If my husband had his way, he’d probably live in a vacuum. How many times have I come home to an airless home—windows, glass doors shut, no air-con on, not even the fan, and he’s sound asleep on the couch, hugging his guitar as though it were a soft pillow, breathing in the same carbon dioxide he breathes out.
I married a wonderful man, and our relationship is envied by many. He is God-fearing, a good son and brother, great father, a good provider.
“Towel!” my husband cries out. Uh-oh, I must have forgotten to replace the his-and-hers towels I had removed after showering last night. How easily I forget tasks when I put them off for later, especially tasks not normally assigned me, such as this one, which falls on my kasambahay Lani, who happens to be on vacation.
I began an intimate relationship with an office mate of mine six years ago. I was single at the time, but he was already engaged to his girlfriend of two years. The two of us together was out of the question. He’s Chinese and I am Pinay. He said if only things were different, he could be with me.
Romance chooses no occasion—especially not for us old fogies. We neither wait for it nor worry about it; it happens when it happens. In fact, this Valentine’s Day we had resigned ourselves, quite happily, to waking up with my five-year-old granddaughter Mona asleep between us.