Masticating on Armpits (not a poem)

I met up with James for lunch
in my recent trip to Cebu.
Since you have health issues,
he texted, let’s try
Persian Palette, adding
it was at the lower
ground of Mango Square,
near the ‘original’
National Bookstore.

That I’m claustrophobic
and that I felt
I was inside a catacomb I
didn’t tell James. People started
coming in; I could
see it was a pretty popular
place, especially among foreigners.
Vegetarians, James said,
poring over the menu,
not looking up.

He made me
read the menu that
was too Latin, errr Persian,
for me. I let him order.

We talked.
About our jobs;
about the other Dumaguete
fellows; about the next
two weeks of the workshop
I was unfortunate not
to attend; about the real
reason why I cut short
my Dumaguete stint;
about what we’re writing
at present; about his impending
(im)migration to Canada.

Then it came,
the order. There was a spring
roll wrapper with faint
freckles that I was supposed
to dip into an oily sauce before
eating. Wanting
to be sure, I
requested James to do
a demonstration of ‘How To
Eat Something Persian.’

After so much prodding, I
tore a portion of the pallid
wrapper, smudged it
with some sauce and put
it into my mouth.

Armpits,
it felt like
I was eating sweaty
armpits!

Sorry James, I didn’t enjoy
the food, but only
because it was not
up this mental pervert’s
alley. (I had a little
serving of jaundiced
rice and nothing more.)

But for sure the
company, though brief,
was better. And it
mattered.

So much.