Sidhi“Is it dark yet?” Noah asked from under the covers.
“No,” I lied, staring at a sky that deepened from purple to black, at the neon lights of a slowly waking Quiapo City. “Not for a while.”
I opened the window, inhaled the sick-sweet city air, a combination of sewage and street food. I heard Noah groan and shift behind me, imagined him throwing off covers and letting limbs dangle down the sides of his bed, his breath shallow, sweat beading on his skin and pooling in the hollow of his throat, in the dip of his ribs, in the cup of his belly.
“Another reporter called today,” I said, slipping back into the room.
“What did he want?” Noah asked, eyes closed, hands over his chest in mock death.
I shrugged. “What do all reporters want from you nowadays?”
His eyes flicked open. I could se
