“Do you really?” I ask. I still live from payday to payday. I suspect that in my fifties, supposing I reach that age, I will be a glassy-eyed man impoverished by credit card debt and
taking too many cabs. My mother, who is from Zambales, often loudly wonders how dare I call myself Ilocano, with my wanton overspending and misnamed savings account. I don’t, Ma, I would tell
her, to which she would say, maybe you should. If you can finish half a kilo of bagnet, you can save a few thousand pesos per payday.
I want to tell Scott this, but he might feel bad, for himself and me both.
His face now wears the shade of red that’s painful to watch, the color of lobster. I wait a few minutes and relish the sight, before telling him we better go back to Pagudpud.
A tiny Filipina has been singing “L
