Mornings unfold like bad plots before her eyes. There are neighbors' clothes to wash before the sky turns lethargic. Lunch is at two—a sardine-stuffed 'pandesal' gritty after nine hours stewed in a paper bag. Folded bills later inherit its scent. Coins mingled with detergent and musk change hands in the wet market. Red-eyed fish finds purpose at home, in a pan of reused oil. Brown well then set on a niche of leftover rice. A single plate serves an ending to chew by the window grill; a knee propped while fingers pull at the flesh of a tail-boned feast. Save the head for last. A mix of stretched monologues, loud theme songs, and biting cries from TV audiences slice through clotheslines that crisscross like a sequel of mornings passing off as nights.
Bedtime is a flashback away from the kitchen sink. In between calluses, there is room to imagine mouths to press on the ironing board.