Between A Story

Picture taken in Brussels, Belgium

“Between the lines of every story, there is another story, and that is one that is never heard and can only be guessed by people who are good at guessing.” - Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess

***

He looked over, shifting his gaze from the road towards her, one hand on the steering wheel.

Once, twice, three times.

He reached out for her or whatever was left of her with his other hand. He could not decide where his grip should land - her hands, her thighs…or her heart.

He was a mess and for once, she shut her mouth up. That moment was his. Calmness washed over her because suddenly it felt like she was not part of the scene at all, not a heartbroken girl with a confused boy cruising along the road, traffic lights glaring, reflecting off their glassy eyes. Her eyes barely blinked. She sucked in tiny deliberate breaths like a little baby, absorbing the picture before her and tried to be as still as she could be.

She was an on-looker, a passer-by who happened to meet a stranger with twisted emotions, whose chuckles shrouded his fragility and whom she knew behind that twinkle of his eyes, his fear of the imperfect love glinted brighter than hers. She did not belong. His sadness was more pronounced than hers. His desire was more intense than hers. His laughter was more nervous than hers. She said nothing. She watched on — the fourth wall was right in front of her — she could break it or she could continue to view in silence. She chose the latter.

She knew that monologue of his would have unfurled to reveal its ugliness when she closed the door after her. You might not realise but men often have to shoulder the longer and lonesome rides home after sending the women home, he once remarked.

Tonight when everything was incredibly loud and close, she wanted to walk till she gave herself away. That untold story echoed in the hollows of her décolletage. She felt it in her bones - splintered in bits and pieces, scattered all over her ribs, spine, collarbones, forehead and lips. Though minuscule and unimpressionable, not even the slightest breeze that night could blow them away.

It was her turn for a monologue.

Time

"You know, if you met me three or four years ago, I would have been quite a different person." 

"Hm, what do you mean?" 

I looked up at him, surprised at his sudden declaration. 

"I don't know. I would have opened up less... Wouldn't have talked to you like that. More surface." 

Time had always been a recurring theme for us. 

We talked about how our paths had crossed in a few ways in the past but we never really met. I joked about how I could possibly be interacting with the "best version of you now". You, inspired by us, took on an in-depth analysis of 4.40 pm. We always concluded every scintillating conversation we had with "time will tell" in resignation and anticipation as if we were both writers and audience of our story at the same time.

And time did tell. Time told us in such a way that we could not fight it.

Time told me that this isn't home. Time told you that this couldn't be love.

Next time. Time won't have a say in this. 

Good/Bad Girl

Sketch credit: Jien Goh

“She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.”

-       Kate Chopin, “The Awakening”

**

“I think your mind is very complex.”

“How? Explain. Is complexity a good or bad thing?”

“Must everything be categorised into a good and bad thing?” he asks her in a tone that is part wondrous, part challenging.

He adds, “Ok, you, good or bad. Try categorising this.”

She laughs. But that has always been her world. She always knows what is good and bad.

You are either a good or bad person. This is either a good or bad deed.

She gets good grades. She looks good. She likes to be associated with good things, good people – not necessarily boring, dull and strait-laced people. These people are simply not ill-disciplined, confusing or deceitful. She is good at the core. She flirts with the Bad sometimes, treading warily along its dangerous territories but she always returns to goodness.

She is good. She is good. She reminds herself.

**

They look at each other as they lean their heads against the metal railings and if you listen closely, you could hear their collective sighs on their last night together as two people who are/were somehow vaguely interested in each other. The bar opposite is rowdy, and filled with soccer fans cheering. Between them, however, the air is still and precipitated with tension and unspoken thoughts.

Gently and coolly, she releases the smoke from her pale pink lips and gazes at the cigarette hanging precariously between her fingers. He smiles. He likes her that way. 

“So… am I good or bad?” she wonders aloud languidly but the intensity in her eyes does not falter.

“Hm, you’re right in the middle,” he grins. His eyes twinkle like that of a child who has thought of the most brilliant answer to a trick question.

That sounds about right. And perhaps that is why they have even made sense. He has seen that in her, right from the beginning. She is good and bad, bad and good, all in the same heartbeat, in the same breath, in the same kiss.

But she is afraid of herself and this newfound world. It is way scarier and harder to navigate without the tags she used to plaster on things and people and…on herself.

She hears more. She sees more. She cries more. She feels more.

“You’re welcome.” Those are the words she hears echoing in the wake of that revelation over and over again from the good/bad boy.

She thinks she has finally found a place she truly belongs. 

The Wedding Writer: Better Together

All eyes were on Jan and Pat – their matrimonial union was after all what we had crossed the seas for. We had come to celebrate their wedding. My attention was however leaning in a slightly different direction, something the cameras would have missed. 

Jan’s mom was a picture of elegance and poise. There was dramatic potential in her doleful eyes. In her youth, they must have expressed emotions across the spectrum. However, as Jan and Pat approached her for the parents’ blessings, she held back her tears. Her eyes were wide and restrained. She smiled – now a picture of sweet reserve. Jan’s dad was right behind, his manly and stern countenance gave way. His face was scrunched up. 

“My parents are very unhappy. They can’t accept…”

When I heard that from Jan who was beyond forlorn years ago, I did not know what to say. I was not sure myself then what would become of this. At the concourse near the lift that leads up to School of Information Systems, I gave her the warmest embrace I could ever muster. 

So at the ceremony, with the guests, the seas, the pastor and God bearing witness to this union, I teared. My heart swelled with pride, not just for the couple, but for the parents as well. They too have taken the leap of faith with their children; they too believe that love triumphs.

It was a wild night for many, and a quiet night for some. My head was spinning just at the right speed after a healthy serial concoction of champagne, mojito, strawberry margarita…

There was clarity amid the madness. A conversation that I had with someone emerged in my mind while I watched the scene before me. 

“I always think that it is kind of sweet to be together with your good friend. It is probably a lot easier,” I chimed. 

“Hmmm…”

I cocked my head to one side and listened intently. 

“…I don’t think so. I believe there are many different types of love.”

He went on to recite the four types of love as defined by Ancient Greeks. 

The different types of love that I discovered that night were not Greek to me, nor were they convoluted concepts; they were genuine, moving, simple and very, very believable. 

Pat’s dad and mom were working up the dance floor. It was though they were two lovebirds in their early twenties, flaunting their affection, like a beacon gesturing the others to let loose and have fun. The dad twirled the mom confidently. Occasionally, when he caught me snapping pictures of them, his eyes twinkled with mischief. The mom was his equal; she danced lithely in her crocheted red dress. She hardly took her eyes off her husband. They were full of energy and so into each other. 

They did not shy away from the young and hip. They did not care. 
That was their way of celebrating love. That was how they wanted to cheer their children on. 

Conversely, Jan’s parents stayed away from the dance floor. Their love is shy, modest and composed; it is not public or ostentatious. They looked on at the party with contentment and watched us very quietly, but with the corners of their mouths turned up. 

If they are happy, we are happy. 

That must be what they are thinking. 
It was their manner of giving their blessings to the couple.
It was how they acknowledged the delirious beauty of the night by balancing it with a spot of serenity. 

Jan and Pat, the newlyweds, were flitting around like what brides and grooms would do at weddings. Occasionally, they danced, chatted and entertained the guests. 

But they did not forget what have made their relationship stronger and brought them closer –
their family who raised them to be loving, beautiful people, people who have decided to make a lifetime commitment to each other. 

Pat continued talking at length to Jan’s parents, in a bid to engage the soft-spoken in-laws even after Jan left his side to talk to the other guests. That was something I would not have anticipated four or five years ago. That is Pat, my friend’s husband, whom I have gotten to know better bit by bit during our gatherings – someone who is family-oriented, funny and thinks that women (and men too) should learn how to cook! 

Jan held onto Pat’s grandfather’s arm and led him steadily from the dining table while the grandfather tottered on. She was slouching – a trademark silhouette that I have come to associate her with; her affection and her sincerity were however not frugal or sloppy at all. You could tell from her walking pace. She would walk side by side with the people she cares about – slow down for them, or keep up with them. She would do anything. 

That is the Jan I know, ever so patient and sacrificial. 

When I gave my non-committal response to the concept of marriage, Jan once said to me, “Nope, I think you should see it as the other half of your life.” 

Even though she reminded me over Facebook messaging, I could hear her conviction (albeit in the slightly sisterly, nagging tone) through and through. I was skeptical and I laughed it off. 

But on that night, I know exactly what she means.





Also featured at http://instagram.com/p/o8ODmKwDXi/

What I Overheard #1: Your choice

I have never been a very religious person. Spiritual, maybe, but not religious. I don't know if I'll ever be...

I was at a church wedding. In such a holy place, my thoughts lulled. I could not remember every detail of what the priest was preaching. I tried to hang onto every word. He is a very earnest-looking priest and it is precious to witness this holy union of my friends. I don't want to be disrespectful.

Then he said with composure, "You always have a choice to love more or to love less."

I was running the line over and over again in my mind as the mass continued. I made a mental note to remember and to share this. I've made my choice.

Coffeeshop Talk #2 - Admission

It is hard sometimes to admit that you were in the wrong; it is even harder to admit defeat.

This wasn't in a cafe. We just had XO fish soup. I was telling a story. That wasn't the first time I told the story to them.

What makes it different this time round is that one of them admitted something.

"I was in that state before. It could be a rebound or... I don't know. I just didn't know what I was doing... felt kind of lost and empty," she said firmly and knowingly.

At that juncture, I looked at her but I did not say anything. I could not. I was at a loss for words.

"Is this new to me or have I always known this?" I thought.

Pride for my friend swelled. I am immensely proud of her. Recognising that part of you is one thing but saying out loud is admission; it is confession.

We did not dissuade her during that time. We gently discouraged her. On hindsight, I am not sure whether I was being a good friend, whether I did the right thing. It made me feel quite guilty.

So this is my admission.

Coffeeshop Talk #1 - Distance

We ended up at Ikyu, this chi-chi looking Japanese restaurant in Tiong Bahru estate, after being turned away by the rude and pretentious waiter at Open Door Policy. And C and I talked about distance that came between friends. 

"I went up to her, enthusiastic and eager to catch up with her. But she seemed really awkward… and distant."

"Maybe you caught her at a bad moment."

"Maybe… (I wasn’t wholly convinced)" 

"Sometimes you might feel the distance, yes. Maybe this might even happen to us one day – when we meet each other on the streets and there will be this distance between us."

She added with deliberation, "That doesn’t matter. What’s more important is to know whether you’ll be able to overcome the distance or not."