His editor laughed at him. “Love isn’t a cause of death, B. It’s a cause of stupidity.”
Thursday came. B sat in the hospital waiting room, surrounded by fluorescent lights and the smell of isopropyl alcohol. He had brought his corkboard with him—all the obituaries, all the footnotes, all the women he had almost loved. para kay b
B sat down next to her. The chair was plastic and cold. He didn’t care. His editor laughed at him
It was a Tuesday when B first saw the girl in the yellow raincoat. Not the bright, sunshine yellow of optimism, but the pale, sickly yellow of a forgotten banana peel. She was standing under the broken awning of a closed bookshop, and the rain was not the kind from poems—it was the Manila rain: grey, angry, and full of traffic. B sat in the hospital waiting room, surrounded
B smiled. He wrote that line on an invisible index card in his mind. The cause of death was practicality.