She, alone, stares out of the window as the dark clouds assemble, diaphragms heavy and full with song. Her face profoundly still, she waits like a mannequin set in cold plastic, forever condemned to silence and immobility, forever staring out of display cases. She watches the orchestra of raindrops as each drop hums their own note, finding their place in the tune. They beat the rhythm on the window pane in invitation. But she does not sing.
She catches a silver of her reflection in the window, and I am startled.
He should be here. He should have been here, back from work, hours ago. And she knows.
Her childish charade is betrayed. Her footsteps sound heavy and dull, like the slap, slap, slapping of a dead fish against the ground. Then a silence, a facial expression that divulges no secret, she stares out of the window, her eyes trying to pick up a clue, a hint of his having been here, and failing for hours, she continues to stare.
It is Chinese New Year's Eve; tonight Singaporean Chinese will be having a feast, what we call a Reunion Dinner, but Dad isn't answering his phone, and he won't be home tonight. Tonight I will have an empty stomach for a main course and Mum's crying, a song of desolation, as a side dish. Impressive. A divorce for dessert, hm? Deserting us for dessert hahaha.
"Looks like he isn't coming home," she says, and continues before I can even reply, like spam email that's filtered directly into the Junk folder, "Not that I care, you understand. It doesn't make a difference whether he's here or not." Her tone the epitome of cold indifference, she returns to the window, age and nonchalance and wrinkles carved by streams written all over her face.
And I cannot do anything about this but blog, make stupid jokes, and wait.
There is a fragrance speaking of the sweet rhapsody of flipping through an old journal I'd personally written, scribbles wild with faded ardour, pages yellow and dog-eared, memories frighteningly real. It tastes of bittersweet dark chocolate sprinkled with indulgence and caffeine, makes me pine for it with an acute desperation. It tells of autumn when the leaves change from sanctimonious envy to hypnotic sunset to triumphant hazel, when they change and do their little sensual salsa and finally come to rest on the ground, as if weary from all the physical exertion. It feels like silk that wrinkles to the touch, that is so ethereal it might have been a wind-blown sensation. It cries of a newborn's first wail, thick with mucus and hunger and loss, filling the air with the pain of separation. This smell reminds me of heavy clouds pregnant with life, the pitter-patter on window panes, a secret embedded in Morse code. It is a treasure I can see but cannot touch; I would fish for its meaning, but the river speaks a different language.
I loved it best after The Boyfriend had just taken a shower. I can remember it now, the spiral staircase to his damp back, the soft sunlight, the air with the deceptive mask of his soap and my perfume. He draws me close to him and the scent awakens in me a yearning that nearly kills me with its sweet intensity; a selfish part of me wants to rip the shirt off him and steal it for my own, forever.
I was thinking about this at the mall near school when someone shouted, "PINKY!"
I turned and saw two Literature teachers smiling at me.
It was like a silent horror movie I'd awoken to and I didn't say much, couldn't express my shock when one of them congratulated me on the Bloggies nomination for Best Teen Blog (I don't like the idea of teachers talking about me.); I just stared with a look bordering on psychosis, as if my eyeballs were about to be jettisoned out of their sockets.
My mind was differentiating polynomials with infinite terms, was littered with equations and Maclaurin's series and graphs of the derivative of the derivative of the derivative of graphs. So I couldn't differentiate reality from imagination, couldn't match the words to their moving lips.
For a moment I thought someone had crept clandestinely into my mind, inserted a virus disguised as a *.exe program, and messed with my logic.
I should stop being self-absorbed and stop indulging in daydreams. But... it's just that, lately, I've been having disturbing dreams and life's been discouraging. And thoughts of him comfort me like a mug of hot chocolate on a wintry night. It's not something that's easy for me to ignore, or to forget.
Yes, it took me close to 500 words just to say: I miss him. But these three words are just so insufficient...
First and foremost, I have to say that I love Singapore and it's a great place to bring kids up in because fertility rates are pathetic and the government gives Baby Bonus packages (financial incentives for people to have kids) Singapore's relatively safe. Child abuse will get you into jail.
So don't go around saying that mothers beat up their kids in Singapore coz it's not true. (:
*
This morning I took a taxi to school and it was the most horrifying experience of my life. If you're repulsed by the idea of a taxi driver unwinding the window and spitting out onto the grass, you'd be even more horrified by the following recount.
"Bishan Street 21, please," I said.
"Beeshar Ashtaid 30? I dunch know where Beeshar Ashtaid 13 is," he replied, shaking his head confusedly.
"Bishan. Street. 21." I smiled and repeated, "Bishan. Street. 21." Smile.
I had to scribble BISHAN STREET 21! on a notepad in bold and caps.
"Orh. Beesharn Stree 21. Is it?"
OH GOD.
I was absolutely delighted that he got my request right after a terrifying ten minutes. It's a great accomplishment to have communicated with an alien.
And then.
I don't know if I'm right to assume that taxi drivers should have a sense of direction, and by 'sense of direction' I mean a spinning compass in his head that'll manifest itself as a tiny voice in his head saying, "Jurong is that way. THAT way. Yes."
After all, I'm paying a taxi driver to take me to my destination, right? I don't want a sightseeing tour, or a roller coaster ride; I don't understand why this seems to be so difficult for some drivers to comprehend.
The taxi driver in question? Is a demagnetised metal rod floating away helplessly in a basin of water. Not floating, actually, because he's too dense WARGH.
At some junction he scared the living daylights out of me by swearing animatedly in Hokkein, "KNNCBBC! Ni nabeh blahblah!" like a five-year-old kid's enthusiastic dramatisation of cuss words. 'Blah blah' because I don't speak Hokkein; my dialect is Cantonese.
And then the musical began.
It sounded rather synchronised and it reminded me of an orchestra of ducks in heat. Suddenly every car driver was honking, as if to say, "MY CAR HORN WORKS OMFG!" and I wanted to laugh: What's the point of honking when everyone else is, too? Everyone just ignores your honk for attention.
There was a hint of insanity in the gridlocked proceedings, cars bumper-to-bumper, horn-to-horn, Hokkein vulgarities in a colourful display of fireworks, the taxi driver's eyeballs lost on a random page in the road directory.
By God's Almighty Grace I managed to survive all those times he peeled his eyes off the road to whistle -- WHISTLE a SONG, I tell you -- and to flip through the pages of a ROAD DIRECTORY nonchalantly while muttering vulgarities in between pages.
I said three 'Hail Mary's and five 'God Forgive Me For Eating So Much Chocolate Yesterday's.
God answered my prayers and today I am suddenly religious. The taxi driver I met today was clearly one of the devil's minions and I am going to church for confession. My first confession will be that I don't really feel sorry for eating that much chocolate.
"Hey darling. I just realised 'noodles' rhymes with 'poodles'!"
"You're so bored that you're thinking about noodles and poodles?"
"Nah I'm reading about political philosophy now. But it just struck me that 'raining poodles' sounded amusing."
OH MY AHH The guy I'm dating reads about political philosophy. Which normal person does that? Not to mention thinking about poodles while reading up on political philosophy. That's weirder than weird; it's just too weird.
Once again The Delicious Boyfriend reminds me that it was the right decision to date him.
...
"If I give you 18 kisses will you agree with me?"
"Omg that's emotional blackmail!"
"But I want you to agree with me."
"Okay. I'm hot and sexy. Hahahahaha."
"Wow. Was it that hard to admit? Stop laughing at something that you know is undeniably true."
"No it isn't! Sexy = me + bigger boobs + taller - cellulite."
"Nope. Sexy = you - clothes."
"So I'm not sexy with clothes on?"
"Nah. You're just hot with clothes on."
"What's the difference between 'hot' and 'sexy'?"
"Clothes."
"Hahaha omg is 'political philosophy' your synonym for 'porn'?"
"...NO. I'm actually reading political philosophy! Karl Marx is a philosopher not a porn star dear. So is John Locke."
He's so weird! XD
I knew there had to be a reason why he fell in love with me in the first place. Love is when she's a certain type of weird and he's a certain type of weird and the two celebrate their weirdness together. That's what a relationship is about.
There are stories to begin, to weave, to end: Tales of a Man who died but lived again, star-crossed rocks in a miraculous mockery of probability, cavities the depth of which not even photons can flee, Dante's Inferno, Armageddon in a fury of political games and mushroom clouds. There are many, many yarns, and all of them meet a maiden, a mother, a crone. She chooses, spins, measures, cuts the thread: We live, we are, for a while, and then we die.
I hope my life would have been so fulfilling that I wouldn't regret not eating enough chocolate.
Like a frantic, trembling addict reeking of hysteria and armed with an eager and precise needle, I want to inject reliable, mobile, wireless Internet connection into my veins.
Love is about the C-word even if he sleeps like a dead pig and turned up for a date late. It's about accepting it and backing off when he says he needs space and privacy -- even if your curiosity is shredding your brain into individual, screaming neurons. It's about knowing the emotional baggage he has and about the C-word to work through it with him, even though you know it's a time bomb that'll affect the relationship sooner or later. It's about forgiving him when he's too tired or busy to spend time with you, even though you're annoyed and hurt because you're missing him to death. It's about apologizing when you're wrong even though you hate to be wrong. It's about understanding that he broke a promise because if he didn't he'd have had to wake you up in the middle of the night, and he didn't have the heart to. It's about going out with him even though he doesn't spike his hair and you told him SPIKE YOUR HAIR and he said NO and you'd rather date Him Version 2: With Spiked Hair, any day. It's about taking a cab to his place to see him because you miss him, and then refusing to let him foot the fare even though you're the Professional Leech and adore cash, really.
Love is about the C-word even if she is mood swinging like a pendulum on an oscillatory craze. It's telling her you love her every single day because you know she gets bouts of insecurity, even if deep down instead both of you know she's an idiot for feeling insecure in the first place. It's about forgiving her for distancing herself and for letting go of your hand because she was afraid and insecure. It's about letting her win arguments because she hates to be wrong. It's about the 'Hmm's and 'Ahh's when she's ranting about Something Insignificant, about the 'Sorry's when she wants an apology even if you're not in the wrong, about the 'What's Bothering You Darling?'s when she's clearly upset and you know it's going to be a long night of digging for an answer, even though inside you're going, Why can't she just tell me what's wrong directly because I'm so tired of digging already? It's about letting her make your blog layout horrendously pink even though it traumatises you. It's about telling her to continue blogging because you love her the way she is, even though you detest the scrutiny that comes with her publicly sharing the little juicy bits of your relationship, and even though your schoolmates bug you about her and that really bugs you.
(Side thought: Femininity is such a bitch to spell. You'd think 'feminity' would be short and sweet and good enough (especially since it aptly echoes felinity), but NO! femininity! Feminininininnininity! Just. Whatever.)
have to be stereotypically associated with a lack of assertion or aggression? I find it absolutely annoying when guys approach me and tell me, "You should try to be nicer, or else no guy will want you." As if guys know what being a girl is like. By the way, I uhh. am attached. How ironic.
Speaking of which, I've met a life-sized Barbie before. When I first met her, I thought she'd be the Ideal Girlfriend. Even though she could be more generous on the hair conditioner, she wasn't completely unfortunate looking. And she was nice, as most wishy washy people are. Irresolute, and therefore flexible and agreeable.
I was wondering if she would burst into tears if I made a comment that sounded even vaguely mean, but a subsequent experiment confirmed that she didn't even realise that I'd hit her under the belt. How to be hurt?
It's intriguing how it's possible to be air-headed AND dense at the same time! LOL!
(Okay so I'm biased against her now, thinking back on the ridiculously short shorts she had on... At that point, why bother putting on shorts at all? ... But it doesn't change the fact that she's a bimbo.)
I must confess that people who don't own opinions bother me. Even those in Miss Universe pageants are assertive enough to support world peace. But the Barbie I met didn't exhibit a hint of an opinion.
All through my encounter with this entity that belonged in frilly dresses and on a pretty pink pony with Ken, I kept wondering if she did a good, "Oh my god!" or "Whatever." or "Totally!" which would have been fascinating to watch. Or if she, like, punctuated like all her sentences with 'like' subconsciously, like.
I wouldn't be able to live with someone like that. Arm trophies are always left on shelves in the end, as display items always are.
On a completely unrelated note, my goal in life is to marry Singapore's Prime Minister's son, though I don't know him yet. I'll try my best to avoid scandal. I love Singapore.
In closing, it's always healthy to have an opinion. Of course being pushy and close-minded is bad, but not having an opinion is much, much worse. Try not to resemble a jellyfish on an agar plate.
Asserting your point of view is characteristic of human interaction and is PERFECTLY NORMAL. Stop aborting your opinions! Abortion is murder! Pro Choice, Pro Opinion.
It's raining noodles! Hallelujah! And the noodles shall inherit the earth!
If you know me, pretend you don't. If you don't know me, don't pretend you do.
Comments are not necessarily reflective of my opinion. Only people who love me are allowed to comment. I'm serious. Trolling is so last season.
Bitch in my face if you have to.
It's only polite!
I live in Bloggerland, Singapore. Please don't stalk me. (:
She, alone, stares out of the window as the dark clouds assemble, diaphragms heavy and full with song. Her face profoundly still, she waits like a mannequin set in cold plastic, forever condemned to silence and immobility, forever staring out of display cases. She watches the orchestra of raindrops as each drop hums their own note, finding their place in the tune. They beat the rhythm on the window pane in invitation. But she does not sing.
CMNT
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Angelique
November 20, 19xx
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