I woke up to the sound of birds. The room was flooded with a gentle, morning light. Through the blinds, I could see that the ground was wet outside. It was raining lightly.
My mind still veiled with sleep, I tried my best to grasp at the threads of last night’s dream. I recalled that I was staying in a haunted house.
The air in the room felt chilly. I am reminded that autumn is here.
I turned over and rested my hand on my boyfriend’s chest. It felt warm, flat, solid. No matter how many times I’ve touched it, I continue to marvel at how men are hard and angular, while in contrast, my body is soft and pillowy, dipping in some areas and peaking in others.
I’m cold, I’m cold. Warm me up, warm me up.
He drew me closer.
I lazily reached for my phone, and played some piano music from my Spotify playlist.
The rain fell harder.
Today’s outfit is:
Cat tights, with white overalls, and black, thin eyeliner.
It was still raining.
I waterproofed my boots with a protective spray.
Ready to go!
I was greeted with a plethora of colourful parasols, hanging from wires. The cultural fiesta was busy, despite the rain. There was a good energy about the place. Different stalls were displaying an array of food, each representing a country and culture. I saw bubble tea, German pretzels, baklava, tea eggs.
It was a little hard to navigate because people were holding up umbrellas and walking about. I closed my umbrella and stayed close to my boyfriend.
A boy from the Hong Kong society asked me if I wanted to try waffles. It looked soggy, from the rain. I politely declined.
We ended up getting rose apples, rice wrapped in vine leaves, African curries, rendang, curry puffs, and seri muka (a green coconut kuih).
From our tent, I could see an Afghan dance going on. It started slow, with a few people hesitantly joining in. As the music picked up in speed, more and more people joined in. There was a young man in a Turban, a tall South Pacific Islander with flowers in his hair, some Chinese girls, an Asian boy, and some other youths dressed in flowing robes.
Somewhere, a group of Pacific Islanders crowd together for a photo.
An elegantly dressed lady in a pink saree glides through the crowd of people in drab jumpers and jeans. She had silver spectacles. Her soft belly hung out, exposed.
It was a beautiful sight, like four corners of the world had connected in a lively ring of dance and merry-making. A true melting pot of cultures.
However, somehow, within me, I did not feel the desire to dance.
He stroked my stockinged thighs. We sipped hot chrysanthemum tea.
“I’m listless,” I tell him. I wanted to drift far, far away.
We fell asleep again, and woke up in twilight.
I finished my bowl of ramen, right down to the last drop. Tonight, I ordered gyokai (fish based broth) with karaage. He ordered tomato ramen. Something new.
It was good. My stomach was full.
What about my heart?
On the fogged up glass, I drew a dick. And more dicks.
I giggled at its absurdity.
The car was stopped by the side of the road. Droplets of water on the window looked like tiny golden orbs, as light from the outside headlamps dispersed through. It was a chilly, misty night. Songs from my Spotify blared through the radio. Some tunes we could sing, some we couldn’t.
I traced a smiley ghost in the condensation, and took a picture of it with his handphone.
“Here, your new lock screen.”
He kept it, obligingly.
What can I do to plug my emptiness?