Spider Legs

It was not until eleven in the morning when I heard the sounds of waking from Warren’s bedroom. He padded towards the kitchen, where I was. I had on a plain navy blue apron; I was cooking. Looking up, we smiled at each other. His stubble had thickened a bit, I noticed.

“I’m wearing fresh tank top and boxers,” he said by way of a greeting. “I don’t remember how I got in ’em.”

“How do you think,” I told him, my right arm akimbo. When he couldn’t answer, I returned to my cooking, folding the omelet and sliding it to a plate.

“You’re cooking,” he told me. At the same time, I heard his stomach grumble.

“Yep,” I replied simply, taking off my apron. “You know, for a guy who lives in a suite, you barely have anything in your fridge. Good thing Felicity’s near my favorite grocery store.”

“Uh…” Warren rubbed his temples. “You’re making me breakfast?”

“Brunch,” I said. “Its already noon, sleepyhead. Here.” I pushed the plate of omelet and fried rice towards him.

He stared at his plate. “You cook.”

“Yeah,” his dumb remarks were amusing me to no end. “A bit. One of my exes was a chef, you know. Not the best chef, though. But I learned a lot from him.”

I leaned against the counter, watching him stare at his plate.

“Uhm, unless you can eat telepathically, you might want to use your spoon and fork,” I offered.

“What’s, uhm, in the omelet?” he asked. “You know I’m allergic―”

“To bell peppers,” I piped. “You’re lucky I remembered. Nah, that omelet only has cheese and mushrooms and onions.”

Almost mechanically, he scooped a spoonful of the fried rice. It had green peas, carrots and corn in it.

His face lit up as he chewed.

“Wow,” he said after swallowing. “You can cook.”

I waved it off. “It’s nothing,” I snorted. “I would’ve made a bigger breakfast but I didn’t bring a lot of cash with me when I left, so…”

*

From the floor to ceiling window of the living room, I saw rain start to patter on the glass. I approached the tempered glass and peered out. We were at the third floor, and already that was pretty high. I could see the apartment building where I lived clearly from here. I stared at it, thinking of Carlo. He’d been very understanding to allow me time with Warren. I guess I had Stephanie to thank for coming up with a moving background story about me and Warren. In my mind, I kissed Carlo's cheeks in thanks.

I felt Warren’s presence behind me. I turned around, and my knees almost gave up on me.

All Warren had on was a white towel wrapped around his waist. I leaned against the glass for support. I was right about him working out. He was muscled, but not in a bulky way. He’s always been slender, and he still was, but with muscles. I can’t believe I didn’t notice his abs when I put him on fresh underwear before I sent him to sleep! I mean, the pecs and the biceps were already pretty obvious, but those abs! Like six pan de sals, fresh from the oven.

I shook my head.

“Wow,” I said. “You got…hot.”

“What? Oh, yeah,” Warren gave himself a glance. “Swimming mostly. There’s a pool upstairs, actually. Chick magnet, yeah?” He flexed.

I laughed.

“Anyway, you’re not looking bad yourself,” he said.

I shrugged. “I jog,” I admitted. “And Muay Thai.”

“Cool, spar with you sometime!” Warren challenged. “Hey, if you want you can take a shower too.”

“Yeah…” I twisted my mouth. “I would, but I don’t have a change of clothes.”

“Borrow some of mine,” Warren said casually, walking towards his bedroom.

“I’d rather not,” I said. “Carlo’s been lenient with me so far. Wouldn’t want to be caught wearing another guy’s shirt.”

*

“So this Carl, he’s your boyfriend?”

We were outside on the hotel’s garden. The sun was high above us, and the garden’s white décor blinded me a bit. It was a good thing Warren had on a black tank top and black cargo shorts, making him easier to look at when we were talking. His pale skin brightened under sun’s light though. The light drizzle from earlier seemed like it happened a lifetime ago.
“Carlo,” I corrected. “Yeah, he is. For three months now.”
“Hm, cool,” Warren nodded absently. He plopped down on a bleached white bench. I did the same. We sat there, enjoying the sun and the light breeze.

After a while, he said, “So is he you-gay or is he gay-gay?”

I looked at him. “Excuse me?” I almost laughed. “What’s the difference?”

“You-gay, you know, like you,” he gestured at me. “Okay dresser, not girly but still gay. You don’t even have a gay voice, I noticed. Gay-gay, uhm, you know, like Rustom Padilla or, or Vice Ganda.”

I laughed so hard after he said that that I almost fell off the bench. Never mind that what he said was borderline offensive. He sounded so ridiculous trying to explain what he meant. Warren: he makes ignorance look cute.

Wiping a tear from my eye, I replied, “He’s more or less me-gay, as you call it. But I sometimes catch him trying on one of my best friend’s dresses.”

I laughed again, this time he joined me. Then he came up with another question:

“So, how do you think he’s gonna react if he finds out…?”

I shrugged.

“I have no intention of telling him what happened last night,” I said quite flatly.

“Fair enough,” Warren said. His eyes were following a black and blue butterfly fluttering from flower to flower. “What if he finds out anyway?”

“I’d expect him to break up with me on the spot,” I replied. “I would too if I found out my boyfriend was making out with someone else other than myself. With that kind of explanation, too.”

We laughed.

“Supposing he does break up with you, how would you be?”

I paused, and give him a sidelong glance.

“That depends. We are friends again, right?”

Without missing a beat, Warren replied, “Of course. The very best.”

And he flashed an awfully handsome at the same time dangerously devilish grin.

I leaned back against the bench, watching the butterfly with him.

“Then,” I said at length, “Then I'd feel like it's all worth it.”