MRT Story

I checked the time, 9:43 in the evening - I can still make it, I thought. I made my way up the flight of stairs leading up to the station's ticket booth at a quickened pace. There's no queue in the booth - it seemed that I would be so lucky that day. I approached the lady behind the counter. "Vito Cruz po," I said, panting, pushing the 20 peso bill into the counter hole.

No response. She just stared at me. Was she stalling? I made it in time. She's not supposed to stop selling tickets yet. She blinked once. I waited for her reply. Slowly, she raised her left hand and pointed to the price charts.

I realized my mistake. "Ay syet, MRT nga pala to!" Stupid me. My mistake. I tried to hide my blush, but there wasn't much time. "Isang Taft na lang pala," I quickly segued, pushing the bill I instinctively retracted earlier.

Again, no response. Was she really stalling? There has to be something abrew. I already corrected myself. The last train was arriving in a few minutes. The lady blinked once. I waited for her reply. Slowly she positioned herself closer to the microphone. Was there a problem with the line? She looked at me and frowned.

"NORTH BOUND DITO. SA KABILA ANG TAFT."

Last time ever tried to ride the train intoxicated.