse to be seen amongst the mess of things in her bag. Honey sighs, cursing, as her hand crawls into her bag for the nth time and touches all the wrong things – phone, PDA, hand sanitizer, shades case, and what the hell is that? Is that a piece of sandwich? She grimaces but was too tired to even investigate, so she leaves it there and opens her bag wider for better access. She gives up after several attempts and puts down the two paper bags cradled in her arms down to the floor, and pulls one of her knee up so that her bag is sitting on it. She looks through it diligently, huffing and cursing in between, balancing on one foot, and still finds no luck. With a dejected sigh, she stares blankly at the door, shoulders slumped and legs bucking. It makes her assume that it's the PMS that's making her so emotional, because she finds her lips quivering and her eyes welling up just then. It's been a long and hard day at the restaurant – three of her co-workers got fired, she burned her chicken ravioli, and there was a threat issued that the management will be suspending some of the new cooks due to an unexpected financial shortage; why did fate choose this night to be Nothing-goes-Honey's-way night, too?
She wipes her eyes, feeling like a wuss, and a wave of realization hits her. Her hand goes to feel up her shirt pockets, and stops abruptly as the hard metal digs lightly into her fingers.
She can't make up her mind whether to scream or laugh.
She takes out the key and resists the urge to scream. Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts. After meditating on calming her nerves with inhale-and-exhale exercises for a few seconds, she inserts it in, turns it, hears the doorknob click and gives it a light push. Nothing happens; the door won't open. She gives a not-so-light push this time, but still it remains stubbornly closed, like something heavy is lodged somewhere, and is stuck in there now. Honey scratches her head, her stupid meditation turning out to be useless after all, and fights the temptation to call her roommate and have him rescue her from the monster that keeps her and this room apart.
But she doesn't have the energy for this. She wants to come in, eat dinner, and end the night with scented candles, soft music and a soothing bubble bath. That is how she fantasized it in her head as one of the chefs gave her foul mouth for the dish she left on the oven for too long. She wished her boss, her real boss, was there to defend and save her from the humiliation.
She admits she was at fault, but she finds the verbal abuse uncalled for. She wasn't a child anymore; a little sermon here and there would have been conveying enough to do the trick, she didn't need the words of evil straight from Shannon Kornitzva's mouth, their substitute head chef who works on a different branch on regular days – and this, Joe understands perfectly. Joe knows where, when, and how to lecture Honey exactly how she sees it fit. But every week, she has to suffer a day without him and a day with Shannon, and it is on Thursdays, when Joe goes to work from eight to twelve, and leaves at one. It is like a routine. So from one onwards, Honey switches her brain to Shannon mode and avoids, as much as her professional four-year-cooking experience can take her, errors. Errors on work, the words that come out of her mouth, and the so-called manners in the kitchen. Shannon is a perfectionist like that. The one you'd label "scary evil dentist" and have nightmares about when your mom tells you that she's taking you to the clinic.
She finds herself staring at the door again, figuring out a way how she can break in without disturbing the other tenants. For one silly moment, an idea comes to mind. But considering all the mishaps today, it becomes less and less silly in her head. This is the only way, she tells herself, fighting off the nervous jitters in her stomach.
She takes a few steps back, a deep breath, and cracks the knuckles on her fingers. Here goes nothing.
With a surge of courage, she runs forward like a maniac and hammers herself into the door, the impact causing a sharp jolt and throwing her into the air and down on the floor with a bang. Will the saying "here goes nothing" be more appropriate?
She sits there, legs bent and spread wide open, with a broken nose, a bump on the head, a sore chest. This is gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow. In fact, her body hurts so much now she feels like it's gonna crack open.
Maybe banging yourself against the door to open it isn't the best idea after all.
Just when she resorts to the idea of falling dead asleep out there in the hallway, the door opens and like an angel sent from the sky, Phi, her roommate appears at the doorway. "Honey? What are you doing out here? And what the heck was that? Was that you?"
"What was what?"
"That." Phi stresses, his arms gesturing wildly. "That thing that made this horrible noise. What was it?"
"I'll give you a hint." Honey looks up, giving Phi a better view of her face. His wide eyes are telling her that he sees it.
"Oh, my God." Phi says, worried. "Who did this to you? Did someone hurt you? Where are the filthy bastards?"
"No, nobody hurt me." Honey whines weakly, wanting to hear none of Phi's overreactions right now.
"It's alright, Honey, you can tell me." Phi bends down beside her, brown, pointed eyes boring into hers.
"Don't be stupid, Phi." Honey gives him a dark look, remembering last month's incident when Phi popped a guy at a bar when he witnessed how the pervert tried to grab her ass. Phi is a perfectly sweet guy, but he has tendencies.
"Then tell me what happened to you." He demands, standing up and crossing his arms.
"I tried opening the door but it wouldn't budge, so…" She takes Phi's offered hand and gets up from the floor. "… so I thought maybe it needed stronger pushing."
"What?"
"I bodily pushed myself against the door, thinking I could get it opened that way."
"You're insane. It opens the other way, remember?"
Oh, yeah. The lucky door, they used to call it. Out of all the doors here in this building, this is the only one that opens the opposite way. You don't push it – you pull it to get it opened. Stupid, but special. Inconvenient but rare. Of course, why hadn't she thought of that? Has she finally gone around the bend? Has she gone bonkers, as her British co-chef likes to say? She slaps her forehead and winces as she remembers there's already an ugly bruise forming there.
"And why didn't you call me? I was in my room the whole time." Phi continues to rant, holding her face and swinging it from side to side to check for more injuries.
"I'm fine." Living with Phi for four years has taught her not to overdramatize. Because he overdramatizes so much more.
Phi looks down on her like a father waiting for an explanation.
"What, I was tired, and I didn't feel like stressing my vocal chords."
"That is why they invented cell phones."
"I was too tired to look for my cell phone."
"But not tired enough to beat yourself against the door?" Phi puts his hands on his hips. "Jesus Christ, that doesn't look good, Honey." He reaches out and gently traces the line around her eyes. Great, a black eye. Awesome.
She flinches at the sting.
"Come on, let's get you some ice."
Phi gathers Honey's things, her purse, and the two paper bags that rest on the floor, and carry them in his arms. "That is not gonna look good tomorrow."
Honey rolls her eyes and pretends she isn't listening.
3
"That is not gonna look good tomorrow."
"This is your fifth time saying that." Honey groans as she continues to let the bag of ice cool the swelling on her face. Her whole body feels raw and tender, like they're changing skin. Or something. Maybe all of today's stress has sum up to what she's currently going through tonight – swollen face, aching bones, pounding head. Not exactly how a girl would like to end a day that is crappy to begin with. If it weren't for Phi's generous offers to run the water for her, prepare their dinner, and do all the rest on her behalf, she probably would have lost the will to live by now. Good thing she has him.
Her body hurts everywhere but at least now she's emotionally rested. A warm thirty-minute bubble bath has really worked wonders. After getting out of the tub, she felt a wave of optimism that let her know that despite today's unfortunate turn of events, today will be a good start. She got dressed just in time for dinner, where Phi was waiting for her in the kitchen, saying "You don't want the food to get cold."
They ate together quietly at first before Phi decided to break the silence and talk endlessly about sports, the weather, and a ball that ran amok on a neighbor's balcony.
"It was Joe's fault – he slammed at the ball too hard."
Joe, also known as the guy who "slammed at the ball too hard", has been Honey's mentor and boss for the last four years, at least that's how she perceives him to be. And she admires the guy. He is man of principle and she feels immeasurably lucky to have found herself under his wing. And it is through him that she met Phi some three years ago when she finally decided to move to Sacramento for good since she landed a permanent job at La Provence and was scouting for a decent place to stay. As fate would have it, Phi was also searching for a new flatmate since his former one moved out and eloped with some Venetian girl. Enter Joe, the bridge that brought them together. He filled them in on each other's concerns and it wasn't too long before Honey stumbled upon this really reserved, laid-back gentleman who she soon discovered cleans up better than she does. Their first meeting remains fresh in her memory.
"I'm sorry but this has been a mistake. It was actually my friend who gave your company a call because he thinks my sex life is in dire need of some updating so he set me up with one of you. Sorry to tell you this but I'm perfectly okay without it. So here's a hundred bucks, good night and again, I'm sorry if I had wasted your time."
Honey stood there, open-mouthed, eyes bugging out, as Phi closed the door on her face. Well at least he had enough courtesy not to slam it. She had no idea what just happened and had no intention of finding out. Unless he came out here in five minutes to clarify things, she would turn on her heels and head her way out. She was on the verge of executing the said plan, when the door opened and the same man's head peered out. "Oh, my God, you're not a call girl, are you?"
Duh? She remembers having the pleasure of hitting his head with a metal urinal at the time. She knew, in perfect confidence, that she did not look slutty enough to make such a lascivious impression on him in a prostitute, call girl way. Or did she? This guy must be smoking crack. She had to leave. She decided to try her luck someplace else where people don't open the door and associate the possibility of prostitution with the first woman that they see.
"I'm so sorry. What was I thinking?" Honey remembers the amusing look on Phi's face that said he wanted to smack himself a hundred times on the head. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be Honey Perez, would you?"
"Actually I am she." Honey also remembers how Phi gawkily scratched the back of his head as the revelation put a red tint on his face. "I don't know if Joe told you but he gave me your address and told me to drop by today. I just assumed you already heard from him."
"I have, actually." He mumbled quietly, nervously. "I guess it slipped my mind. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to offend you in any way. Oh Gosh, this must be so awkward." He began muttering inaudible words under his breath, fingers shaking.
"Well..." She bit her lower lip and looked down at the floor. "I'm willing to forget about it." He did look genuinely sane; the whole thing must have had an explanation behind it.
"Are you sure?" He asked, with that apologetic but hopeful smile. It wasn't exactly a smile, more like a mild twitch.
"Yeah." Honey nodded, "but first you gotta tell me what that was all about." There was a little laugh in her voice that seemed to have relaxed his tensed demeanor.
"I don't know if you've heard about um… hook-up 'companies'." he said, his hand doing airquotes,
"I have." If he was talking about those companies who sent out prostitutes for desperate unsexed callers, then, yes, she had heard about those.
"Well, my friend Phil, he… um, made a call to one, I guess to update my… social life. I told him I didn't want some stranger knocking on my door with all the wrong intentions, but he just wouldn't listen. I know – he's a little stubborn monster."
"So you thought I was the girl… that the company sent in…"
"Yes…" He was biting his lower lip thoughtfully and looking at her through long, thick eyelashes, the kind of look that said he was the kind of man who understood the good moral conduct very thoroughly. "I'm sorry. Not that I thought you looked like uh…"
"I'm sure you didn't."
"So, shall we start from the beginning then?" Phi laughed out a nervous breath when Honey bobbed her head with an amused smile. "So, I'm Phi, or Jeff, or whatever you prefer to call me... and this... is my apartment." He motioned behind him.
"I'm Honey, or Catalina, or whatever you prefer to call me…" Phi smiled when he sensed her mockery, "and I'd very much love to check out what's inside of all that. I'm practically homeless right now."
"Honey, then." Good, she always hated her real name.
"Phi, then." Phi had more character than Jeff.
They shook hands and Phi opened the door wider to allow her to pass. Honey loved what she saw immediately, all things considered; the lilac wallpaper, wooden flooring, just the homey, spacious room in general. She knew right there and then that she was talking to the guy she'd be living with for the months, or years, who knows, to come. Phi toured her around every corner of the apartment, explaining all that needed to explained, which was no longer a need since she had already made up her mind as soon as they hit the spotless kitchen, but she had to appear tentative. Eagerness didn't really look attractive on women.
"So… what do you think?" Phi asked humbly when they stopped at the living room to conclude the little tour, his hand gesturing around. "Oh, but don't give me an answer yet. I want you to think about it."
Honey was about to do or say something noncommittal, when someone knocked on the door.
The scarred expression on Phi's face made her laugh inside. "Excuse me, I gotta go and um… have a little talk with the um… girl." He said before muttering "God, Phil, I'm swear I'm gonna kill you." under his breath.
"Of course, you take your time…" Honey said, smiling meaningfully, and added, "…roomie."
Phi's face did light up then. "Really? You've, um, decided to stay here?"
"Yes, now, go, your little girl friend's waiting for you." Honey pointed at the door with her puckered lips and Phi laughed heartily, saying "I like you, Honey." and turned to answer the knock and shoo the little hooker away.
They've been roommates ever since.
"So were you able to get the ball back?" And fast forward to the present, four years later, when they've shared more than a little chats, more than a few meals, more than a few arguments. Four years rooming with a guy, one would think, is hard, considering the whole "women are from Venus and men are from Mars" principle, but four years rooming with Phi isn't. He's probably the easiest person to be with, attentive but not nosy, sweet but not intrusive, appreciative but not demanding, laid-back but not introverted. He is the perfect gentleman, actually, who opens doors for women, gives up his seats to the old on bus rides, spare parking spaces to the handicapped. But don't think the gentlemanliness is all there is to this man. Phi also knows how to play. Oh, yeah, he has those moments, too.
"No. We didn't even know exactly where it crashed. Oh, well, I guess Rynan has to buy himself a new one."
And that was the end of that. He moved on to talking about new work-out routines he was planning to try out. One of his closest friends, Ben, works as a fitness trainer for rich people who can afford wasting money on those criminally expensive fitness sessions. But Phi has been scoring himself free sessions recently, and maybe that's why he somehow looks… buffer… on Honey's eyes.
"Do you think they're working though?" Phi asked, putting his spoon and fork down, pausing to accentuate his biceps.
Honey wanted to scream yes with a capital Y, but stopped herself. Phi is looking hot these days and she wonders why. It can't possibly because of the extra muscles forming in his arms, or the fuzz that is growing on his virginal face, because no, Honey likes his men small and free from facial hair. But why is it that Phi is looking like a sparkling drink of water right now?
Honey remembers clearing her throat before she could find her voice. "Yeah. You look good." And by good, she means… well, something else.
With a full tummy, Honey stretched out on the couch as Phi virtuously washed the dishes. She was watching an episode of Good Morning, Miss Sunshine, a sixties classic TV soap, when he emerged from the kitchen with a basin and a bag of ice. "This is for the ugly bump on your head."
"Gee, thanks." Honey rolls her eyes sarcastically and reaches out for the bag with a huff. "Is my life doomed?"
"It's an almost insignificant purple lump – what you have to worry about is the panda eyes." Honey stares blankly at him as he plops down on the opposite end of the couch, hugging her sheen and gently laying her aching lower legs on his lap. He begins to absentmindedly stroke on them, as though he barely notices his fingers are doing a whole manner of unspeakable things to her. Damn, if that doesn't feel good.
Honey would've moaned, but she decides against it and pretends that she's too engrossed on whatever her hand on the remote has come across instead.
"Does it hurt as bad as it looks?" He asks considerately, placing back his chamomile tea down on the coaster after giving it a conservative sip.
"Are you talking about my fractured nose, or my swollen forehead, or my black-eye? I need specifications, Phi."
He sighs with a little laugh and shakes his head. "Boy, you are doomed."
She hits him on the arm, not so lightly. "You're supposed to be making me feel better."
"Aww, I'm sorry." He baby-talks, "What can Phi-phi do for the honey pie?"
"Well, for one, you can lose that stupid infantile voice of yours, and ask me how my day went." She doesn't really find the baby-talking dumb. In fact, she misses it whenever Phi goes on a vacation to visit his family all the way from Phoenix for a few weeks. Not that he has to know that or anything.
"Why, what happened?"
"The Carter sisters got fired."
"All three of them?"
"Yeah. And it was because the management is filing a satiation issue. They think the restaurant is overemployed, and due to a little bit of crisis, they find it best to start kicking the newbies out one by one. Or in the case of the Carter sisters, three by three." Phi sees through her worried eyes. "Hey, you don't think you're gonna get fired, do you? You've been busting your butt off for that restaurant for four long years and I'm sure your delicate efforts haven't gone unnoticed. They can't possibly be thinking of firing you."
"I can't be too sure, Phi." She says, despite the truth in his words. "What if they'll find someone with greater and wider experience and fire me anyway regardless of how long I've worked in that place?"
"Then they're crazy."
"What if they are?"
"You're not gonna get fired, okay? End of story." Phi is still rubbing on her lower legs in slow, rhythmic circles, gradually easing all the pain away. "Now do you want a massage? Maybe that'll lighten up your day."
Getting a Phi massage is the best way to end a night. Honey is a firsthand witness of this because she may never have gone to the massage clinic that Phi's working at, but she is blessed with free massages at home whenever Phi's hands aren't too tired to do their magic. Especially on sucky days like this, she knows she's bound to get lucky in the midst of all the suckiness.
Phi is a professional chiropractor, he makes people feel good with the use of his hands for a living, imagine the feeling of having those hands on you.
"Hallelujah." is all she can say at the moment, sitting up straight in one quick jolt.
Phi laughs and ruffles her hair, knowing perfectly how she loves his massages. "Aight, I'll go get my shenanigans ready. Wait for me in your room."
Honey stares at his broad back as he stands up to leave. If there ever is a beautiful man, Phi is one. Anyone who can have him is a lucky mortal.
Tara is that mortal. She's Phi's girlfriend.
She's Phi's very lucky girlfriend.
Oh, well, she's not the one who's gonna have a good ending tonight.
Honey is.
Phi starts to shout from his room. "Hey, Honey, do you want me to include your upper and inner thighs, because I have this limited edition Venco's Aloe Vera thermo oil that I'd really like to try. They say it works well on the undersides."
See what she means?
"Ah, yeah… sure." She answers back in a weak voice, her hands coming down to absentmindedly caress her legs.
Damn. There's going to be some serious massaging tonight. And there she was thinking this was gonna be a bad day.
Talk about compensation.