Manila, Mindoro, Manila - Part Six (of Six)

Better was bitter and bad on her tongue.

Previously: Matt lifted his eyebrows and asked, Where’s Maria?

Manila

Manila is less a city than a head-on collision at a five-way intersection, a compelling clusterfuck, a Gordian knot in which twenty million people try to live.

The bus crawled past crowded shacks built right up to the edge of the road, barely room enough for a person to stand between the shoulder and the front door, past roadside eateries that were smoky and hot in a city that needed neither of those elements, past men sleeping in rickshaws. Pressing was the word that kept going through Matt’s head; he had no idea what was happening in Andrea’s head. He was certain her head was full of thoughts. He wanted to know those thoughts, but she was sleeping on his shoulder and he didn’t want to break the spell. She woke up when the jeepney next to their window sounded its horn for at least a full minute. She sat up and smiled.

It’s a mess, but I think I love this city.

Matt wondered how you could love a city that was killing you slowly, smothering you with its own exhaust, but he could tell by the way she leaned on him, the way she held his hand, the softness that had come back to her face, that she was happier here.

I’m glad you’re better.

She looked at him like he had just spit in her eye.

What are you talking about?