(This is a re-worked version of an earlier story, The Girl with the Limp)
I undress, shower, dry myself, pull on a g-string, wrap myself in a white coat, go to the window, push it open and gaze down at the market place. The early morning air carries the faint odor of rotting garbage and benzene. Tuk-tuks and a multi-coloured jeepney bus wait for custom. Somewhere, a dog barks.
The airport bus pulls in and stops in front of the gleaming new concrete atrocity known as the Hotel City Garden. Passengers tumble out. Romulo is the last off, a hatless, cassocked figure of righteousness stepping down heavily, one hand on the railing, the other holding a small bag, and he glances up to where he knows I will be. His fingers are gnarled and his hair wispy strands of white.
Romulo gives no sign of recognition. He turns away, fetches his suitcase from the hold, and sets off across the market place pulling it behind him, the wheels clickety-clicking over the cobblestones.
He trudges past Robinson's department store, past the arched doorways and iron balconies of the colonial style Farmacia building, past a blood-red Porsche Carrera parked outside the gray baroque of the Immaculate Conception church. He turns the corner and vanishes.
Every time I see that car . . . So Fat Man is back in town. In my mind's eye, I see him swirling along ahead of an entourage of musclemen, his black-grey hair pulled back into a pony tail, caftan pressing against his ample belly and trailing behind him like a fluttering sheet. But not only that.
As I close the window, a wave of emotions hit me, but I push them aside. The first patient of the day is an overweight lady suffering from back pains who I take through a routine of stretching exercises.
###
Romulo arrives for his appointment wearing jeans and t-shirt. His face and neck are lined, his close-set eyes set even deeper than I recalled, but he is in good shape. We have known each twenty years but he acknowledges me stiffly, as if we are vague acquaintances.
I tell reception we are not to be interrupted. No phone calls. Inside the treatment room, I lock the door. Romulo and I embrace briefly. He touches my face and strokes my hair, and stands back, looking me over. His eyes are alight.
We exchange pleasantries.
"Did you have a good flight," I ask lamely.
The question does not match his mood, but I feel a need to say something. He mumbles assent but he's not really listening. He runs his hands up and down my arms.
"How's your health?" I ask. "Aches and pains?" I feel awkwardly distant from Romulo. Our relationship has lost much of its affection, become almost purely physical.
"Only of the soul," he replies. Even after all these years, I don't know if he is serious or not. I want to ask about his arthritis, but I stop before I start.
"Fat Man's Porsche is parked down there," I say. I'm wandering into sensitive territory.
"Oh," he says.
Fat Man owns the Happy Go Go bar in Quezon City and other pleasure pits elsewhere.
The aircon hums. Romulo takes off his t-shirt and his jeans. His scrawny chest is almost hairless and his pallid belly sags. Beneath his underpants, his cock is half erect.
He uses a wooden step to climb on to the table and lies face down. I apply a hot towel to his neck and shoulders, feel the tautness, and dig my fingers in to loosen it. I pour warm oil on to his back.
"Was Fat Man the one. . .? " he trailed off. He is uncomfortable with the topic.
"You know very well he was," I say.
