Kahel Na Payong

They treaded the dirty street of Pedro Gil carefully because they were sharing only a small umbrella against the cold, grey world pressing towards them promptly at 5:30 PM. The deep screams of vehicles pound from the green light, increasing intensity, and recede into the dark of the rain, borne by the glistening black asphalt. The woman looks up at the glowing red sticks telling the time at the LRT station: six.

It wasn't raining hard. But the rain was insistent (which is worse), pattering in billions of little rat feet on a small umbrella shared by two damp people. The man wraps his arm tighter around the woman while adjusting his grip on the cold metal handle of the umbrella.

I wondered. When did he do that last?