“Untitled”SUZETTE, AS SHE INTRODUCES HERSELF, IS IN A THIN YELLOW BLOUSE and a skirt that ends at mid-thigh. She has the easy, unbuttoned style of a company executive after hours.
A half-hour later, we find ourselves in a bar near her place. There’s no band, only a DJ standing in a booth in one corner, playing dance music.
Her husband comes home on weekends from his cattle farm in Batangas. She’s trying for a baby.
In the foyer of her townhouse a row of cowboy hats, stiff and stained in patches, hangs on the wall. On the tiled floor there are five or six pairs of big cowboy boots, standing straight up, heels and soles caked with dirt, their sharp toes pointed straight at me. She deposits her keys on a small table, where a clutch of pictures is arranged in a tight semicircle. I can make
