The Call After

The phone rings, and I know it is her.

As much as I never want to speak to her again, this is the call that I have been waiting for. I let the phone ring a little longer than usual, and answer with a silence.

 

'Daniel?'

 

She calls me by my name.

 

I manage a 'Hi'.

 

'Listen, I just called to say that, for what it's worth, I'm really sorry…'

 

And my mind drifts off. Talk is cheap, especially when they come from the lips of a slut. But I can't blame her. I saw the train coming from a mile away and I sat on the tracks and had a sandwich.

 

'… I really hope that one day you be able to forgive me.'

 

Her voice is slightly coarser than usual.

'Daniel?'

 

The betrayal. You build your life around someone, some ideal, only to realize a beach wedding with twenty tables has its foundation in sand.

 

'In all honesty, you are forgiven. But I don't want to see you, I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to have anything to do with you anymore.'

 

A heart is not meant to love and hate someone at the same time.

 

She says nothing, and my heart pounds.

 

'I really think you need to leave your job?'

 

And she cries. And I cry.

 

We talk for another twenty minutes, and it is just like nothing ever happened. But there is no anesthetic for this hurt, and as I hang up, I realize how difficult a concept forgiveness is.

 

Saying it is one thing, but truly forgiving someone, is something else altogether. I know the time will come when I have to deal with all of this, but I think I have grieved enough for the night. I shut my eyes.

I see her face, her smile. God.

I smile at the irony.

My Streets

My night begins, with a long drag.

I love these streets that I roam.  A far cry from what we are used to on this silly island, some of us call home.  In the darkness, the sheep's skin shed and the wolves, let loose.  These streets that we prowl, a different orgy of smells - part sewer, part Beef Hor Fan - a different symphony - part moans, part whispers, part cries.

Truly, uniquely Singapore.

Everyone here has a different way of getting by.  I knew of a girl once who used to sing Hey Jude whenever she felt miserable.  An imported talent, a China girl, who spoke no English except, 'And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world upon your shoulders...'  What a miserable sight, to see a girl fumble over the lyrics of a Beatles song, in a dark alley, cigarette in one hand, fake LV clutch in the other.  It all got to us after a while.  No one on our streets needed reminding that their life was... different, from the fairy tales and the castles and the princes and the white horses that galloped through our childhood.  No one likes a whiner.

But in time, her song became part of the cacophony of our street, along with the blare of the horn of the illegal Malaysian durian seller, who, like us, was trying to make a living the best way he knew how.

Then one evening, the singing stopped.

And that's how we knew she left.  Going on to better things, fleeing the country, starting anew, were all the phrases that were used to describe what happened to Jude.  I think she simply understood what Paul McCartney was trying to tell her.

No one lives here for long.