Take me back in your arms

someone from the building, someone born and bred in manila, invited me over to his apartment this evening for what i thought would be a truly raucous filipino birthday shindig. turned out, besides me, there was only he and two others who i’ve seen now and then in the lobby. i came late as i had to run first to the closest asian grocery to buy a six pack of filipino beer. the party seemed an eternity where before the buzz of the pale lager kicked in, i already began seeing the birthday boy’s movements slowed almost to an otherworldly crawl. his friends who had their own discreet powwow in the room where the obscenely big screen tv flickered looked like part of a roman sarcophagus frieze coming to life, as if in a dream, inside this apartment that had manifold weathers, from stultifying tropical humidity to something like cool island breeze when a window was thankfully opened. all i can remember after i went back to my place was how deftly the birthday boy tried to ignore my pallid excuses to leave the party early by recalling his life back in the capital. manila, he said, is always divine, his word.  "a fountain of friends,” or something like that.