11

She moves her trousers as if the world would slide down on her legs. She releases perfume like flowers sucking pollen grains over the surface of the moon. They make the living stone filled with stains and dusts and rusts, like seeds of given sampaguita luring over the wheatfield. But she is keen. She is alone. Alone with the light which is strewing over the station, helping herself to generate peace around the pouring down of rainy people's stroking feet on the cement-ground. She is alone, nothing will disturb her because she is alone. Even though a gang man stabs her to death, she will die alone. She will conquer herself and she will live like nothing has just happened. On the other life. She will live alone. And her skill will not age, her brittle toes will stay brittle forever. Her femme fetalle smell will brush the nostrils of the god, she will blossom like sampaguita and she will live alone. She looked at the other side of the street and came to pick up the tickets which she lost. She looks at her surroundings. People, thumping their feet, selling earphones, selling sampaguitas, selling weird toys stinging like electric lamp exploding. Tennis rocket mosquito killer, living like no life has ever lived. Kids licking ice cream dirty from the metal container of the ice cream vendor, or manong surbetero, as the TV program Sineskwela shows when Brenan danced on TV with his green costume, swaying his hands like vegetables, singing like a little boy happy with his Christmas gift, She flies like the little brown birds moving their beaks, isolating themselves from the crowd by flying over them and sometimes putting their little feces on people's heads. They are black, their heads will catch feces from them and the birds will never regret in doing so.