Manila, manila, etc.

Manila speaks to me with an open heart. She speaks slowly of a time when I will have to leave her. “Live,” she says “Live well.”

The city rises early on a Monday morning. The buses clank and heap together like a herd of Alpacas rushing to get where they are supposed to be going. The question is “Do they want to go” or “Where are they going exactly?”

Manila says to me, through sleepy eyes, under sleepy breath.
“It’s not like I am leaving you tomorrow”

The coffee is ready when she says this and I am easily distracted by its smell. It’s local brew—strong and robust. Yes, I am easily distracted. I pour myself a glass. She isn’t leaving me tomorrow. I think, but aren’t we always leaving each other for something or someone else. Isn’t this how it works? I’ve already left her for my first cup of coffee.
I’ve drifted away from her. She has no idea.

“Did you hear me?” She continues, “… just pour me a cup?”
I do what she asks. I am not one to be easily manipulated by silence or open heartedness. This is a state of submission. I think. It’s true. She’s rolled over. She’s on her back. Now, I no longer want her.

Manila speaks to me quickly. She’s in a hurry today. She’s in a hurry to get it out. What ever it is she needs to get out.

She was magical when I loved her. She used to linger, silently floating on the waters of the pacific. She’d whisper “Don’t worry man, I’ve gotcha. Everything’s going to be alright.” She’d say “Shut the windows” I would. It was then that I realized the reason for the closed windows, the closed doors; her never ending silence. The windows kept her spirit in. Closing them kept her spirit from leaking away. Her silence, so profound and seductive at first, grew into a wall that kept everything inside of her.
“Who is Manila?” I asked her once. “Who are you?”
She smiled and said, “Please, close the windows and turn off the lights.”
She wrapped herself in a blanket. I crawled into place behind her. We enclosed each other. Manila slept soundly in my arms.

Now. QUICK, QUICK, QUICKLY…
She is telling me that she wants to live just live with me. No more locks and spare keys or taxi cabs at 3 am. “I want to live with you.”

She tells me this before my first cup of coffee. The two mugs sit on the kitchen table. They are lukewarm and sweaty. I bring my palm to the body of the mug. I feel its smoothness; its never-ending reliability.

Cincinnati calls after Manila closes the door and I image crawls into bed. She always likes to sleep in the fetal position. Cincinnati speaks in well formed prose. There’s no poetry in her words just perfect grammar and the remnants of a passion that had been locked up inside for too long. See! I think. This is what happens when you close the windows.
“Look” Cinci say, “I miss you.”