It was a fine Saturday, the kind of day with fat white clouds drifting lazily over Parañaque. Sheryl was in her usual chair at the Don Galo nail salon, one foot soaking in the basin. She wore her old white button-down, faded jeans, and flip-flops—the uniform of a woman who had decided, twice a month, that clean nails were worth the splurge no matter the debts.
Her phone buzzed.
"Sheryl?"
She straightened. Rafi's voice carried warmth, but also a hint of nerves.
"I wanted to ask… it's my birthday today. I don't know many people here. Would you… join me for dinner?"
She smiled despite herself, though it came out half-teasing, half-genuine. "Awww. Such a sad birthday boy. Okay then. Your treat. Deal?"
"It's a deal," he said quickly, relief woven into every syllable. What he didn't admit: it wasn't his birthday at all. But he missed her, and he needed an excuse.The Salon Mishap
He had actually booked a reservation at an upscale restaurant, but she had refused his offer to pick her up. "No need. We'll meet. I know a place."
So he canceled it.
And showed up early in Don Galo—only to call her again. "Sheryl, I think I'm lost."
She glanced at the wall clock in the salon: 4:00 p.m. She was fine. But when she checked her phone, her stomach dropped. 5:00 p.m. The clock had stopped hours ago.
"Oh no…"
Mortified, she gave him directions to the salon.
When he walked in, the chatter died. Heads turned. He looked every inch a rich Filipino mestizo, tall, clean-cut, skin clear, clothes crisp.
Sheryl wanted to vanish into the foot bath. Instead, she blurted: "Since it's your birthday… my treat. You're getting your nails cleaned too."
He chuckled, holding up his hands in surrender. "I don't—"
"Don't argue," she snapped, though her ears burned. "It's cheaper than a cake."
The salon ladies giggled. And soon he was seated beside her, awkward but amused, while a manicurist trimmed his nails. The women whispered, swooned, and Sheryl tried not to meet anyone's knowing eyes.
Maty's Tapsilog
Afterward, she led him down the street. "We're going to Maty's."
The smell of garlic rice hit before they even arrived. Monoblock chairs, Formica tables, and sizzling platters of tapa filled the air with smoke and chatter.
Rafi looked around curiously. "This is the place?"
"Best tapsilog in Parañaque," she said firmly. "Order two if you're hungry."
When the waitress came, Sheryl was quick: "One tapsilog. And for him, chicksilog. Or bangsilog. No pork."
Rafi blinked, then smiled slowly. "You remembered."
"Of course," she muttered. "Wouldn't want to scandalize you with bacon."
He laughed, and when the plates came—fragrant garlic rice, golden fried eggs—he ate like a man starved. "Better than hotel food," he said sincerely, and her heart did a small, dangerous flip.
7/11 Ice Cream
They wandered afterward toward the 7/11 on the corner.
"Dessert?" she teased. "Soft serve's twenty pesos. Still your treat?"
"Deal," he said, grinning.
They ate their cones on the sidewalk, laughing when her swirl leaned sideways. For a moment, life felt as simple as ice cream on a Saturday.
Then the sky cracked open.
Rain poured in sheets, sudden and merciless.
Running Through the Storm
They ran, laughing and shrieking, shoes splashing through puddles. Ice cream dripped uselessly down their hands, forgotten as they bolted through Don Galo, hair plastered to their faces.
They reached the Chinese temple near Marina Bay Subdivision, huddling under the sweeping red roof, breathless and soaked.
The Kiss
Rain hammered beyond the eaves. Sheryl leaned against the cool wall, chest heaving, hair dripping. She wanted to joke again, to laugh it off, but her throat closed around the words.
Rafi stepped closer. His hand lifted, brushing wet strands from her cheek. Their eyes locked.
They leaned in. Tentative. Questioning. Their lips touched, barely a whisper of a kiss—so careful, so unsure that they both pulled back instantly, eyes wide, afraid they had imagined it.
But then they saw it—the fire reflected in both their eyes.
This time, when they came together, the kiss was deeper, hungrier. Rain roared, but the world shrank to the warmth of breath, the press of lips, the dizzying relief of not resisting.
When they finally parted, foreheads almost touching, Sheryl's voice trembled despite her effort to sound flippant. "Happy birthday…"
It was meant as a joke, but it landed like a confession.