February 15. Malate is as busy as the night before. The restaurants and bars are filled with couples on last minute dates, with the drunk and the lonely who hope that they might still get lucky and have a Happy Valentine’s. Around the corner from Nakpil Street, in the back alleys where the waiters, bartenders, and delivery boys gather during their break time, stories of the strange and unusual cast of Malate are reviewed and discussed. They often talk about the little sampaguita girl and how if you ever bother to look at her eyes, you’ll notice her reptilian, vertical pupils. If you shoo her away and don’t buy flowers from her, she’ll stick out her forked tongue and spit at you. Someone would usually mention that man with the bouquet of roses, seen at the corner where the street lamp never works. They say, if you happen to be standing there while waiting for a jeepney or taxi, you’ll suddenly notice this man standing right beside you. You’ll notice his polo shirt is damp with blood; th