Philippine Speculative Fiction (31 page)

He would sleep on the couch after smashing a wine bottle. In the morning, the sun would blaze through the curtains and Simon would be up and about, ready for his five-mile run. Upon his return,
the apartment would be tidied up, swept clean of shards and memories of the night before.

When he was a child, he sucked on his mother’s blood by accident, after snipping the tit off his mother’s breast. It was a clean and swift cut, hardly felt by the mother.
Breastfeeding was painful anyway, and a pair of baby blades was easily mistaken for an eager bite. Only when she looked down and saw his chin dribbling with blood did she pull him away.

His parents taught him early to drink from cups, as he had a tendency to shred plastic nipples to ribbons. Instead of rubber teethers, they gave him spoons. They were careful when they carried
him, and tried not to excite him, unless they wanted to get their ears cut off.

Later on, he discovered words, and strangely, as he uttered them, the scissor tongue withdrew into its own fleshy sheath. The parents were relieved. Talking had made him normal. As he grew, he
babbled more, and picking up on this, the parents fed his love for discourse by encouraging him to join debate teams and drama clubs. Crisis was averted.

Now and then, however, Simon fell quiet, and his parents would see the blades glinting as he yawned or stared slack jawed out the window, when he was thinking of girls and what lay beneath their
uniforms.

Don’t do anything foolish, his dad told him, before Simon picked up his prom date.

Instead of reassuring him, he switched the subject and asked how his mom was responding to treatment.

I know what you’re doing, his father said. I was a boy once. Don’t.

Don’t what?

You know what I mean.

Will you tell Mom that I’ll come visit her tomorrow?

Simon left for the prom in a wrinkled suit and tie. The girl he was with liked him enough. She wore a backless lilac dress, something the nuns detested, and her hair was pinned up in a French
do. She did not look fifteen. They danced to all the songs, from old school 80’s to the latest electronica-pop-rap-dance fusion.

They slow danced to the requisite “King and Queen of Hearts”. Simon held her and felt his insides pulsating like one giant heart. In the dark, his cheek rested on hers, and he was
close, so close that he could feel air molecules traveling between them. Her lips were sticky from freshly put gloss, but he didn’t mind. He kissed them anyway. She kissed him back. Bolder
now, he wanted more, he opened his mouth and lightly flicked his tongue.

The pink flesh peeled back to reveal a pair of thin blades. They stretched and snapped together, catching the tip of the girl’s tongue.

I’m sorry! he said. His hand flung to the side of the girl’s mouth to wipe away the trickling red, but the girl moved away. Her hands splayed in front of him. Don’t touch me,
they warned.

What are you trying to do? The girl was nearly crying, but she was brave to hold it in. Crimson drops fell on her dress and blossomed into petite roses.

I just… The words deserted him.

The girl fled, and she ignored him the rest of the senior year. Simon tried to pass a note once, to tell her how sorry he was.

Could she spare some time after school so he could explain? the letter said.

The letter came back in shreds. He saw the irony in it. It was cut into very small pieces by a pair of shears.

Since then he kept talking, and stayed away from French kisses. He became good at this, eventually good enough to share a relationship with a woman who saw the novelty in him. She thought the
scissor tongue story endearing. The blades rarely came out though. They always talked… No, he always talked. He would tell her about his day in the office, or how the investment market was
shrinking. Sometimes it was about how exasperating that people overlooked the importance of Greek history.

The woman became more educated as she stayed with Simon; she learned more about the world than she could have on her own, but all those casual lectures began to bore her, and the special thing,
which Simon took pains to reveal to her, had shrunk back and refused to appear. She decided that the story was a ruse, devised to get her to like him more. Then again, he had never lied to her,
never for anything.

She stayed a few months more, but eventually she left. Not because he kissed poorly, or that he didn’t take the time to listen to her opinions about worldly matters. It wasn’t a
question of whether or not they loved each other… (at one point they played around the idea of sharing the same surname). The woman had evolved, all because of Simon’s unintentional
mentoring. A desire to study art history burned within her, followed by an obsession for ancient calligraphy. She was compelled to build an exciting new career as a curator.

I love you, Simon, but I have to do this for me.

Of course, of course. He said this as he handed her his tattered copy of Aristotle’s
Poetics
. His father read that book every year before finally giving it to him.

Poetics
came back a year later in a parcel, with postage stamps from Australia. He counted the pages and found everything intact. She took nothing. There was no note.

The succeeding affairs were not a problem in the heart department. Simon kept his secret and he hooked up quite easily with girls he met in advertising. The fucks were good, as long as he talked
dirty.

But he didn’t like himself after. He felt like a fraud using the sex vocab he picked up on internet porn. There’s nothing wrong with using language, just that the words were
unimaginative and worn. He relished florid and nuanced phrases, but quoting the
Twelfth Night
as they tried to orgasm felt completely out of place.

And it was just exhausting to talk non-stop while having sex. You get sore throat for the wrong reasons.

Next time he just quit talking and kept his mouth closed. But that didn’t work either.

SIMON FINDS HIMSELF taking stock of his life in one of those flashy new bars that just opened right up on the bay. The beer is all right, but he knows too well not to order
wine from this place. He dives back into his thoughts and wonders what Plato would have done, but then his scissor tongue splits open and taps gently on his teeth.

He needs to talk to someone, or else his mouth is going to be a bloody mess.

There’s a girl by the fire exit who doesn’t seem interested in him. She is wearing black tights and a gray shift dress with cotton sleeves made too long for this kind of muggy
weather. The people in the bar are a mixed bag of couples, gay and animated with chatter, and she is sitting there, a gray island floating on a technicolor ocean. He sees her run a finger on her
collar as if it were a leash.

I would buy you a drink, except you already have one, Simon says to her.

The girl knocks down her vodka and smarts as the liquid burns through her throat.

There, she says. Buy me a new one.

Simon comes back with vodkas in his hand, but the girl has disappeared.

He catches the bartender’s attention, and they talk a bit about the crowd.

The rest of them will start turning up just before midnight, the bartender says.

Simon is about to segue into the vicissitudes of his life (I partied hard when I was younger, now I just want a quiet place for a drink) when the bartender apologizes and tells him he has to mix
some cosmos for the gaggle that’s just arrived.

Later on as Simon hails a cab, the girl in the gray dress catches the door handle and helps herself into the car.

Where’d you gone? Simon asks.

Get in, she says.

The taxi zips its way through city streets; its driver is colorblind and ignores traffic lights. They arrive at Simon’s place a minute after one, not a single word exchanged between them,
except for necessary details like Where To and How Much. The couple reaches the front door, and the girl turns her head away. Her shyness paints the blush in her cheeks.

We don’t have to do anything, Simon says as he turns the key.

We can just talk. I’m good at talking. I promise you.

The girl nods. I suppose so.

She’d just had the worst job interview in the history of public relations. She had wanted something else to happen that night, something glorious to make up for her dismal day, but this is
the closest she could hope for—a conversation with an ordinary man. The condoms in her purse will remain unopened.

She lets her gaze wander around the room. Dark leather sofas, steel and glass coffee tables. A family of carved figurines from India. The carpets are sensible. Pinlights and dropped ceilings a
bit too much. The hardbound books lined up on an antique shelf are impressive.

She notices the brownish stains on the accent wall, looking like filigree print.

Too much partying, she thinks.

He hands her a glass of red and asks for her name.

She ignores the question. The sofa sinks under her weight. She pulls up her legs, and her thighs rub against the leather to make a sound that makes them both laugh.

I’m Simon, he says.

Taking his cue from her, he removes his shoes and plants his feet on the coffee table.

They finish the second bottle of Shiraz when she decides to speak. Thought you were good at talking.

I usually am, I assure you. His hand reaches up to scratch his shaved head.

Simon would have dazzled her by now. He imagines her throwing her head back as she laughs at his jokes, or asking more questions about the pale traveler he met on Silk Road (that was his
favorite anecdote). But he is tired from all the chatter. The scissor tongue
snip-snips
inside his mouth. He drinks more wine to mask the taste of metal.

Did you get your tongue pierced? she asks.

Why’d you say that?

I thought I saw piercings inside your mouth, when you laughed a while ago. Was it painful? I was planning to do the same.

Simon puts his hand on his chin and blinks as if there is something in his eye. This is how he looks like when he is piecing together a decision.

The girl begins to think that the piercing is not up for discussion.

Simon puts his wine glass down, and kneels in front of the girl. The blades
tap-tap
against his teeth. Don’t freak out, okay? he says.

He holds her hands, frightened she’ll leave once she gets to see. The girl only thinks she will get her wish after all.

Simon purses his mouth. There is a look of giving up in his eyes before he lets the folded blades slip out, a millimeter at a time through thin lips. The girl holds her breath.

He opens his mouth to show her the full assembly.

Can I touch it? She asks. Her voice is excited like a child’s.

He lets her go but keeps his eyes on her expression. She runs a finger along the blunt side of the blade and he feels the swirls in her fingerprint, tastes the sea in her skin. He feels safe
enough to pry the blades open, and when he does, she gasps as if she’s seen a magic trick.

He makes a quick snip in the air, careful not to nick her fingers. The girl laughs and there are tears in her eyes, and Simon realizes that she is not faking her enthusiasm.

I have something to show you, she says.

She pulls up her gray sleeve and reveals a mermaid drawn on her arm. It has raven hair and silver blue fins. Its face is turned toward her hand as if it is reaching up for air.

I used to think I was going to meet a mermaid, but that didn’t happen, she says.

She pulls up the other sleeve and reveals the Great Wall of China snaking the length of her forearm, protecting her elbow from nomadic tribes.

I got this after I visited the Mainland. I met a kindly Norwegian who lived in China because he thought he was Attila the Hun in his past life. This tattoo goes up much higher, right up to my
shoulder but I can’t seem to…

Her voice softens. She struggles with the sleeve, and then she looks to Simon and makes a gesture with a tilt of her head. A small wrinkle pushes against his brow, a little disbelief on his
part, but he is trying not to smile as he cuts the fabric with his tongue.

He travels the length of her arm as if he were a foot soldier traversing the Great Wall. It is a slow march to the shoulder. He feels the warmth of her skin on his tongue as he snips away. The
sleeve falls, revealing her arm like a curtain.

There are trees surrounding the walls and little tourists with cameras snapping away pictures of the view. Curlicues of clouds hover above mountaintops in the distance. Stone walls glow in
timbres of gold and brown.

The woman who inked this was a poet, she whispers. A fan of Li Po. She points to finer details along the side of her arm—village huts, a flowing river, rice fields, a bridge.

Will you please… she says as she holds the stitch in her shoulder. Simon understands and cuts cloth, shoulder to collar. His hand strays to her waist for balance. She is solid beneath his
hand, and does not wince when he grazes her neck. It is a tiny cut, a hairline of scarlet.

Don’t worry about it, she says. I had a cut on my wrist and that was much, much worse.

He makes a final snip and the gray fabric slides open with a sigh, happy to be released. When he looks down there are kingdoms on her breast.

She takes his hand and places it on top of a fallen skyscraper. This is the end of humanity, she says. She guides his hand to a pyramid with carved faces. And this is believed to be the origin
of humans.

He moves his finger and taps on each landmark like a question. She answers every one.

This is a comet which turned out to be a city. This is a planet with no sound. This is where the undead fear cats. This is where…

And so on, and so forth.

The night deepens as Simon’s hands skim the living surface. The tongue follows, unleashing a voyager’s desire for the unchartered. When morning comes, the dress is a pile of gray on
the floor. The girl is on the couch, wearing nothing but stories and black tights. She is saving her legs for breakfast, and later she will lead his fingers to her name.