Bottled Lightning

The bottle caps were already off. That's the first thing I noticed when I walked into Rhanz's apartment, that he'd twisted the caps loose on two Red Horses before I even knocked, like he knew I'd say yes before I said it. The second thing I noticed was the smell. Not beer. Something cooking. Garlic and soy sauce and the faint burnt edge of rice left too long on the stove.

"You're early," he said from the kitchen.

"By four minutes."

"Four minutes is early." He turned around and pointed a wooden spoon at me. "Sit."

I sat. The couch was the same gray thing he'd bought three years ago from a secondhand shop, the one with the small tear on the left cushion that he kept meaning to fix and never did. I ran my thumb along the tear. Familiar as a scar.

The apartment hadn't changed much. Same shelf of mismatched books, engineering manuals stacked next to a paperback he'd been reading for six months. Same framed photo of his parents on their wedding day, his mother's smile wide and unguarded, his father looking like he'd just been told a joke. Same small window over the sink that caught the last orange light of the afternoon. The city hummed outside, jeepneys and tricycles and someone's radio playing an old love song I couldn't name.

Rhanz came out with two plates. Rice, garlic fried, and something with chicken and soy sauce that smelled better than anything I'd eaten all week.

"You cooked," I said.

"I did."

"You don't cook."

"I cook sometimes."

"You heat things up sometimes. There's a difference."

He set the plates on the small table by the couch and sat on the floor, his back against the couch frame, knees pulled up. He always sat on the floor when we ate here. The table was too low for him, and the chairs were too high, and he'd given up on both years ago.

"Try it first before you insult me," he said.

I tried it. The chicken was a little dry on one side, and the sauce was heavier on the soy than it needed to be, and the rice was perfect, every grain separate and just this side of toasted.

"It's good," I said.

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You have a face."

"What face?"

"That face you make when something's fine but not great."

I put my fork down. "It's good. The rice is perfect. The chicken's a little dry."

"See? Honest."

"You asked."

He laughed and picked up his own fork. We ate in that quiet that only exists between people who've known each other long enough that silence isn't a problem. The radio outside shifted to a different song, something slower, and the light through the window went from orange to pink to that bruised purple that means the day is done.

I'd known Rhanz for seven years. We met in a college class we both almost failed, sitting next to each other because the room was full and there were only two seats left. He borrowed a pen from me. I never got it back. That pen became a joke between us, then a shorthand, then something we didn't talk about anymore because it had grown too big for words. Seven years of borrowed pens and shared plates and late-night texts that started with *are you awake* and ended with *goodnight* and nothing in between that either of us was brave enough to name.

"Club or Red Horse?" he asked.

"You already opened the Red Horse."

"I opened one Red Horse. There's a Club in the fridge."

"Red Horse is fine."

He reached up and handed me the bottle without looking, his eyes on the window, and our fingers brushed, and neither of us mentioned it. The bottle was cold. Condensation ran down the side and dripped onto my jeans. I wiped it with my thumb and took a drink.

"Long day?" I asked.

"Long week." He drank from his own bottle. "Client wants the whole system rebuilt by Friday. I told him Friday is a day, not a miracle."

"Did he listen?"

"Nobody listens. That's why I have a job."

I laughed. He smiled at the window.

Here's the thing about Rhanz. He's not the kind of person you notice right away. He's quiet in groups, the one who refills your glass without asking, who remembers your order, who walks you to your car and then stands there until you drive away. He's the kind of person you notice slowly, over years, until one day you look up and realize you've been noticing him the whole time.

I don't know when it started. Maybe it was the night my grandmother died and he drove two hours to sit with me in a hospital parking lot because I couldn't go inside. Maybe it was the time he showed up at my apartment with soup when I had the flu and stayed on my couch for three days, not talking, just being there. Maybe it was earlier. Maybe it was that first day in class, when he borrowed my pen and smiled and I thought, *oh*.

I've spent a lot of time trying not to think about it. I'm good at that. I've had seven years of practice.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm eating."

"You're quiet and eating. Usually you're loud and eating."

"Are you calling me loud?"

"I'm calling you honest. Loud is part of it."

I threw a napkin at him. He caught it without looking, which was annoying, and set it on the floor beside him, which was more annoying.

"I'm just tired," I said. "Work stuff."

"Your boss again?"

"Always my boss."

He nodded. He didn't ask for details. He never did. He just waited, and if I wanted to talk, I talked, and if I didn't, we sat in the quiet and it was okay. That's the thing about him. He makes the quiet okay.

I finished my beer and set the bottle on the table. He finished his and set his next to mine, two bottles side by side, labels facing the same direction, which was such a Rhanz thing to do that I almost said something. I didn't.

"Do you want another?" he asked.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"I'm trying to be a good host."

"You're a terrible host. You made me eat dry chicken."

"It wasn't dry."

"It was a little dry."

"It was *slightly* dry. There's a difference."

I laughed. He looked at me then, really looked, and I felt it the way you feel someone's eyes on the back of your neck before you turn around. Something in my chest went tight and warm at the same time.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing."

"You're looking at me."

"I'm allowed to look at you."

I didn't have an answer for that. I picked up my bottle and drank, even though it was empty, just to have something to do with my hands.

He stood up and went to the fridge. I watched him move through the small kitchen, opening the door, pulling out two more bottles of Red Horse, closing it with his hip. He'd always moved like that, easy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and wasn't worried about spending it. The kitchen light caught the side of his face and I thought, not for the first time, that he was handsome in a way that snuck up on you. Not obvious. Not loud. Just there, when you finally looked.

He came back and handed me a bottle. This time our fingers didn't brush. I noticed that too.

"Jess," he said.

"Yeah?"

He sat down on the floor again, closer this time, his shoulder almost touching my knee. He didn't say anything for a long moment. The radio outside had gone quiet, and the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of traffic.

"I'm glad you came," he said.

"I always come."

"I know."

"Then why are you saying it like that?"

He looked at me. That same look, the one that made my chest go tight. "Because I don't think I've ever said it."

"You've said it."

"Not like that."

I didn't know what to do with my hands. I put them around the bottle and held on. The condensation was cold against my palms. The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago, the walls closer, the air heavier, and I was suddenly aware of everything: the tear in the couch cushion, the smell of soy sauce still hanging in the air, the way his knee was almost touching my foot, the way my heart was beating too fast for someone who was just sitting still.

"Rhanz," I said.

"Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

He smiled. It was a small smile, the kind he saved for things that mattered. "I don't know," he said. "Something I should've done a long time ago."

And there it was. Seven years of borrowed pens and shared plates and late-night texts, all of it narrowing down to this small room, this gray couch, this man on the floor looking up at me like I was something worth looking at.

I set my bottle on the table. I slid off the couch and sat on the floor next to him, my shoulder against his, my knee against his knee. The floor was cold. He was warm.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

He didn't say anything else. He didn't have to. We sat there on the floor of his apartment, shoulder to shoulder, two open bottles on the table behind us, the last of the light fading from the window, and for the first time in seven years, neither of us was pretending not to notice.