Gorgeous by Motzie Dapul
One time, I was so homesick that I felt like I was ready to cry my eyes out in the middle of the street. It was November, and Christmas ornaments started popping up in shop windows—early for the US-of-A, but late for what I was used to. I missed home, missed it like an ache that would turn into a knife in my heart if I didn’t find something familiar to soothe me.
So I blew money on a train ride to Queens, taking the 7 line to Little Manila. I found myself surrounded by Tagalog being spoken freely by a dozen Filipinos or more. The slightest accent reminded me where I was. I sat there, grinning ’til my face hurt, regardless, and caught the half-lidded gaze of the passenger across me, who gave me a wink and had me blushing under my scarf.
I didn’t dare assume their gender, and in New York you could roll dice every other day on whether somebody was a butch lesbian or a transman. All I knew for sure was that they were handsome, and kept throwing glances at me every so often, their warm smile warding off any bad vibes I might have had from a stranger on a subway train.
We got off at the same station, and a few moments of consideration had the passenger approaching me, hands tucked into a stylish jacket’s front pockets.
“You’re not from here, are you?” they said, tone friendly but eyes musing.
“What gave it away?” I said in return.
“Had a hunch. You’ve got the real homeland feel,” they said with a drawl, looking me up and down from my dyed braids to my three layers in what to New Yorkers was “brisk” weather. “Want some company? Or have you got family up here in Little Manila?”
“No family,” I replied. “Just wanted something familiar.”
They smiled sympathetically. “I could show you around, if you like. Everybody could use a familiar face.”
I stopped, brow furrowing as I studied their face. “Um…Do I know you?”
They looked startled, but shrugged. “Don’t think so. I’ve been here a couple of years, and if I met you before, I’d remember it.” They opened their hands demonstratively. “Wouldn’t forget somebody as gorgeous as you.”
I rolled my eyes, but accepted the explanation with a wave of a hand. “What’s your name?” I asked as I fell into pace with them.
“Jays,” they said, eyes crinkling with mirth and genuine warmth. “You can call me Jays.”
We spent one day together, with Jays showing me the best places to get Filipino food and to find a crowd that would remind me of home. They left in a hurry, work calling them away, just as we’d finished getting drinks at a comfy little bar that played kitschy nineties Pinoy crooners.
It wasn’t until I was back on the train going to Manhattan that I realized I never got their number.
