Tampuhan

Tampuhan It was cooler on the verandah. We had quarreled earlier your pino terno gown whispers while you give me the silent treatment. The apartment seems to sulk in the orchid laden air. The heart of a guitar was playing on the street below. A young Filipino minstrel sang a sentimental song: about the sea and shore how they really want to dance as one tempo. When I ask you about the song the rustle of your falling dress spoke for both ours bodies. “It’s tampuhan,” you say with a slow smile. Later I understood.