Tiger-Eye*

Twenty minutes to September 11, and I’m still afloat.

For the past five hours, Leo and I have been gliding serenely above the dark muck of Manila Bay. This sea is a sad, defeated animal, its waves flaccid and limp, illuminated only by strips of neon from the boardwalk, or when She chooses to show herself, the tiger-eye moon. On the starboard side, the name Olivia is emblazoned in cornflower blue Helvetica. The paint on the O is chipping; it almost looks like a U when this yacht is cast in shadow.

Olivia is Leo’s fiancée. She is a tall, imposing woman, with ink-black eyes and wild hair, whom I have only met once, during their engagement party two months ago. I named this after her, he explains, though he doesn’t need to. It seemed the appropriate thing do, since she was the one who bought it for me.

When he reaches out to fill my glass with water, his hand grazes my arm. For a moment, I feel electric, alive.

Tonight, he’s invited me to his yacht for the first, and last, time. He will leave for Iowa soon, to live with the giver of this boat, which I now suddenly want to destroy, to tear apart plank by plank, to reduce to a desolate wreck at the bottom of the Bay. Instead, I try to focus on the giant, garish lollipops lining the main road, all the people meandering down the boardwalk, the smell of fish, thick in the air.

You never did drink, he chuckles, you’re so different from her. She can drink like a man, or whatever you call someone who can down six beers, easy. But not you. Never you. You’re such a good girl. I love that about you.

It’s not about being good, I tell him. I don’t drink because I don’t want to lose control. Alcohol makes me vulnerable. I’d rather die than be weak.

I like it when you’re weak, he says, like you were before, with me. I wanted to rescue you back then. I still do.

Stop it, I scold him. We sound like we’re in a bad Meg Ryan movie, or a really, really awful ‘Before Sunset’ remake. And we’re not even in Paris.

I walk to the opposite end of the stern, away from the noise and glitter of Roxas Boulevard, then lean out over the railing. My reflection on the water is warped, the Self I see there, someone else, but not me.

Before I can raise myself up again, Leo’s already drawn me to him. I can feel him breathing on the back of my neck. When I turn to face him, he bends to kiss me. I nearly yield, if only to feel human warmth again, to rediscover what it actually feels like to be desired.

He brushes the hair off my face, and it’s then that I see it: the gold band on his right ring finger, gleaming solemnly in the moonlight. It’s a size too small, it cuts into his flesh, but it’s there, permanent, intractable.

What am I doing?, I gasp. The realization of what I’d almost done makes me gag.

I push him off me, so hard that he staggers back, crashing into the small table he’d set up with the weed I didn’t smoke, the wine I didn’t drink, and the beer I didn’t touch. Some of the unopened bottles roll onto the floor; one of them breaks.

Take me back to shore, I tell him.

I deserve more than this.

*Flash-fiction.