Humba on the mind.

   8.40 in the evening.
   Saturday.

   As he walks into the building, a slight breeze picks up. He turns and nods to the guard. The elevator ride was a haiku of mental anguish.

   He crosses to his desk, takes out the heavy silver metal briefcase from underneath a pile of magazine and paperwork. Opening the case, he caresses the velvet-lined inside and runs his fingers through the rows of chips. The tension mounts; it is unbearable.

   "Wala pa sila?" He looks up. Eyes meet, the question passed. The scent of buttered popcorn waft through AC-cooled air.

   "Padung na daw sila." The barely contained excitement is unbearable.

   Twenty minutes: A five-minute jeepney ride; a ten-minute walk; three minutes to finish the first cigarette of the night; two more minutes for even more tension to build.

   The scent of buttered popcorn and blue cigarette smoke mingle with the icy smoothness of bitter brew, the tartness of vodka & juice jello shots, and the sweet-savory taste of humba in the mouth.

   Three hours.
   Several hundred pesos lighter.
   He shrugs and puffs the last cigarette of the night.
   And runs the Eights Full of Kings over and over and over and over and over...

   Game over.


   Two weeks later.
   Now.
   Again, he walks into the building.

   No elevating degrees of mental anguish, this time
   Just the quiet breeze of anticipation
   And the taste of humba in the mouth.