I
It started out innocently. One casual greeting at a time, a nod of recognition from across the room, a synchronized laugh. None of it had to mean anything.
He seemed harmless, at first, quiet and shy, not the sort who could ever be caught doing anything foolish, much less scandalous. He was from another office down the hall and there was nothing wrong with friendly banter or gestures between fellow employees, even one with possibilities. She was in her early 30’s and single, after all, as was he in his 40’s—it seemed—and, maybe, for far too long.
When he planted himself over her office cubicle during impromptu general assemblies, he liked to fill her in on the latest piece of news, current events or gossip likely reserved for a privileged few in his professional circle. Random tokens of food came next, slipped surreptitiously beside her keyboard. As if singled out from the crowd, she found his unsolicited attention flattering. It had been a while since anyone tried. She had been wanting to forget what it was like for some time.
Food drops accompanied by friendly notes progressed to take-outs, then to casual invitations to group lunches which had an uncanny way of seeing the rest of their company bail out at the last minute, leaving them alone. For her it was all coincidental. She wondered if that was the plan. He liked to say he was not a stranger to chasing leads. But if he had meant hers, he would’ve only been following his own.
II
She didn’t think it appropriate, at any given time, to ask him personal questions. She didn’t want to make him or anyone else think that she was the slightest bit interested. He never volunteered the information. That one time he did, he texted her, warning of movements in her unit and staffing cuts. When it finally came, she was adequately prepared. And so, when he told her that he lived with his older sister, she had taken his word for it, as well as every word after that hook, line, and sinker. The coast was clear: he seemed to say then. Still, as if on instinct, she had surreptitiously scanned his hand for a ring. No sign of it.
When it came to him admitting something, it was that of him having a hearing condition, a ringing in his ear: Tinnitus. He described it as a chronic buzzing, much like the high-pitched sound cicadas made, for which there was no cure. He admitted to possibly sustaining damage from listening to Rock and Heavy Metal and living close to the sound of heavy construction in Mandaluyong’s condo jungle. Sometimes, he said, the buzzing in his ears got so bad it sounded like a chainsaw cutting through wood, he had splitting headaches and felt like he was going mad. What helped was listening to music while he worked or white noise, even meditation. Talking helped, too, or simply tuning out the irritating noise by giving it less attention.
“Cicadas are the loudest insects in the world,” he quipped. “It’s loud enough to cause permanent hearing loss at close range. Imagine that in your ear!” He said, his eyes opening wide to emphasize the point.
The buzzing, she later learned, was a mating call cicadas made with its wings. North American cicadas even spent 17 years hibernating underground as nymphs, waiting for the perfect temperature, the right opportunity, before emerging.
He was looking straight at her when he complained that the buzzing had become more pronounced lately, maybe because of how little sleep he had been getting. She felt blood rush to her cheeks at the slightest suggestion that she was to blame. She distracted herself by mentioning the anxiety-inducing drills dentists use to deal with dental plaque. The nasty tools were useful for removing decay but were probably also worse than the problem, they made her want to swear off her dental visits altogether. He enthusiastically nodded in agreement. Going for sarcasm, she asked him whether the sound came close to the ear-piercing tone that came with Superman’s supersonic hearing. “Flattery might get you somewhere,” he quipped, leaning towards her, his words and gaze caught between his own brand of sarcasm and seriousness. Her throat went dry.
III
At work, he liked to be alone. She had seen him in his office, hunched over his desk, oblivious of random visitors or obnoxious friends. His profile gave very little away. If he were an animal, he could be a gentle lion with a proud mane, a few gray strands starting to show along his sideburns. He could watch people keenly but not long enough to stare and be relaxed though on guard, a pose perfected by mercenaries who could easily turn from mild to menacing or revolutionaries who crouched behind the bushes before pouncing on their prey. But if not for his leonine looks, there were times when he seemed almost timid, like a lamb ready for slaughter. She liked to think of him as a lonely old schoolboy who flirted with the idea of dating but never really tried or, at least, never went far.
When he did try, he asked her, half whispering, if she liked organic food. He suggested Sonya’s Garden in Batangas and offered to drive her there one time. Unsure about making the trip alone with him, she had asked to bring a friend. The excitement in his voice gave way to a note of disappointment, before he recovered from the strange request and forced a reluctant nod and a smile.
On the drive South, he had casually pointed out a new attraction to his female passengers—a mushroom farm where visitors could pay for their own harvest. She was oblivious of the passing scene and had caught a glimpse of sudden movement from the corner of her eye, it was his hand pulling away from what seemed like a preempted attempt to hold hers.
IV
The salad at Sonya’s didn’t fail to please. Slivers of ripe jackfruit flesh and edible flowers peeked from the generous pile of leafy greens that transformed the starter into a work of multi-sensory art, the sweet scent of honey and tropical fruit tickled her nose, the drizzle of the restaurant’s signature summer dressing teased her taste buds.
She had ogled at the spiked green fruit that decked stands on the side of the road on the way there. Some of them had been cut open to reveal the tempting ripe golden fruit waiting inside. She felt her mouth water. She wanted to bring some home. “Of course,” he said, as if eager to give her anything she asked for. But on the trip back, he only appeared flustered by the perfunctory stop. He badgered the vendor to wrap the pungent fruit tightly, in plastic, then paper. He asked them to do it several times, to keep the acrid smell of ripe jackfruit from escaping. The aroma had a way of clinging to surfaces. Boxed in for hours, it could easily infuse car interiors with the malodorous mix of bubble gum, pineapple, bananas, and rotten onions. If he wanted to make sure that there was no trace of it, he would have had to check his car in for a deep clean.
V
The next time they meet again after work, it was for sweet and savory crepes at a popular bistro that served Filipino-French fusion. Concrete benches and a fountain add a nice warm touch to the harsh white landscape outside the restaurant. The sun is beginning to set, and the changing skylight ushers in the soft and gentle hum of cicadas.
He orders something with Hungarian sausage. She opts for a signature mushroom and spinach dish. When their orders arrive, she volunteers to take his photo along with a selfie. “Oui…?” she says, waiting for his approval as she steadied the phone in her hand for a shot.
“Pas moyen!” he quips, dodging the photo-op with an open palm and a nervous laugh.
“What are you hiding?” she blurts out, surprised at how fast her defenses have gone down.
“Me? Nothing,” he quips, his eyes twinkling. “It’s just that my pictures would only be good for fending off rats!”
She laughs with amusement but stops herself from stealing a snap.
“Besides…I wouldn’t want my wife to think I’m fooling around.” He is unusually calm when he says this, as if a matter of such grave consequence has been undeniably clear to them both all along.
“So, you are…married,” she mutters, trying not to show her surprise or her sudden embarrassment. How could she not have known? “And your ring…” she says, half-asking, half-stating the obvious. He says something about wanting to keep it safe after he nearly lost it. He goes on about how desperately he tried to retrieve it from the sink drain when it fell while he was washing dishes at home. He remembers how exhausted his wife was from preparing a feast for his visiting relatives, how he only wanted to be a good husband. She didn’t have to know.
Stunned by his sudden admission, she wishes she could hide or just vanish. She is offended by the thought of becoming both an unwitting victim and participant in a crime. She feels a cold shiver run down her spine. “Uhhm…I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she mutters. She brings herself to her feet, her knees somewhat buckling.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he murmurs, trying to find the words to make her stay. Then, as if realizing her confusion: “Please let me explain,” he pleads.
In her mind, nothing he says could make anything right. She thinks of his wife and how she would feel if she knew about these occasional rendezvous. Would she nag him? Could anything close to it have brought on his chronic hearing loss? It wouldn’t have been any fault of hers. Strangely, she feels an affinity with this woman whom she has not met but becomes suddenly aware of. She wants to raise her voice at this man, the sudden stranger sitting across from her, call him names or pound him with her fists. But she doesn’t want to make a scene. It isn’t her place.
With head bowed down, he offers to drive her home, at least.
Torn between walking away or allowing him this gesture of now unwelcome chivalry, she heads for the door. His voice trails off as she steps out, alone, from the uneasy comfort of the air-conditioned restaurant into the humid summer air. Amid the fading light of nightfall, the hum of cicadas, now bothersome in her ear, rises to a painful crescendo.
