Warm Enough by Yoram Ong

By the time I reach my brother’s apartment, the sun is already low, slanting across the row of houses. I park behind his truck. He opens the door before I knock, like he’s been listening for my footsteps. “You made good time,” he says, and steps aside so I can come in. He doesn’t hug me, just reaches for my bag and sets it on the kitchen chair.

He’s frying garlic for dinner. The windows fog a little from the steam. His daughter—Luna, seven—sits on the floor with a cardboard box she’s turned into a “hotel” for her stuffed animals. She waves. “We have vacancies,” she says, like it’s a real business. My brother gives me a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised, like: See what you’re walking into.

I told him yesterday that the apartment finally feels empty since Marco moved out. He didn’t say sorry, didn’t ask questions. Just: Come over. Luna’s been asking about you anyway. That’s his way.

“Take her outside,” he says now, stirring the pan. “She’s been inside all day. Walk to the park or something.” Luna jumps up before I can answer. She’s already pulling on her sneakers, talking about how the slide gets too hot in summer and too cold in winter.

Outside, the air is still warm from the afternoon. We walk the block together. Luna skips ahead, then doubles back to show me a rock shaped like a potato. We reach the park, half-empty at this hour. She climbs the slide ladder, then changes her mind halfway and climbs back down. “Too high,” she says. “Maybe later.”

I take the bench under the acacia tree. I can hear my own breath. I think about Marco, how he used to make spreadsheets for everything—groceries, chores, even the trips we never took. My brother told me once, gently, “You don’t need someone who schedules your feelings.” I laughed at the time, said he didn’t know what he was talking about. Maybe he did.

Luna runs toward me, hair stuck to her forehead. “Watch this,” she says, hopping over the little cracks in the pavement one by one. She doesn’t land cleanly every time, but she keeps going, arms out, focused on each next step.

A soft wind passes by, enough to make me notice it on my arms. Luna stops hopping and looks at me. “Tito, are you cold?”

“Not yet,” I say.

She sits beside me on the bench, legs swinging. She hands me the potato-shaped rock like it means something. I hold it. It’s warm from her palm.

Back at the apartment, my brother has set the table. Nothing fancy—rice, fried fish, a bowl of tomatoes with salt. He nods at my face, probably reading something I didn’t say out loud. “Food’s ready,” he says.

We eat. Luna tells us about her stuffed-animal hotel. My brother laughs once, a short, surprised burst. I watch the two of them, the ease in the way they fill a room. I don’t say anything, but I can tell my guard is coming down a bit.

Maybe I’ll stay the night. Maybe longer. Maybe I just need somewhere warm enough to sit while everything settles.

After dinner, Luna hands me the rock again. “Keep it,” she says.

I slip it into my pocket. It’s small. Heavier than it looks.

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YORAM ONG — Yoram is a writer from the Philippines. His work has appeared in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and 101 Words.

Art by COURTNEY BURTON — Courtney is an artist, writer, and musician living in Springfield, Missouri. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming on SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, Ghost Parachute, and Moon City Review.