“Oh, yeah, I just switch to my other wallpaper, the anime one. You do realise our phones can do that, right?”
His tone is teasing, and I turn away from him, huffing.
As he pulls roughly to a stop at a red light, I clutch my tote bag close to me, so it doesn’t knock off of my legs. My crescent moon keychain dangles around the strap, while his one titers around inside, like an omen.
“How is Rafayel?” he asks me.
I’m unsure how to answer that. Yesterday, he’d acted so distant and uninterested, yet this morning he’d been the one to textmegood morning, askingmewhat I was doing today. A total 180 on how he’d been.
He even asked me to send him a pic of what I was wearing for today. I sent him a photo of me in my gingham orange sweater and blue jeans, which he called cute.
It definitely sent my head into a spin.
But I didn’t feel like telling Marlon all of that.
So, I settle with, “It’s been going good. We’ve been chatting everyday since we exchanged numbers.”
A beat passes between us, and I turn to Marlon. His eyes are trained on the road, his face almost void of emotion until his mouth quickly morphs into a pleased smile.
“I’m happy for you Garcia, really. He better not mess it up.”
For the rest of the drive we take turns queuing different songs. I introduce him to some of my favourites, queueing up a selection of Laufey, BINI, ATEEZ and BTS tracks. Marlon particularly enjoys ATEEZ, bopping his head up and down dangerously hard, that for a moment I fear it’ll cause us to veer into the opposite traffic.
Marlon has good taste too. He puts on some Daniel Caesar tracks that I already know and love, and introduces me to some mellow Zack Tabudlo tunes that I end up adding to my own playlist.
Then, a particularly slow melody, reminiscent of those 1950s jazzy rock tunes begins to play. I’m surprised when I hear that the lyrics are in Tagalog.
“What song is this?” I ask, reaching forward to turn the volume up a little more.
“Pasilyo,by a Filipino band called SunKissed Lola,” Marlon tells me. “Do you like it?”
“Iloveit,” I profess, swaying to and fro, “It sounds so romantic.”
“Of course you’d love it,” Marlon chuckles, but it’s affectionate. “This is one of my parents’ favourite songs.”
As the song progresses, I imagine myself slow-dancing to the tune, with my faceless lover. I’ve never experienced slow dancing with anyone.
I wonder what it’s like, to be pressed against someone like that. To lose yourself to a melody, and weave yourself together with the tune. The closest I’d gotten to slow dancing, is when I used to imagine myself as Gabriella during the High School Musical 3 ‘Can I Have This Dance’scene with Troy, and sway around the house.
“You’re zoning out there, Garcia.”
The song reaches an end, and that’s when I realise I’d fallen silent, lost in my little daydream.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, “This song is just so slow-dance worthy. I love it.”
“Have you slow-danced with someone before?” Marlon ponders.
I shake my head and he gasps.
“Not even at your high school formal?”
“I didn’t have a date,” I murmur.
Marlon would’ve been with Christine during their high school formal. The image of them slow dancing drives a nail through my chest, and suddenly I don’t want to think about slow dancing anymore.
“Let’s listen to some classic 80s,” I suggest before Marlon can respond to me, and unlock his phone, diverting the tunes to a new playlist.
Dancing Queen begins to play, and as the song progresses, an unspoken competition of who can sing the loudest begins.
