"What are we doing here?" I asked him, looking around the market. The public market bustled with noise and activity. Sellers loudly promoted their goods, vying for the attention of potential customers. It was a familiar scene, and I often frequented the market myself, appreciating the affordability and freshness of the produce compared to supermarkets. However, it took me by surprise that Tyrone was perfectly fine with being here. After all, he came from a wealthy family, and typical rich guys rarely had any familiarity with such places.
As we strolled through the crowded market, I observed Tyrone with a mix of curiosity and admiration. He seemed to navigate the chaos with ease, as though he had been here many times before. People recognized him, acknowledging him with nods and greetings. It was evident that he was not a stranger to this environment.
As we continued our tour through the market, I noticed how Tyrone handled the transactions confidently, bargaining skillfully with the sellers. He was no stranger to the art of haggling, which made me chuckle. Here I was, if someone like him wouldn't know how to handle such situations.
"Do you really want me to answer that?" He replied with a touch of sarcasm.
This guy is such a know-it-all. Okay, fine. So maybe this wasn't really a date. But he did say he would make it up to me. Isn't this a bit too underwhelming?
He said he'd make it up to me, but here we are at the public market. Ugh, he's so irritating. I had high expectations for what he would do, and this just doesn't match up.
"Well, there are a lot of things you can do at the public market," I tried to sound nonchalant.
Hah! I'm trying to make an excuse just to make this seem okay. He raised an eyebrow, as if he had something to say, but chose to keep it to himself.
"We're going to buy some stuff," he said, tugging me inside while shrugging.
"Keep close to me and give me your things," he instructed.
"And why should I?" I retorted snappishly.
Okay, the "keep close" part was almost romantic. It made me feel a bit giddy, but I don't understand why he needs to take my things.
"Don't you want to avoid getting pickpocketed?" he said, exhaling as if he was on the verge of getting annoyed.
He took my bag, carrying it himself, leaving me with nothing. I secretly smiled. He turned out to be quite thoughtful and kind. His girlfriend must be lucky.
I had no idea what we were doing here, but I followed him obediently. I couldn't help but feel a warm sensation whenever he held my hand. It was like he wanted to protect me. He bought vegetables and pork meat.
"What are you going to do with those?" I couldn't help but ask him.
"I'll make it up to you, right?" he said with a smile.
His smile almost melted me away. My heart was pounding hard in my chest.
As we departed from the bustling market, we ventured a little further, finding ourselves in a narrow and dimly lit alley. The pungent smell of decay and refuse lingered in the air, creating an unpleasant atmosphere that enveloped me. I recognized this place – it was an area I had visited before for school projects, a neighborhood not meant for the faint-hearted. Those who resided here were survivors, navigating the challenges of their everyday lives with resilience and fortitude.
This was a part of town where danger lurked around every corner, and only those familiar with the intricacies of the labyrinthine streets would confidently navigate through. As we proceeded, Tyrone moved with familiarity, seamlessly weaving through the maze-like pathways. It was evident that he had visited this place numerous times before, perhaps in stark contrast to his privileged upbringing. Meanwhile, I struggled to keep pace with him, trying to avoid falling behind in the dimly lit alley.
The graffiti-covered walls depicted the stories of the marginalized residents, their struggles, and their hopes for a better life. The flickering streetlights cast eerie shadows, adding to the sense of mystery and uncertainty that surrounded us. It was as if the narrow passageway was a puzzle, with each turn leading to a new revelation, but only the seasoned locals could discern the way to go.
Despite the unnerving environment, I couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for Tyrone. He moved with ease and confidence, exuding a comfort with this setting that belied his privileged background. In contrast, my heart raced as I tried to match his steps, keenly aware of the unfamiliarity and potential dangers that lay hidden in the shadows.
This was a part of the city that remained hidden from the glitz and glamour seen on the surface. People here lived a different reality, one characterized by hardship and resilience. Tyrone's presence here spoke volumes about the complexity of his character, and it challenged my preconceived notions of him.
As we continued down the intricate path, I couldn't help but marvel at the paradox before me – a world of disparity, where privilege and poverty intersected, and where a man like Tyrone could bridge the gap with ease.
At one point, we passed a group of men indulging in some morning drinks, and Tyrone exchanged friendly banter with them. I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the scene. I had expected him to be unfamiliar with this side of life, but he proved me wrong. It seemed that he was comfortable and acquainted with people from different walks of life.
"Hey, Tyrone, visiting?" greeted a slightly thin guy with a smile.
"Yeah, I missed this place," Tyrone replied.
Missed this place? I wanted to ask him about it, but I held back. Maybe I'd find out later.
"Have a drink," said another, chubby guy.
I didn't know why he looked at me. I raised my eyebrows. It seemed like he was seeking approval. When he saw I didn't mind, he immediately took the drink they offered. Wow, I never expected Tyrone to be so unpretentious, considering how wealthy the Zamora’s are.
"We'll be leaving," Tyrone told them.
"Oh, sure. Seems like you're in a hurry and you have a girl with you. Just make it up to us next time," the guy said.
Honestly, I thought they would threaten Tyrone or something, but I was wrong. In the stories and movies, I've seen, people like them are always portrayed differently. They seem friendly, even though they live in a squatter's area.
We followed a maze-like path—hot, cramped, and full of twists and turns. If I had to find my way back alone, I'd surely get lost. We stopped in front of a house—half concrete, half wood. It wasn't a lavish place to live in.
The house we stopped in front of had a modest and unassuming appearance. Its structure was a mixture of concrete and wood, reflecting the resourcefulness of its inhabitants. The walls, though weathered, held an aura of endurance, standing firm against the test of time. The roof, patched with metal and worn-out materials, protected the home from the elements but bore the marks of countless storms that had passed.
Small, square windows adorned the front, allowing scarce rays of sunlight to peek through. Faded curtains swayed slightly in the breeze, offering glimpses of the life within. The door, worn at the edges and aged by years of use, welcomed us into the abode.
"Come in," he said.
Though simple on the outside, the inside was surprisingly clean. It was a old small apartment. As we entered, I noticed the simplicity of the interior. There was a humble seating area, made up of makeshift chairs and a worn-out wooden table. The walls, painted in pale colors, displayed pictures of family members, their smiles capturing moments of joy and camaraderie. A thin, threadbare rug lay on the floor, providing a meager touch of comfort.
The kitchen was a small alcove, equipped with necessities. A rustic stove sat in the corner, accompanied by a few mismatched pots and pans. A stack of dishes waited patiently to be cleaned, while a pail filled with water sat nearby, fulfilling its role in daily chores.
In one corner of the house, a modest bed offered a place of rest. The mattress was old, the bedding simple, and yet, it provided a comforting space for a good night's sleep. A solitary wardrobe stood against the wall, holding the limited possessions of the family.
Despite the lack of material wealth, the house felt warm and lived in. It exuded a sense of resilience and unity, a home that had witnessed both struggles and triumphs. While it might not boast grandeur or opulence, it held an intangible sense of belonging that only those who lived there could truly understand.
This humble dwelling was a testament to the spirit of those who called it home. It embodied the strength to endure, the ability to find joy in the simplest of things, and the courage to face the challenges of life head-on. Amid adversity, they created a haven filled with love, laughter, and the bonds of family. I was intrigued by why we were here. Tyrone acted as if he knew this place well, and the people here knew him too. He placed the groceries in the kitchen, which I could only see from the living room.
I looked around, and the pictures on the wall caught my attention. They were a bit old, but that didn't stop me from appreciating the beauty captured in the photos. One of them was a picture of a woman. Not just any woman, but a stunningly beautiful one.
"Such beauty," I couldn't help but utter.
Truly, she was the epitome of beauty. Her fair skin, delicate nose, rosy cheeks, innocent eyes, and luscious red lips made her a sight to behold.
"She was," I was startled when Tyrone's voice came from behind me. In my astonishment, I hadn't noticed how close he had gotten.
"Who is she?" I asked, quickly taking a seat on the bamboo sofa.
I was afraid he would hear my heart pounding loudly. He was so near that I might lose control and do something foolish. How silly of me to feel this way.
"My mother," he said.
I couldn't see his expression since he was behind me. I fell silent, unsure how to respond. I didn't expect him to explain further. "She worked as a maid for the Zamora’s back then."
It was as if the world stopped for a moment, crushing me with an overwhelming feeling. Theories started forming in my mind, but I didn't want to voice them out. We weren't that close. I followed him into the kitchen, where he was already cooking. Wow, that was quick. I cleared my
throat.
"Didn't know you could cook," I said, trying to sound cheerful and light, to dispel the melancholic aura from earlier.
"You know, for someone like you, you're quite judgmental," he replied, grinning at me.
I don't know why, but I should've taken offense at what he said. Instead, I found myself smiling in response.
"I thought we were going to a restaurant or an amusement park," I blurted out before I could stop myself. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Who knows what he would think? But he didn't react to it. I watched as he placed two plates in front of me.
"Ah, so you prefer the typical type," he questioned, which puzzled me.
"Typical?"
"Yes, you know, the restaurant-amusement park kind. Earlier, I thought you wanted something uncommon. I want you to see me as someone different. I want to stand out from the rest, Diane," he said, his gaze fixed on me.
Oh my! I could almost faint from all the excitement. I felt a rush of thrills all over my body. Every part of me seemed to be tingling with joy at his words. I couldn't contain my smile.
"You really do like me," he said again, bringing up the 'like' topic once more, which disrupted the atmosphere between the two of us. So, I turned away, not to answer him, and to hide my blushing face.
"Well, I like you too."
What did I just say?
He likes me too.
I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling my heart seemingly wanting to leap out. I wasn't sure if I heard him correctly. It was like he whispered it out loud.