Ink spots

They sat on benches made of bamboo slats, their feet dangling over the dark, tepid water. The table, also of bamboo, held their empty bowls, spoons and forks and crumpled napkins.

"Throw your leftovers into the pond," he said to her.

"What’"

"Yes, that’s the basurahan. The fish eat it."

"Won’t the owners get mad?"

"No, that’s how it’s done here."

"Oh,ok." she  threw out the noodles and grizzle from the stewed beef soup they had for lunch.

"So, how do you like it here?"

"Hmm, different, nice breeze."

"I thought you’d like it."

She smiled.

"I’m number 7 of 13 children. My father is a jeepney driver and my mother washes clothes for other people. We all wore hand-me-downs and when it was the start of school, all we had for meals was rice and bagoong for a whole month."

"You mean rice and fermented fish for all meals?"

"Yes. I don’t come from your world. You probably have meat and fish every day."

She nodded, hearing her own complaints to the cook, "Can we have something other than adobo? This pork chop is too tough."

"Did you like the balut I sent you through Pepe?"

"Yes, thanks." She had laughed when Pepe had given her the boiled fertilized duck eggs. He had given her 6 eggs over the week, 2 on Monday, 2 on Wednesday and  2 on Friday. He sent them through Pepe, her good friend, fearing she would refuse if he had brought them to her.

She had found it amusing, laughed at his attentions with her roommates and ate the balut with gusto. She had not given the gift another thought.

How much bagoong could he have bought with the price of the balut?