Space For Breathing

by I. K. Velasco

  Owen must have noticed me staring because he spoke then. "Jacob?"

  I turned to him, and I could feel the heat pouring over my cheeks. He laughed, and I blushed some more. "How about having a cigar with me?"

  Cigar. I hadn't had one of those in a long time. I thought about Riley and how much he enjoyed them. Endless nights in the recording studio, reworking and hashing out thumping beats and soulful lyrics, shrouded in a white puff of nutty smoke. "Sounds good."

  We left the table and headed for Owen's study. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a cigar box. He handed me one, and I pressed it against my nose, sniffing the deep dried and leafy scent. Owen held out a metal lighter and lit the cigar for me. I took the first satisfying puff, the bitter, almost cocoa flavor filling my breath.

  I sat down on the wing-backed chair that I had been sitting on, the other day. Owen leaned against his desk. We smoked in silence for a few moments.

  "Are you enjoying your time here, Jacob?" Owen asked, his question cutting through the quiet.

  "Yes, " I replied. "I don't think I’ve had the opportunity to thank you for inviting me."

  "Of course. You need not thank me. The thanks will come when you have found here what you needed to find." He smiled, widely the corners of his eyes wrinkling with mirth. "Besides, I'm sure that Maeva

  is enjoying having someone to entertain. I think that she gets lonely not having someone her age around here."

  I couldn't meet his gaze. My thoughts drifted to everything that had happened the past couple of days. My mind reeled with a web of intense images and emotions.

  "Tell me," he began, leaning forward slightly. I already knew the question he was about to ask. "What do you think of Maeva?"

  I hesitated for a moment. What was I supposed to say? That she's the most beautiful creature I've ever laid my eyes on? That her presence stirs in me something so passionate, it frightens me? That I wanted her more than I've wanted anything in my entire life? "She's…um…very nice." Owen nodded, but his expression indicated that he wanted me to continue. "Albeit, a little headstrong."

  Owen laughed. "Yes, our Maeva speaks her mind. It has to do with having to be so independent." He paused, taking another drag from his cigar. The end glowed red, and he held it against two fingers and examined it intently. "Our Maeva's a strong one, there's no doubt. But there's something else about her. Her resilience is strong, yet inside she is delicate, fragile. Strong enough to break. Equally, her beauty is breathtaking—both inside and out—that you must be near her, if only to protect and cherish. Like an orchid."

  He looked up at me, and our eyes locked. His eyes were brimmed full—a combination of pleading and trust.

  * * *

  Pangasinan, Philippines—Owen Estate 12:45 am

  Maeva

  I prayed that these restless nights would end soon. It was well past midnight and again I tossed and turned. The sandman was avoiding me. He refused to take me to dreamland.

  I had avoided Jacob most of the day. I thought that less contact would ease the tugging, the pull to him. It didn't. The feeling had intensified. I could barely control myself at dinner—all too aware of the heat of him beside me.

  I found myself in the corridor again. I was a ghost, wandering the halls, no control over my haunting. I stood outside his bedroom door. My hand, trembling uncontrollable, was on the knob. I'm not sure how long I stood there, completely still, my mind racing. Time seemed to move without my knowledge because I soon became aware of Jacob's even, breathing as he fell into slumber.

  I slid down to the floor, the cold hardwood touching my bare thighs. I pressed my ear to the door, the rhythmic inhalation and exhalation of Jacob's breathing lulling and comforting me.

  Seven

  Pangasinan, Philippines-Owen Estate 7:14 a.m.

  Maeva

  I watched him, the morning light illuminating his sleeping form with an orange, ethereal glow. He had thrown half the covers off, most of the white cotton sheets bunched around his waist. His arm was bent up over his head, the back of his hand on his forehead.

  He is a different person in sleep. His face is soft and calm, his body relaxed. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, wondering if he was dreaming, what he was dreaming. I was torn between the desire to clamber into his dreams, his thoughts, and the desire to wake him, so I could hear his sweet voice whispering his dreams in my ear.

  I shook myself from my reverie, deciding it was time.

  One foot peeked out from under the blanket, enticing me to touch it. I placed two fingers along the arch, running my fingers along the surprisingly silky skin. He stirred, turning one cheek, covered in blonde fuzz, to rest against the pillow. I reached out to touch his foot again, but just as my hand was a millimeter away from contact, he jerked his foot away. I looked up to see Jacob smiling through bleary eyes.

  "I'm really ticklish, you know," he said, his voice gravely from sleep.

  I pulled my arm away, tucking both hands behind my back. Jacob laughed.

  "Good morning," I said.

  "Good morning." His wry smile matched his tone perfectly.

  I huffed under my breath, and his grin only grew wider. "If you want to go to Manila today, we have to leave shortly. We want to avoid the rush hour traffic. Rosa packed us breakfast to go."

  "Sounds good." He sat up on his elbows and rubbed his eyes.

  "I'll see you downstairs in twenty minutes?" I went to the door.

  "Sure thing," he replied.

  * * *

  Intramuros, Philippines-10:24 am

  I loved his look of wide-eyed wonder as he watched the scenery go by. The drive took about an hour as we approached the Old Spanish district, Intramuros. I wanted to show Jacob some of the more historical part of Manila, and that was the best place to start.

  We didn't talk much during the trip. I just sat back and let Jacob watch the view. It was entertaining enough for me to watch his facial expressions and answer the few questions he had about what he was looking at.

  Before long, Tito maneuvered the limo into the main square.

  "Please let us out at the corner, Tito," I said through the limo's dividing window. Tito tipped his hat in an affirmative response.

  When Tito opened the door, the heat and humidity immediately cut through the air conditioning inside the car. I exited first, swiping at the wrinkles on my skirt. Jacob examined his surroundings carefully, his eyes roving over the crowded street for the first time.

  "What is this place called?"

  "This district is called Intramuros. The name means 'within walls,'" I explained.

  We began to walk along the cobble-stoned street, avoiding the traffic whizzing by on the road beside us. I waved to Tito as he drove away to find a place to park the limo. Merchants, workers, shoppers and more than a few tourists lined the crowded boulevard. Among the fancy specialty shops and gift stores, there were several children offering to wash windows of cars stopped at the stoplight. One little girl, who didn't look older than 6 years old, dutifully handed her mother change as they sold handmade trinkets to the tourists. The rift between the rich and the poor always affected me.

  As we walked, I gestured to antique buildings lining the road, pointing out the 16th century, Spanish influenced architecture. "Intramuros was built by conquistador Miguel Lopez Legaspe. It was meant to be a fortress city, with surrounding walls to protect it against Dutch and pirate attacks in the…."

  I stopped talking when Jacob laughed out loud. I turned to look at him, perplexed at what he was laughing at. He was grinning madly at me, and I could feel my cheeks burning. "What?" I asked.

  "You're adorable," he said, another chuckle escaping his lips. He moved aside to let a bicyclist pass.

  "What's with the tourist guide voice?"

  "Oh," I replied. "I just thought that you'd want to know a little bit about the history."

  "I do, but you don't have to talk as if you're reading out of a textbook or reciting from the tour guide manual." He l
aughed again.

  "Sorry," I mumbled under my breath. I quickened my steps, heading towards the rows of shops across the square.

  I felt Jacob's hand enclosed around my arm. When I looked up, his face had softened and his deep brown eyes seemed to sparkle with some tantalizing secret. "Maeva," he said. My name rumbled from deep in his throat, like some sacred mantra. I shivered. "I wish that you would stop talking to me like just some guest at your house. I think that at this point, we can consider ourselves friends, don't you think?"

  Before I could answer our conversation was interrupted by a familiar voice calling to me. "Maeva? Is that sweet Maeva's voice that I hear?"

  The elderly Filipina woman's cane tapped rhythmically against the cobblestone sidewalk as she approached. The sound seemed to harmonize with the coins jiggling in her pouch. She wore a simple, flower printed dress and tsinelas. Her hair was tied up in a bun, and she was wrapped in a similarly printed cotton shawl. Over her eyes were heavily tinted sunglasses.

  "Kumusta, kayo?" I asked, taking her hand and touching the back of it to my forehead. It was a gesture of respect.

  "You should speak English, iha. That way your friend will understand what we're talking about," Mrs. Malingan said, a sly tone in her voice. If we could have seen behind her dark glasses, she probably would have winked.

  Jacob's eyes widened.

  "I may have lost my sight, sir, but I can smell America on you as strongly as Maeva's beautiful perfume," she said, wryly.

  Jacob smiled and nodded. "Oh, please don't call me, 'sir.' My name is Jacob."

  "You may call me Mrs. Malingan," she said. She held out her hand, brown, wrinkled and pocked with age. Jacob didn't hesitate. He took it, squeezing affectionately.

  "It's such a pleasure to meet such a beautiful young lady," he replied in his most regal voice, still holding her hand. He sounded like he was addressing a princess.

  Mrs. Malingan flushed, the first time I had ever seen that happen. I smiled.

  "Your friend is such a gentleman, iha," Mrs. Malingan said.

  "Can I buy one of these flowers from you?" Jacob asked, running his fingers over the large bundle of flower garlands Mrs. Malingan carried in her other hand.

  "Of course!" Mrs. Malingan said with a smile.

  Jacob took his wallet from his back pocket and opened it. A frown fell over his features. "I seem to have run out of Pesos. Is it okay if I give you American money?"

  "Eh, money is money, whether it's from here or from America."

  He smiled in response. I caught a glimpse of the bill he tucked into her hand. I know that I didn't imagine the two-zero’s following the one printed on the bill.

  She handed him several garlands, and Jacob took them with a nod, his grin growing wider. He turned and presented me with the flowers, the sweet fragrance of sampagita filling my senses.

  "Well, children," Mrs. Malingan said. "I must be off. It was nice seeing you again, Maeva, and very nice to meet you, Jacob. You children behave and have fun."

  Jacob and I said our good-byes and silently watched Mrs. Malingan deftly crossing the street.

  I clutched the garland of sampagita in my hand and brought it up to my nose. The scent was strong, but sweet and intoxicating. It reminded me of childhood—picking the flowers and stringing them into the same garlands for hours on end.

  "Those smell beautiful," Jacob said.

  "Yes, they do," I agreed. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  He smiled like he knew. He knew the flowers meant more to me than his kind gesture. Looking up at his serene but inquisitive expression, I felt more affection that I ever thought possible. Something gripped my heart, clutching and squeezing tightly. I suddenly wanted it to be the middle of the night, so that I could stealthily sneak down the hallway and crawl into his bed and his arms, regardless of the uncertainty creeping in my brain.

  I reached for his hand, and our fingers seemed to instinctively entwine around each other like the reeds of a basket. I pulled him through the street, walking briskly, willing for the pounding in my chest to slow enough so I could breathe. He followed willingly, keeping up with my short strides. I turned down the road and found a narrow, deserted alley. I pulled him along, stopping in the middle of the alleyway to face him. We must have only stood still for a fraction of a second, but it felt like an eternity passed between us in that one glance.

  Before I could blink, Jacob's arms were around me, his hips pinning me against the building's concrete wall. His mouth was on mine, his tongue filling me with the heat and desire I so desperately craved.

  I was dizzy with feeling, all too aware of every sensation around me - the hard, scratchy surface of the concrete on my back, the sticky heat of the day hovering over my skin, my fingers buried in his tawny hair, Jacob's soft lips sucking on my neck, his hardening cock against my crotch.

  Our eyes met, a searing stare that pierced my center. I could barely breathe. He whispered, almost to himself, "Where did you come from?"

  I can't explain what happened then. Perhaps it was the tone in his voice or the meaning behind his words or the myriad of sensations overwhelming my body. I couldn't take it.

  I was pushing him away, my palms flat against his chest, shoving with quivering hands. I caught the hurt and confusion in his eyes before mine pooled with tears, then spilled down my flushed cheeks. I tasted the salt as I ran.

  * * *

  Jacob

  Her name hung off the tip of my tongue, but no sound came from my mouth. I stood there, confused and disoriented as I watched her run from the alley and onto the crowded street, white blossoms trailing her path. I finally willed my legs and feet to move, and I quickly followed her.

  I spotted her wave of ebony tresses entering a cathedral on the corner, half a block away. I walked briskly, weaving to avoid the throngs of people on the street.

  I paused at the church's entrance, unsure of whether it would be trespassing or some other violation to enter, but the need to find Maeva seemed to overcome any of my hesitation. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  The colored light filtering through the stained glass echoed off the walls and danced on the sloped ceiling. An aura of peace and reverence hovered inside the cathedral, far removed from the noise and bustle outside.

  I spotted Maeva near the altar, looking intently at a statue of the Virgin Mary. The statue seemed to be looking back at her, lovingly, comfortingly.

  She turned to meet my stare, and then bade me to follow as she entered one of the confessionals lining the wall.

  I looked around, conscious of the people present at the church, but they all seemed to be lost in their own prayers. I walked along the carpeted aisle, stopping at a pew to genuflect. I couldn't help but stare at the ornately carved crucifix at the altar, the expression of pain on Christ's face so real, it made me shudder. I approached the confessional, drew back the curtain and sat down on the small wooden bench. The smell of musty old wood intensified my discomfort. I moved the sliding screen and saw Maeva's silhouette outlined on the other side. Her head was bowed, and she seemed to be examining her hands, wringing them together in a nervous gesture. I heard her breath hitch deeply before she spoke.

  "Forgive me, Jacob, for I have sinned." This should have sounded strange to me, but it wasn't. Her voice was different, in a way—as if she felt more comfortable talking like this.

  "Tell me," I pleaded.

  She was quiet for a long moment. I could almost sense the thoughts churning as she tried to determine what she was going to say. "There's this man," she began, her voice trembling. "I can't explain what he does to me. I am a moth drawn to a flame—a fire that will only singe my wings."

  Her breathing was haggard, panting like she had been running. Mine matched hers, breath for breath.

  "I want to believe that the flame won't burn, that it is perhaps a source of warmth and light," she gasped, almost desperately. "I'm afraid."

  "So am I." The words tumbled out of my mouth, wit
hout my control, but this only relayed their truth.

  "I doubt that," she said, so quietly I could barely hear, though the tears in her voice quivered audibly.

  I took a deep breath, stilling myself. "There is this woman," I began just as she had. "And I found something in her so amazing I feel like I'm dreaming, and I'm scared I'll wake up. I feel as if I'm in the presence of something so beautiful that I'm terrified of moving, of doing anything because I'll scare her away."

  It was so quiet, I thought that she was holding her breath. "I'm afraid too," I said.

  Her silence unnerved me. But what did I really expect to hear? "Maeva?" I asked. "Do we have to be afraid?"