Brat

On Tuesdays

In front of her, the fried meat drowned in a concoction of vinegar and soy sauce, with bay leaves and minced garlic floating around it. The dish looked tempting and smelled heavenly. But Ishka didn't feel like eating adobo today. She needed something more, yet she didn't know exactly what she wanted.

With a flick of her wrist, the maid, who had been been waiting at the corner of the room, scurried to Ishka's side, bending slightly at the knees to match her height. Folded hands rested at her abdomen as she meekly asked, "Yes, ma'am?"

"I don't want that," she complained, annoyance lacing her every word, as she lazily pointed at the pot of adobo near her empty plate.

"Well, what do you want, miss?"

At the question, Ishka felt her patience wear thin, her lips curling downwards as a snide remark escaped from her mouth, "I don't know but I want it now."