Pinstripe. They make me look taller, she decided as she scanned her “Power closet.” Her wardrobe was organized according to shades and patterns. Plain, dark clothing went to the left, and lighter prints were to her right. The pinstripe pants she was looking for would be somewhere in the middle. She parted the hung clothing with a drama that equaled Moses’ at the Red Sea. She was meeting with a female client, and those of the same sex always liked competence to come in pants. Besides, women often feel more secure about meeting with someone who looks more proficient and hardworking than they are, rather than someone who’s sassy AND smart. That meant her “Chic closet” would be inappropriate. She glanced at its closed doors and smirked. Inside it were her kitten heels, girly tops, frou-frou skirts, and various versions of The Little Black Dress. Once, she tried to organize the other closet the way she had with her power outfits. First, she tried according to shades and patterns, then, fabric and style, and it ended up looking like a confused mixture of clothes that screamed “Schizophrenia.” So, she arranged it in the only way possible: “less skin” left, “more skin” right. For her, it is very important to compartmentalize.
She had examined the double locks of her apartment door twice, before the sight of an unoccupied cab finally snapped a sense of urgency into her system. It was 8:30, and she was supposed to meet her client at 9:00 A.M. She raised her perfectly manicured hand to hail the cab.
“Emerald Ave. Can you make it in 15 minutes?” She was careful not to get in before the cabbie would commit. She believes that arriving on time means 15 minutes ahead of schedule.
“Yeah, yeah.” The cabbie said without hesitation.
Five minutes later, they were stuck somewhere along C5. Around her, it looked like Satan emptied hell out and sent them all to C5. She was tapping Italian against Japanese. The only exception to her dress code was to wear expensive shoes when meeting with female clients. Not only does it earn their respect, but it makes them wonder how a working girl could afford it. And then they’d realize that while they may be one rung higher in the corporate ladder, she may be ahead of them in the sensual scale. Of course, they didn’t have to know that these shoes were her only pricey possession, as she was never a spendthrift. And that they did NOT come from a handsome yuppie, but from her OFW aunt in the States—only because her cousin Mary Joy’s feet were too large for Ferragamo. Simply put, Salvatore walks out of the closet only when there were female clients to do psych-war with.
Her brows were knit together, and she wanted to scowl at the cab driver. She heaved a sigh of exasperation to make sure she had his attention. She looked at him through the rearview mirror. It turned out she didn’t have to put her theatrical skills to use, because he was already looking at her. In fact, he had been watching her since she got into his cab.
Her perfume played with his nostrils, and he thought she had sexy eyes. If only she didn’t look so annoyed and serious. He wondered how it would be like if she was his girl. Then the pout on her lips would be for a different reason. He imagined what her lips tasted like, how her skin smelled before she put on her perfume, and how her ponytail would come undone in his hands. He swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on his driving—or not driving. Dammit, he thought, she wanted to get to Emerald in 15 minutes. He wasn’t happy that she’d be disappointed. So what, he argued with himself. He had enough trouble of his own, what with having to drive a stupid cab while waiting for his working visa, he thought with resentment. But his father was still recuperating from the operation, and they were lucky that the owner allowed him to drive on behalf of his father. Women like her don’t engage in small talk with cabbies, I’d have a better chance if I sat next to her in an airplane, he told himself wryly, maybe in one of my future flights. He glanced at the woman once more. Their eyes met in the mirror.
She knew that her scowl was fading into awe. His eyes were beautiful. She sat up straighter and stretched her body discreetly to see more of his face. His skin was clear, and its brownness was even. Tufts of short, wavy hair peeked from under his baseball cap. His nose and lips were sculpted into his face into one masculine masterpiece. Surely, God exists. The sun glinted through the windshield, and it made him squint. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and she decided that he was, in fact, ruggedly handsome. The man could double for Mark Ruffalo. She figured he must have had Hispanic or Italian roots, as most Filipinos are never really 100% Filipino.
“Is it too hot?” the man asked, mistaking that she had craned forward to check whether he had turned on the AC.
“You bet. It is. Hot. Really hot,” She replied haltingly, half-embarrassed that he had caught her staring. The other half had the urge to check her makeup. She smiled instead. She always smiled when she was nervous. It messes with other people’s heads.
Her smile caught him off-guard. I was right about her being prettier when she’s not looking serious, he thought. He congratulated himself as he turned the AC up. “There you go,” he turned his head and smiled back. His teeth were clean and well aligned. Why is he driving a cab? She wondered. As if the world was a closet, and it was organized according to appearances and careers; unattractive and unsuccessful ones would belong to one side, and their opposites would belong to the other.
The city has turned me into a snob, she mused sadly. “Rule No. 1: Never flirt with the help,” she was told by girls from the marketing firm where she first worked. In secret, she not only flirted but had fallen in love a few times with men who thought she was “out of their league.” Sometimes, she still believes that the quality of relationships can’t be defined by the universities you went to or the kind of car you drive.
She was contemplating on starting a real conversation with the man. Just to figure out whether he could be a psycho, she rationalized. He made a turn to Julia Vargas, and before she could decide, he turned and asked, “We’re almost there. Which building along Emerald would you want me to drop you off?”
Their moment was over.
She had examined the double locks of her apartment door twice, before the sight of an unoccupied cab finally snapped a sense of urgency into her system. It was 8:30, and she was supposed to meet her client at 9:00 A.M. She raised her perfectly manicured hand to hail the cab.
“Emerald Ave. Can you make it in 15 minutes?” She was careful not to get in before the cabbie would commit. She believes that arriving on time means 15 minutes ahead of schedule.
“Yeah, yeah.” The cabbie said without hesitation.
Five minutes later, they were stuck somewhere along C5. Around her, it looked like Satan emptied hell out and sent them all to C5. She was tapping Italian against Japanese. The only exception to her dress code was to wear expensive shoes when meeting with female clients. Not only does it earn their respect, but it makes them wonder how a working girl could afford it. And then they’d realize that while they may be one rung higher in the corporate ladder, she may be ahead of them in the sensual scale. Of course, they didn’t have to know that these shoes were her only pricey possession, as she was never a spendthrift. And that they did NOT come from a handsome yuppie, but from her OFW aunt in the States—only because her cousin Mary Joy’s feet were too large for Ferragamo. Simply put, Salvatore walks out of the closet only when there were female clients to do psych-war with.
Her brows were knit together, and she wanted to scowl at the cab driver. She heaved a sigh of exasperation to make sure she had his attention. She looked at him through the rearview mirror. It turned out she didn’t have to put her theatrical skills to use, because he was already looking at her. In fact, he had been watching her since she got into his cab.
Her perfume played with his nostrils, and he thought she had sexy eyes. If only she didn’t look so annoyed and serious. He wondered how it would be like if she was his girl. Then the pout on her lips would be for a different reason. He imagined what her lips tasted like, how her skin smelled before she put on her perfume, and how her ponytail would come undone in his hands. He swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on his driving—or not driving. Dammit, he thought, she wanted to get to Emerald in 15 minutes. He wasn’t happy that she’d be disappointed. So what, he argued with himself. He had enough trouble of his own, what with having to drive a stupid cab while waiting for his working visa, he thought with resentment. But his father was still recuperating from the operation, and they were lucky that the owner allowed him to drive on behalf of his father. Women like her don’t engage in small talk with cabbies, I’d have a better chance if I sat next to her in an airplane, he told himself wryly, maybe in one of my future flights. He glanced at the woman once more. Their eyes met in the mirror.
She knew that her scowl was fading into awe. His eyes were beautiful. She sat up straighter and stretched her body discreetly to see more of his face. His skin was clear, and its brownness was even. Tufts of short, wavy hair peeked from under his baseball cap. His nose and lips were sculpted into his face into one masculine masterpiece. Surely, God exists. The sun glinted through the windshield, and it made him squint. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and she decided that he was, in fact, ruggedly handsome. The man could double for Mark Ruffalo. She figured he must have had Hispanic or Italian roots, as most Filipinos are never really 100% Filipino.
“Is it too hot?” the man asked, mistaking that she had craned forward to check whether he had turned on the AC.
“You bet. It is. Hot. Really hot,” She replied haltingly, half-embarrassed that he had caught her staring. The other half had the urge to check her makeup. She smiled instead. She always smiled when she was nervous. It messes with other people’s heads.
Her smile caught him off-guard. I was right about her being prettier when she’s not looking serious, he thought. He congratulated himself as he turned the AC up. “There you go,” he turned his head and smiled back. His teeth were clean and well aligned. Why is he driving a cab? She wondered. As if the world was a closet, and it was organized according to appearances and careers; unattractive and unsuccessful ones would belong to one side, and their opposites would belong to the other.
The city has turned me into a snob, she mused sadly. “Rule No. 1: Never flirt with the help,” she was told by girls from the marketing firm where she first worked. In secret, she not only flirted but had fallen in love a few times with men who thought she was “out of their league.” Sometimes, she still believes that the quality of relationships can’t be defined by the universities you went to or the kind of car you drive.
She was contemplating on starting a real conversation with the man. Just to figure out whether he could be a psycho, she rationalized. He made a turn to Julia Vargas, and before she could decide, he turned and asked, “We’re almost there. Which building along Emerald would you want me to drop you off?”
Their moment was over.
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