Rochita Loenen-Ruiz is a Filipina writer-mom living in the Netherlands. Her work has appeared in print and online publications including Reflection's Edge, Route's Skin Byteback Book, The Chickflicks Ezine, The Orange Room Review, Byzarium, and Philippine Speculative Fiction volume two. Excerpts from her poetic memoir are included in a book to be released by OMF Lit Philippines this October.

Rochita is the author of Mistress Vogel, a Byzarium Flash Fiction Contest winner in the April 2006 issue. Mistress Vogel is also available as a downloadable MP3.

She helps edit an online magazine, and writes columns, interviews and reviews for various publications. "Six Events in a Love Story" is her second published story inspired by a Remedios Varo painting. For more details visit her blog.

1.

Evita was twenty eight years old when she got married.

She wove herself a man out of rainbows and stardust. His bowels were doorways leading into other doorways. When he spoke it was like hearing the memory of a dream, or music one has forgotten but wishes to remember.

“I am yours to command,” the woven man said. He bowed low and curtsied as if he were a gentleman of noble birth.

2.

Evita’s marriage was fodder for village gossip.

She couldn’t have won her husband by virtue of her beauty. What kind of man would want to marry a woman without a face?

Was he insane?

Was he poor?

Was he blind?

Was he desperate?

“We must find out what sort of man it is,” the mayor of the village declared.

3.

Juan, the most levelheaded of the village elders, volunteered to visit the newly weds.

When he arrived at their home, he couldn’t help but notice the light that seemed to permeate every corner of the simple nipa hut.

“This is my husband,” Evita said.

Juan was impressed when the woven man bowed and offered him a firm handshake.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” the woven man said.

And there was no ignoring the tender look the man bestowed on his new bride.

4.

The villagers were unconvinced by Juan’s testimony.

“How can he love her?”

“What does a gallant gentleman see in a woman whose face is nothing more than a mask of scars?”

“She is very gentle,” Juan replied.

“Are we not gentle enough to suit his taste?” the village maidens asked.

“Must a woman have a beautiful face in order for a man to love her?” Juan asked.

The young girls of the village were insulted by Juan’s words.

“Obviously, you don’t have any idea how difficult it is to become beautiful,” they said.

Over time, speculations grew ugly.

“She’s a witch,” single women said.

“She’ll steal your husbands,” old wives declared.

“She’ll cast an evil eye on our children,” young mothers cried.

“This is foolishness,” Juan said. “Evita is none of these things.”

“See,” they cried. “She has bewitched you too.”

“This is unfair,” Juan cried. “I don’t think Evita is a witch. If anything, the woven man is to blame for all these somehow.”

5.

“There is unrest in the village,” the woven man said to Evita.

She looked up from where she was busy weaving another tapestry.

“Oh?”

“They will come and they will take me and they will destroy me,” the woven man said.

“But why?”

“It is the way of the world,” the woven man replied.

Evita let her work drift onto her lap. Through the tangle of threads, was the shape of a tiny foot.

“I would have liked a child,” she said.

“I know,” the man replied. “But people don’t wish to understand something like us.”

“I suppose I should unravel you now,” Evita said.

“Is that what you wish to do?”

Evita looked at the woven man. Could she bear to unravel this man who made her feel she was just as important as the girl who had been crowned as Queen of the Flowers?

She thought of the nights she’d spent in the making of this man. At first, she had been frightened by her own temerity, but her fear had turned to surprise and then to joy when he leapt out of the cloth, took her hand, and taught her how to dance.

With his coming, the shadows that had swallowed up her nipa hut had been banished back into the night.

In the distance, the murmur of the crowd was turning into a roar.

“There is very little time left,” the woven man said.

6.

It was a simple matter of returning to where she’d first began. They travelled together to the junction where the light of the moon intersected with the rays of a falling star.

“Aren’t you afraid?” the woven man asked.

She looked up into his face.

“Can it be any more dreadful than it already has been?”

He smiled.

“It will be different,” he said.

“Will you be with me?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Then I won’t need to be afraid.”

The woven man reached out his hand to her and she took it. Doorways within doorways, paths leading to other paths, whichever doorway or path they took, they’d be together.