Summer nights in Cubao. The trees as still as cardboard cut-outs, black against a violet sky. Cicadas chanting mantras behind the shadowy leaves. Mosquitoes humming like miniature Tinker Bells, impervious to insect spray. Cats basking on the concrete driveway baked by an afternoon sun long gone. Radio music floating in from even the farthest neighboring houses. Pitchers of lemonade with ice cubes tinkling like water chimes. Inside the cafe, waiters serving glasses of chilled, golden beer.

Writers contemplating their computer screens while the night holds them in her sweaty embrace.