His tongue has a mind of its own. Two hours ago it was craving for something he couldn't wrap his brain around. He had popped a mint-flavored Tic Tac into his mouth, but realized he wanted Menthos and a stick of Winston cigarettes instead. After smoking and chewing three candies, his mouth was still salivating for something he couldn't guess. He drew his wallet from his back pocket and counted the coins left. Four pesos. Not even enough to buy a foil pack of stir fried noodles. He took out his ATM card and stepped out of his dormitory.

What shall I eat? he thought. His tongue slithered inside his mouth, relishing the aftertaste of Tic Tac and Menthos. He sucked his teeth and tasted nicotine. His mouth was foul, his tongue felt rotten. He hadn't brushed his teeth since he woke up this morning. What shall I eat? he pondered. Jolly Hotdog? No. Shawarma? No. Isaw? No. Chicken barbecue? No. Carbonara? No. Fish-to-go's grilled bangus? No. Then he thought of that fat juicy 100% beef patty burger from McDonalds. Partly, but no. He walked to the nearest ATM, inserted his ATM card, and punched his password and the amount desired. The machine whirred and vomited a wad of five hundred bills. There were street food out front BPI. Breaded squid rings? No. Fishballs? No. Squidballs? Peanuts? Cashews? No.

He began flouncing back his dormitory, three blocks away, hands in his pocket, staring at the sparkling granite on the ground. Cars, buses, and jeepneys lurched and roared amidst the early night traffic to his left, belching smoke that filtered through his nose like a lungful of cigarettes. It was delightful. Lampposts spilled cones of light on the pedestrian. Faceless people floated past him, most of them probably thinking what to eat as he pondered just the same. He wasn't really hungry, frankly put. He just ate the adobo leftover of his roommate's lunch later this afternoon. For some unknown reason, he was born perpetually hungry. No, he wasn't born perpetually hungry; he was born with a tongue that needs to be constantly stimulated.

He sucked his thumb until he was eight. He bit his nails and the scab around his fingertips. He chewed packs of gum halfway through high school. His mouth became a vacuum at the dining table, his stomach a black hole. Then he discovered cigarettes. He has been a chain smoker for four years now. Cigarettes filled the gaps in between his snacks and meals, while nailbiting and Tic Tacs filled the gaps in between his cigarette breaks. But for this day, for tonight, his tongue was a squeamish son of a mother.

To the right corner of his eye standing under the cascading light of a lamppost was a middle-aged woman with a protuberant belly. She had a woven basket on top a rickety table in front of her. He strode towards her and studied her merchandise. She was selling candies and cigarettes, besides a basketful of thick cloth wrapping what appears to be a nest of duck eggs. His tongue peaked out in between his teeth, wetting his lips, trying as if to relish the taste of the food beneath his nose.

"Boy, balut?" the malnourished vendor muttered. Her face was dark and calm, though her eyes looked like sunken holes underneath the lamppost light. Her wavy hair was waist long and unkempt, and she wore a filthy rag-looking dress, braless underneath. Her breasts sagged and rested on top of her monstrous pregnant belly. He noticed there were three children behind her, sitting on the ledge and staring out the street.

His tongue made a decision and retreated back into his mouth, wet and slick with saliva: it's craving a mouthful of balut.

"Six please," he mumbled. He couldn't eat six; four would be enough. He just thought of buying one for each of his two roommates. After all, he couldn't eat all four in front of them without sharing any.

She took a small sheet of yellowish newspaper and unfolded the cloth that wrapped the eggs in the basket. She wrapped six maggot-white eggs in the paper and put it in a clear plastic bag with a spoonful of rock salt. He traded the balut with a five hundred bill.

"Don't you have a smaller bill?" she asked. "Only sixty-six pesos." He said he doesn't have any.

"Jon-jon!" she spat. A small sniffling boy jumped from the shadows. His hair was dyed bright copper brown--an experimentation with a bottle of Agua Oxenada perhaps--a striking contrast to his dark complexion. "Have this changed at the fruteria at the other side of the street." The boy snatched the money and risked his way across the four-lane street. Car horns blared, vehicles stopped abruptly, followed by unprintable curses from the guys that drove them.

"How many months?" he blurted, looking at the vendor's inflated stomach.

"Seven months," she chimed. "Due by September." There was an awkward pause. "How about you," she said. "How many months?" The vendor laughed at her wittiness to which he merely sneered.

"Boy or girl?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know," she said exasperated, covering the remaining duck eggs with the thick warm cloth. "Haven't seen a doctor yet. Expensive, you know. But I sure know it's a girl. Damn right. People say I'm getting prettier these past few days." He looked into her eyes, but they were empty. Her eyelashes cast distinct strands of eyelash shadows on her eye bags.

"Those kids yours?" He spared himself the boredom, so he asked. He's a nosy bugger when boredom strikes him. The little boy and girl glared at him from her behind, the girl sticking a finger up her nose. He wanted to do a tap dance, make a buffoon out of himself, but dismissed the idea.

"Yeah, three wonderful kids." She smiled for the first time. "My husband's out working. Jeepney driver. Works until midnight." He imagined a burly man filled with grime and sweat. He imagined a small ramshackle house, cramped and smelly and filled with flying and scurrying rats and roaches.

For a moment he thought of his change, nodding absentmindedly at her response. He swiveled his head, searching for the little boy across the street. The boy was hopping from one fruit stall to another, asking for change. Then he stopped across the street and shook his hand, yelling, "No change!"

"Go ask the rice vendor!" his mother yelled back, pointing to the east. The little boy disappeared from sight.

He looked back at the vendor and thought of being in her shoes. He'd sell duck eggs for a living, have three kids, four in two months time, and a jeepney driver for a husband. He reckoned the kids no more than six years old, accompanying their mother every day instead of playing with the other kids in the shanties. He stood there a few more minutes, desperately wanting to devour the duck eggs clasped in his hands. He did want to get home, smash the egg shells, and wolf them four embryonic ducks down his throat.

"You know what?" he fancied himself saying. "Keep the change."

"Oh you're so kind!" she'd say. "Just in time for the water bill! I do people's laundry by day, see. What's your name?"

"Count Dominico Francisco Bonevista Montemayor the third," he'd say, giving her a regal nod and mysteriously walking away. Then a carriage with eight horses would materialize a few steps away. The street suddenly empty and dark and moonless and filled with fog. He'd step in and gallop off, the horse hooves echoing on the granite floor. Then, he's gone, the pregnant woman dazed, her lips curled in a ghostly smile.

The little boy halted gasping for breath. "Ma. No"--panting--"no change."

Count Francisco Bonevista Montemayor III scowled and shoved the bag of duck eggs back to the vendor. "Never mind," he growled, taking his money back, and walked away.

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