Inchoy had hired a GrabCar, a treat for me as he most often took jeepneys. We were lucky that the rain had taken a hiatus because the streets were clear, although still glutted with the traffic that would not let up until deep into the night. Inchoy taught five classes at the university and was always short on time. He had brought a shopping bag of papers to grade on the ride to Bibo’s house, but just his presence, even if he was preoccupied, settled me. I hadn’t seen him in a year, but our friendship always picked up where it left off, with little ceremony, a friendship cemented in a shared sense of what was interesting—of what deserved attention—although we often disagreed on why. In the street, a pair of children was weaving through the cars with garlands of sampaguita. Two of these garlands, no doubt purchased from a similar pair of children, hung on the rearview mirror of the car, scenting the air. Inchoy watched me watching the children, and I felt my perspective slowly shift from mine to his: from my joy at the beauty of the children to Inchoy’s perception of forced child labor. He flicked his eyebrows at me to drive home the point. And maybe I was reading too much into his gesture, but after many years of similar exchanges—we had been friends since college—the words did not seem necessary.

Inchoy was a staunch socialist and quietly active in gay circles but still lived with his mother, who knew about neither aspect of his identity. His house was around the corner from Tita Dom’s, although Bibo—the great love of his life after Lacan—lived in Tondo. I did not know all the particulars of their financial situation, but Inchoy must have been paying for Bibo’s tiny apartment and had likely set Bibo up in the sari sari store that sold cigarettes, snacks, and Coke.

Inchoy delivered a frank look in my direction and sighed heavily. “So you’re leaving your husband,” he said. “I never understood this marriage of yours. No kids? Why bother?”