Diana woke up at the harsh sound of the buzzer at the front door. Her body felt heavy as she slowly eased herself out of her too-soft bed dotted with fresh blood marks at the center, her blanket still reluctant to let her go. She unsteadily ambled towards the door, bumping into a chair and stubbing a toe against the coffee table as she went. She opened the door, revealing a man in his twenties smiling graciously at her.

"Good morning," he said.

"Kuya. Come in," she replied, stepping aside. Out of politeness she tried to smile back but he avoided her gaze. All of a sudden, she became aware of the crisp morning air on the tips of her small nipples through the cotton of her house dress that resembled a long T-shirt. She awkwardly crossed her arms in front of her chest as he passed in front of her, his scent wafting towards her. His smell was not bad at all, with hints of cologne, a bit of perspiration and hospital antiseptic. His combed hair shone with natural oil. Yes, like her, he was still unwashed.

"Pasensya ka na. Did I wake you up?" He sat down on the worn couch of the small living room while she stood at a civil distance in front of him, arms still crossed in front of her.

"Yes," she replied, smiling half-heartedly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Is there something wrong?"

Immediately after he sat down, Diana wanted to snatch the floral coverlet from under him, noticing a conspicuous bloodstain on one of the yellow flowers. Her blood. Since two days ago, she had been leaving blood all over the place-on the bed, on the sofa, on one of the dining chairs. Strangely, her flow had become stronger that month. The cramps in her abdomen and thighs had become more intense, weighing her down, causing her to skip school the previous day, the second day of her period. It had been a fortunate thing, after all-it was the same day her mother started labor, and Diana was there to call an ambulance. It was funny how she and her mother both felt a burning pain in their lower bellies at the same time, how both of them were grimacing in pain, one sitting on the couch phoning the hospital and the other sitting on the floor with legs spread widely, damming the liquid from the water bag that had just burst.

"No, there is nothing wrong. I just came to fetch some things, and..." He handed her a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and she quickly snatched it from him before crossing her arms again. "…and you. Your mother," and now his eyes gazed steadily into hers, "wants to see you."

"Oh." She now stared at the bloody blossom barely an inch away from his bottom. "Do you want coffee? Have you eaten breakfast?"

"We could eat someplace else." His elbows rested on his thighs, his hands clasped together tensely. "Come with me to the hospital. The baby, she's beautiful…" His gaze shifted uneasily from her eyes to her crossed arms and back. "You should see… your sister."

Her arms tightened over her chest, pressing into the softness of her small breasts. So the baby was not physically deformed or "special" as she had expected. Still, she wondered if the child would show any signs abnormality at all-a forty-year old woman's placenta would have its shortcomings, yes?

Of course, Diana had been lucky. Her mother had been very young when she was conceived. She was such a big infant-ten pounds out of a frail young woman of eighteen-with skin so red it made her mother gasp with fear. "Is something wrong with her? She's so red..." the dazed girl had asked the doctor when she first held Diana in her skinny arms.

"No, miss, she's perfect..." the male gynecologist had replied, smiling sheepishly at the pretty young lady's face glistening with healthy sweat.

"Misis," she had corrected him, her eyes laughing up at him.

"Oh. Right. Sorry..." the doctor had replied, grinning stupidly.

Diana had heard this charming delivery room story so many times from her mother that she would roll her eyes every time it was retold to new friends and acquaintances who would laugh and quip that they really looked like sisters. She was certainly embarrassed when Kuya Fernando heard it, and more so when her mother pointed out that she was turning so red, like the shiny red moon that she was as a baby.

She studied him as he lowered his gaze-was he looking at her bare feet? Her unshaven calves? Her dark knees?-considering whether to go with him or not. "No, I have to do our laundry," she answered, gesturing towards the hamper. Turning sideways so that he could not see her chest, she looked at the list. Underwear (pack everything). Pajamas (5 sets). Casual dress (1). Soap. Shampoo. Bath towel. Wristwatch. Camera. "I'm going to pack these things now," she said curtly. "Are you sure you don't want coffee?"

He shook his head, smiling politely, glancing at her face before looking down again. She walked away, to her mother's bedroom. "Sandali lang, wait for me," she said before closing the door behind her.

She opened a drawer and neatly emptied its contents into a plastic shopping bag. Every single garment in that drawer was fairly new. Gone were the worn cotton panties with barely elastic garters and irremovable faint brown blotches, so were the brassieres with stiff straps and deformed cups. In their place were lace panties with matching bras in black, red, light pink, hot pink, lavender and skin-tone, all bought from a tiangge store, no doubt. She examined her mother's delicates knowingly, enviously.

In front of the mirror, she held a black bra against her chest and imagined herself wearing it. Her mother never bought her a single piece of underwear of any color other than white and off-white. She pulled off her house dress, pausing to inspect her small but pert breasts before putting on the bra. Of course, it was too big because her mother had much bigger breasts than hers, especially now. Black bras are sexy, she thought, recalling pictures in underwear catalogues of slim beautiful women lounging in a couch or a bed, staring seductively into the camera. It was an incongruous pair: her mother's black lace bra and her white cotton underpants bulging with the thick sanitary napkin underneath.

Pulling on what she thought to be a seductive face, she sucked in her pot belly and hid her fleshy arms behind her back. She really ought to go on a diet. She had been especially gluttonous those days, mistaking the pain in her womb for hunger. She could easily justify her overeating, though: she was losing blood, was she not?

Her fingers wistfully traced the edges of the black lace before finally taking off the bra. As she did so, she imagined her mother doing the same thing, in that same room, with the man now seated on the couch in the living room. Staring at the bed, she visualized her mother kissing his mouth, running her hands through his thick, shiny black hair, caressing his chest, like in the movies. How did it look, her forty-year old body-with sagging breasts, large nipples, stretch marks and an ugly line of stitches on her abdomen-making love to his young, strong-limbed body?

It was not that her mother was ugly though. In fact, she wanted to be like her mother, tisay and petite, with straight shiny hair that hung up to her narrow shoulders. She never quite understood why she could not look like her mother. She always hated it when people said that she looked like her father, especially when they exclaimed, "Ay, she doesn't look like her mother."

As a child, she resented it whenever her mother fussed over some other kid during family reunions, some fair child who could grab everyone's attention even before he or she learned how to speak properly, while Diana, on the other hand, would get noticed by some of the grown-ups who would pinch her fat cheeks and her bilbil, saying things like "Tabaching" or "Ang laki-laki mo pala!" At mealtime, they would praise her for her appetite and congratulate her mother for feeding her so well. She ate and ate and ate-in amazing amounts, to entertain them-somewhat pleased at the all the attention she was getting, oblivious to the fact that she would regret it later on. Certainly she regretted it now.

Diana cupped her bare breasts in her hands-mere baby fat, really. It was strange, her body, because even though she was fat with a 30-inch waistline, she had breasts that would look proportional on a girl of twelve, not on a young woman of eighteen. She then imagined Kuya-he had asked her to call him Kuya instead of Tito, he wasn't that old-opening the bedroom door and then wrapping his arms around her. She felt a thrill run up her spine at the thought of being half-naked and alone in the same house with Kuya… although, no, she wouldn't… he wouldn't. She pulled her house dress back on and finished packing up the things her mother needed in the hospital.