I was driving along the highway, one like EDSA yet a little more organized but not any more peaceful. Perhaps I was in real hurry, there was no time to care about speed-check road cameras, and I was fast enough at 120 kph. Did I worry about time? Or about my life? Or about meeting an accident with another reckless driver? I didn’t know. Whatever was on my mind, it was certainly uncertain.
Then. A stare from a pair of small brown eyes, both quiet and playful, new and familiar, serene and loud. And maybe I smiled at them. Maybe.
There. I was alone on the rooftop with this stranger, who seemed to have known me long, or too well. What was with my eyes, my neck, my hands; with my skin; with my kind of fashion? And how come I felt safe in the way this stranger brushed my hair with his fingers?
The next thing I know: I’m loving the way this stranger plays the guitar, the way his small brown eyes look at me, and the way he made such a little accident of driving me to a U-turn.