Amongst Other Things

It’s coming to a week and guess, I’ve embarked on this long road called “forget”.

The text message remains unanswered. I would reckon this would get me scoffed at for being less than chivalrous. Somehow I could not bring myself to congratulate you, as much as I know you will soon become the happiest woman on earth.

I still remembered you telling me about how you can’t see anything beyond commitment in a relationship. I took it as a probable subtle hint for me to back off because in all likelihood, you would have said this to any other bloke who came too close for your comfort. Perhaps that was a disguised attempt at getting me to back off because there was already someone infinitely bigger in your life.

The stings and the pangs of pain are less intense now. I’m getting by these days by slipping into the numb mode. I couldn’t care less about the hopes, the colours and the promises of life that were once so pronounced in the life of a youngish bloke. I slouch everywhere I go. I liken myself to the Tramp in those black and white silent movies. Every now and then, I see things that awaken those hopes almost momentarily before the stings appear. Everything dies down from there.

***

At 35, I am increasingly forced to find a place to draw the line between being that mature bloke that lasses looking to settle down would settle for and that expired bottle of shampoo which found its way at the bottom of some long forgotten bargain bin.

But funny enough, I’ve stumbled on a perfect plan to cut down the inches around my waist. I skip dinner these days. And at approximately 6.30pm, while all and sundry would be looking forward to a hearty dinner with their loved one(s), I would slouch, hunch and drag the feet all the way back home with a grumbling stomach. Oh, it would grumble and moan until the brief respite – in the form of a glass of low fat milk at around 9pm. And then, nothing, until the sun shines when the new day begins.

Somehow, I relished those grumblings. As much as how I could envision the acids tearing another thin layer of lining in that sodding bag in my body, it was enough punishment for the years of folly I’ve spent at many a buffet table

The results were somewhat pleasing. The boss said the shape of my face has become ”sharper” while a colleague whom I’ve not met since the week before Chinese New Year, commented that I’ve become “smaller”. Heh.

I’m resolved to let this continue, no matter how I face the prospect of visiting the doctor for gastric medication in the near future. It’s a price I’ve to pay. Perhaps, a foolish one too, given that I wouldn’t have any of those means to fulfill the Singaporean girl’s dream of the 5Cs (and even more).

But I’m happy to suffer this way. It’s ample punishment for the fact that I’ve missed one boat too many because of my gluttony ways.

***

A colleague came, observed the glum look on my face and concluded that this milk diet is crapping up my internal systems. She further deduced that it could have been the cause of all the melancholy.

In her bid to bring some cheer, she went back to her workstation and came back with a magazine (August 2008 edition). She flipped to the page and placed it on my desk.

“Here, read this,” she said. It was the story of some local indie rock chick and primary school teacher, who admirably went against all odds (including a battle with cancer). I looked at the photos of this rock chick, who peered back at me on the glossy pages. I looked at the poses she made, with her keyboard, dressed in some 30s or 40s fashion with a contemporary touch, and her dimples.

I spent five quick minutes reading about her story.

I picked up the mag, walked like a slouch back to my colleague’s workstation, and gently placed it on her table.

Before slouching, hunching and dragging my feet back to the cubicle.

I could feel how a part of me has died a long time ago and in truth, it would never be brought back to life. Barring a miracle, of course, but to me, miracles only exist in fairy tales.

***

They were now calling for volunteers to help distribute the tickets. It came in the form of a mass e-mail and the name they have chosen appeared in all its glory on the subject title.

I wonder the consternation it would cause them if I were to step forward and announce my availability to volunteer. Perhaps they couldn’t and wouldn’t stand the presence of the difficult, black, gloomy-faced, sub-standard, amateur-like-fuck scriptwriter who made everyone unhappy because they didn’t think of him when they decided to rename the production.

I heaved a sigh before logging out.

It was at 4.45pm that a sudden thought hit him. He thought of her. His mind started putting together a collage of scenes and images of her, and of them spending time together, that it became like a running film. It was a rather short one though – lasting not more than 10 seconds – and it was enough for the last image to dissolve slowly before a perfect picture of her face came on.

***

It has been more than four months since they last spent time together. It was brunch after service and for the umpteenth time, they had Japanese food. He remembered them poring through the menu and asking questions of each other about what they would like to eat. The conversation over the bento lunch was enjoyable.

Yet, it was that time when reservations played in his head. She seemed a tad subdued this time round as though something was holding her back, he thought while driving out from the carpark of the shopping centre. She had refused his offer of a lift, stating she had some errands to run and (ironically) would want to be in time to watch the motor race with family and a glass of wine in her hand.

They parted ways and that was the last he spent hours of enjoyable time with her – nothing physical, attraction or otherwise. He just relished their conversations and the “their” time.

Then, there was an hour’s lunch when he happened to be near her workplace. Everything was just packed into less than 45 minutes. He wanted more but circumstances couldn’t allow it.

Then, there was a talk that she invited him to attend with her. There wasn’t much time for conversations (except for two short 15-minute breaks) and again, she turned down his offer of a lift. “Errands,” she said.

Everything came to a head when the briefest of an emotional rollercoaster ride ended many of his hopes. He saw her. His heart was lifted. And then, he saw him, again and again. It devastated him and he had to deal with the torrent of questions that lashed and swirled in his head for days to come.

***

At 11.55pm the same day, he absent-mindedly picked up his phone. There were mp3s to be transferred from the machine to the phone. The songs would fill the otherwise silent journey to and from work. His eyes lighted up for a moment when he recognised the name of the sender of a text message.

But rarely in this life of his do the moments of joy last extend beyond the shortest of permissible time for him savour and embrace it all.

“Hi [His name]. how’re you going? It’s been quite a while! Wanted to ask if you might be up to handing [name of a publication] for the next 2 issues? … [details of matters to be handled] … I ask because I’m getting married in Sep (this year). Let me know pls? Much tks. [her name]”

The lack of sleep usually enhances the downward spiral of negative thoughts and emotions. But he couldn’t be bothered by it then.

Simply because he was in a state of shock. He could almost feel his heart dropping off from a great height, and all of his emotions trailed off like a car going quickly down the rollercoaster track.

As the night fell fast, the truth sank in. Now his hopes were all but dashed. Miracles, in his world and now, belong in the land of fantasies, where unicorns co-exist harmoniously with Care Bears and Smurfs.

As he lay on his bed, he loaded up his twitter account, punched in a few words describing how he felt to the world out there (as though anyone would care to listen) and willed whatever’s left of his resolve to slip into consciousness.

His hope for joy could and would only be a pleasant dream.

And reflecting his life, this hope has been a very long time coming.

All he had to contend with was the empty screen inside his head.

“I love soya bean milk. Especially when they’re warm,” she exclaimed upon taking the first sip of the beverage she just bought. The white liquid – held in a transparent plastic container with a logo emblazoned outside – contrasted with the red flower dress she was wearing. A dimple flashed on her cheeks as the milk negotiated its way up the straw.

He thought it was a sweet and innocent moment, no matter how mundane it seemed to the people walking briskly to and from the interchange. The fact that they’ll look all touristy and that it would bring attention on her – something she didn’t like – stopped him from whipping out his camera phone.

“Do you want some?” she held out her drink toward him. There was the impish smile on her face again, with a faint hint of the white milk on her lips. Obviously she didn’t mind if they shared a drink.

He flashed the widest grin possible in response. He pulled the container towards him, positioned his head and sipped just enough to convince her that he was glad to have shared in her pleasure. The sweetness of the drink lingered in his mouth as it was flushed down. Yet, nothing was sweeter than being with her.

Glorious day, he thought.

She took the drink back and started to sip again. Unexpectedly he felt something brushed against his right hand. It was skin-on-skin. It caught him off-guard. It left his heart pounding faster than he would have liked.

Gamely, he returned the gesture with a firm grip, after catching her hand. She responded with a tellingly look on her face – still smiling – and her grip tightened.

Spring in his step when he would drag his feet.

A moment to savour.

A dream start.

***

He sat on the stone seat near the shop which sold her favourite drink. He observed the queue there. A woman wearing a tudung handed the casher coins from her purse before handing the drink to a little girl who clapped in delight. A man with a turban stood behind them – his arms folded – and facial hair barely concealing the smile on his face. Behind him, a lady decked in sharp suit and tight skirt – all black – rummaged through her bag, presumably looking for loose change to pay for her drink later. An old couple walked past the shop. It was a rare sight to have the both of them holding hands, especially in this part of the world. The lady said something and pointed to the board, which gave information on the prices and types of soya-based beverage on sale. The old man looked up, adjusted his thick-spectacles and examined the board for a few minutes. A shake of his head and a terse reply meant that he wasn’t in the mood for soya bean milk. They then walked away – he using his walking stick, she holding onto his arm for support.

Gently, he sipped the drink in his hands. The milk seeped into his mouth with its promise of warmth and sweetness. Yet, drinking it on his own was now a stark contrast from enjoying it with someone else. Somehow, it wasn’t as sweet. It wasn’t as memorable.

For the umpteenth time, he wished she was here, somewhere. Around. With that scene flashing over and over in his head – that impish smile, those dimples, the thinly disguised accidental brush of her hand against his, and the red dress, it was hard to forget. Something burned in him. The regret he held for being less self-conscious. He raged against himself.

He could and should have taken the photo. It would encapsulate everything about them – him and her – and the blossoming of a year of sweetness, of love, of smiles, of sunsets, of hugs, of kisses, of hopes, of dreams in his life. It could have been something he could remember her by, a memory he could keep forever of their short relationship…

A couple just joined the queue at the shop. He was wearing a royal blue polo-T-shirt with a logo of a man riding a horse and holding his mallet high. His hand was clasped around hers. She was decked in a flowing dress, red with white polka dots. Sitting smugly in her left arm was a bouquet of red roses. While they wait, the couple sneaked a kiss – a gentle peck on their lips.

The resulting scene was that of a curiously familiar impish smile on her face, complete with dimples; a sheepish grin on the guy’s face; and him turning his gaze away from the shop.

He didn’t need that. It was just too much to bear.

14 February. It might have been the worst of dates to conjure up memories and scars of her. Yet, he had to do it. If only it wasn’t the day when it all begin with that sip of milk and the brush from her hand…

I’d hold you up to say to your mother, “this kid’s gonna be the best kid in the world. This kid’s gonna be somebody better than anybody I ever knew.” And you grew up good and wonderful. It was great just watching you, every day was like a privilige. Then the time come for you to be your own man and take on the world, and you did. But somewhere along the line, you changed. You stopped being you. You let people stick a finger in your face and tell you you’re no good. And when things got hard, you started looking for something to blame, like a big shadow.

Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now if you know what you’re worth then go out and get what you’re worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain’t you! You’re better than that!

I’m always gonna love you no matter what. No matter what happens. You’re my son and you’re my blood. You’re the best thing in my life. But until you start believing in yourself, ya ain’t gonna have a life. Don’t forget to visit your mother.

– Line from the film, Rocky Balboa (Clip)

Warning: This is not an uplifting read.

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