Max’s Fried Chicken was emptying out as it was now past the lunch hour, but it was still busy with the mostly uniformed middle class and students who could afford to eat there. At times the entire nation, with a few exceptions, seemed to be in uniform. Uniformed people looked as if they had a sense of purpose, which was so often missing in the fervor of fatalism that dogged the culture. Maybe their presence helped to balance out the general disorder. Regardless, it was a kindness, because it simplified the demands of dressing for those who likely could not afford an extensive wardrobe. I ordered fried chicken, rice, and chop suey. Bibo ordered the same thing and we sat there sipping our Cokes, waiting for the food to arrive.

“I wanted to ask you,” said Bibo, suddenly serious, “what I should get Inchoy for his birthday.”

“His birthday? That’s not for another two months.”

Bibo shook her head gracefully and folded her narrow, long hands, one upon the other. “It is a special birthday. I want to do something special.”

Inchoy was turning fifty. He and I had become suddenly old. “You make every day of that man’s life a birthday,” I said.

“Thank you. But I don’t know what to get him. I have been saving. Maybe a watch?” Bibo threw up her hands in genuine despair. “It’s so hard. He’s a socialist.”

Bibo was right. Inchoy was not an easy person to buy for. Sometimes I’d bring him cheese from the States, which he liked, but he would also remind me that many Filipinos had full, vibrant lives without American cheese.

“I know,” I said. “Why don’t you take a trip?”

“A trip?”

“Why not? Go to Baguio for a few days. You can go visit the Kalinga villages and maybe you can buy Inchoy some artwork. He can pick it out.”

“Ay, Ting,” said Bibo, her face alight. “That is perfect.” She was already planning, shifting her head from side to side, working out the details. “To make it really special, you should join too.”

“Me? Don’t you want a romantic getaway?”

“Every day in my life with Inchoy,” said Bibo, suddenly somber, “is a romantic getaway.”

“All right,” I said. “Sounds like fun.”

Bibo took my hands in hers and held them. “I will book rooms at the convent.” She and Inchoy always stayed at the convent. “Inchoy will really like that gift.”

Our food had now arrived. I looked at the fried chicken and the chop suey. As usual, hiding in the bokchoy and carrot and sauce was a small, gray chicken liver. I wasn’t sure if this was actually a thing elsewhere. I stabbed it with my fork. “Bibo,” I said. “Do you want my liver?”