April in Dipolog is a character in itself. It is the month when summer cracks the sky open. The temperature hovers just below unbearable, the electric fans in the pension houses only churn the thick air, and the sea at the boulevard glitters like molten glass. This is not the season for sweater-weather cuddles. This is the season for sweat-soaked honesty, for impulsive tricycle rides to nowhere, and for the kind of love that either evaporates by May or hardens into something unbreakable.