Relapse
Getting out of work early, I try to sneak away with a few soft drinks but my manager notices. Damn. Scurrying home, I take a quick glance at my watch. Five past. I’m late by 20 minutes and counting.
Scrubbing hard in the shower, I notice how the hands on my skin have hardened with all the washing in the kitchen. I no longer have femme fingers; they are all rugged and bruised from the manual labour. I jump into decent clothing I bought at a bargain and drench myself in Issey to rid the stench of oil and grime that has accumulated on my skin after four hours of work at the grill.
It’s been getting warmer lately such that I forget to slip on my coat on the way out. Strong gusts of wind blow through my thin cotton shirt; I thought I could get away with unbuttoning the shirt all the way down but after 10 minutes of unbearable late-winter chill I give up and finally concede towards adopting a more conservative display of my underdeveloped physique.
Again, hopping on the tram with the whole intention of evading fares. Tram inspectors are no where in sight; tonight I’ll get away with another free ride on the tram. A few Goths huddle together at the back of the tram, littering the floor with the chips that they are happily munching away. A quick phone call to a friend to tell him how mortified I am to be unable to join him for a drink; I am running late and have no time to spare for a bourbon-coke, not even with the closest friend I have come to know in this part of the world.
China Bar, he says, and I promptly turn up in front of the restaurant. The smell of roasted duck and pork fill the air as the man behind the glass window chops away at some duck carcass albeit the noisy crowd happily munching away at the remains of butchered animals. I stare into the lard-stained glass window and strain my neck to get a good glimpse of the patrons inside. He is nowhere in sight.
A few phone calls and many bone chilling minutes later, I see him walking towards me from across the street. He's at the traffic light, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Windswept hair and V-neck grey top albeit casual worn-look jeans, I instantly feel a shrill of excitement creep up my spine. He’s finally here.
Buzz. Buzz. No answer. Bloody friend of mine must be in the shower. We had walked over to one of my friend's apartments in the city, hoping to get free tea and a ride to the club but as we stand in front of the glass door that leads to the lobby, nobody picks up the intercom on the other side to let us in. I am slightly flustered by the looks on his face. He seems almost calm, nonchalant. He must be dealing with it smoothly, or perhaps not dealing with it at all. I on the other hand am a walking tempest concealed behind a misleading smile; cautious to keep the beast caged, I do not display the raging emotions within me though I can feel the pressure to let it out.
It makes me sick that I have to restrain myself from letting him know what I really meant when I sent him hugs in the form of text-messages; from telling him how I really feel.
Especially when he lands a peck on my cheek.
Buzz. Buzz. My other friend finally picks up the handset from his apartment and speaks through the intercom. He’s in his P-J’s. Lazy to get out of bed, he says. I knowingly land another peck on the guy standing next to me in full view of the tiny camera that stares at the both of us standing in front of the glass doors. My other friend gets a good view of the kiss and asks us to get a room. Bitch.
Golden Monkey again. Friends from a ski trip whom I've slowly got to familiarise myself with, and a few other strangers whom I've never seen or met before. The place is as lucid as when I last came here; candle lights, screens separating the tables, soft cushions to support your back... Across me, a Caucasian man whom nobody in the group seems to know or acknowledge, happily chatting away with some of the people in the group as though he was one of us. Well who the f*** are you. Seems as though he just found a comfortable spot among this huge group of eligible cute handsome young Asian bachelors and decided that it was only proper to intrude our privacy and hope we didn't mind while he worked his way into "hoping" that he would have a pants to crawl into tonight.
Well guess what. I'm not particularly approving, especially when half of the time your eyes are fixated on me. Ugh.
Puke.
Sake being served in cute ornate trays and tiny porcelain cups. I however choose to go with Riesling, and he goes with a Sauv Blanc. Amazing how he and I share the same taste for whites. Not many people do anyway.
The group is splitting up to fit into the three cars so that everybody can go to Lotus to have a good time. I however am picky; Lotus is not good enough for me. In my head, I see noodles and rice. I am hungry. I ask him to take me somewhere to eat. Anything to take me away from the group and into his private company. Walking down Lonsdale St. I hear a familiar voice behind me, asking me to "get over it" when he sees me holding hands with the person walking next to me. It’s that whitey who was sitting with us in Golden Monkey. He seems to be walking home alone.
Home cooked food for me, he says. How can I bear to say no to him.
Collins St. is deserted at this time of the day. 25 minutes at the tram stop and we finally conclude that the tram isn’t going to come. Bloody money sucking taxis are the only alternative, though I can tell he doesn’t really mind climbing into the back of one. It must come natural for him; I am more of a miser when it comes to splurging on transport. Read “fare evader”.
Noodles in mince pork and chili flakes making its way down my throat into my hungry stomach. I can almost taste the love that was put into making the noodles; God they are delicious. Three cats crawl around my legs hoping for a quick bite from my bowl. They must be able to smell the sweet scent of pork from a mile away.
A friend picks us up and we are heading towards the Peel. Then again, there wasn’t anywhere else to go to, nor anything else to do.
Blurry. I wake up in a bed that is not my own. Dozens of bourbon-cokes later and a slight memory about jumping into a cab after being dragged in by a friend, I can’t remember what I had been doing or the sequence of events that led me here. I feel an arm across my chest, gently holding me in an embrace. Noticing the soft sound of air bubbles from a nearby fish tank and a tight band of moonlight streaming through blinds, I find my tired eyes shutting themselves and beckoning me to call it a day. Gently tugging at the sheets and embracing the person that lays beside me, I let out a sigh of relief that the day turned out to be more than I could ever have had imagined it to be.
Blackout. I am asleep within seconds.
Scrubbing hard in the shower, I notice how the hands on my skin have hardened with all the washing in the kitchen. I no longer have femme fingers; they are all rugged and bruised from the manual labour. I jump into decent clothing I bought at a bargain and drench myself in Issey to rid the stench of oil and grime that has accumulated on my skin after four hours of work at the grill.
It’s been getting warmer lately such that I forget to slip on my coat on the way out. Strong gusts of wind blow through my thin cotton shirt; I thought I could get away with unbuttoning the shirt all the way down but after 10 minutes of unbearable late-winter chill I give up and finally concede towards adopting a more conservative display of my underdeveloped physique.
Again, hopping on the tram with the whole intention of evading fares. Tram inspectors are no where in sight; tonight I’ll get away with another free ride on the tram. A few Goths huddle together at the back of the tram, littering the floor with the chips that they are happily munching away. A quick phone call to a friend to tell him how mortified I am to be unable to join him for a drink; I am running late and have no time to spare for a bourbon-coke, not even with the closest friend I have come to know in this part of the world.
China Bar, he says, and I promptly turn up in front of the restaurant. The smell of roasted duck and pork fill the air as the man behind the glass window chops away at some duck carcass albeit the noisy crowd happily munching away at the remains of butchered animals. I stare into the lard-stained glass window and strain my neck to get a good glimpse of the patrons inside. He is nowhere in sight.
A few phone calls and many bone chilling minutes later, I see him walking towards me from across the street. He's at the traffic light, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. Windswept hair and V-neck grey top albeit casual worn-look jeans, I instantly feel a shrill of excitement creep up my spine. He’s finally here.
Buzz. Buzz. No answer. Bloody friend of mine must be in the shower. We had walked over to one of my friend's apartments in the city, hoping to get free tea and a ride to the club but as we stand in front of the glass door that leads to the lobby, nobody picks up the intercom on the other side to let us in. I am slightly flustered by the looks on his face. He seems almost calm, nonchalant. He must be dealing with it smoothly, or perhaps not dealing with it at all. I on the other hand am a walking tempest concealed behind a misleading smile; cautious to keep the beast caged, I do not display the raging emotions within me though I can feel the pressure to let it out.
It makes me sick that I have to restrain myself from letting him know what I really meant when I sent him hugs in the form of text-messages; from telling him how I really feel.
Especially when he lands a peck on my cheek.
Buzz. Buzz. My other friend finally picks up the handset from his apartment and speaks through the intercom. He’s in his P-J’s. Lazy to get out of bed, he says. I knowingly land another peck on the guy standing next to me in full view of the tiny camera that stares at the both of us standing in front of the glass doors. My other friend gets a good view of the kiss and asks us to get a room. Bitch.
Golden Monkey again. Friends from a ski trip whom I've slowly got to familiarise myself with, and a few other strangers whom I've never seen or met before. The place is as lucid as when I last came here; candle lights, screens separating the tables, soft cushions to support your back... Across me, a Caucasian man whom nobody in the group seems to know or acknowledge, happily chatting away with some of the people in the group as though he was one of us. Well who the f*** are you. Seems as though he just found a comfortable spot among this huge group of eligible cute handsome young Asian bachelors and decided that it was only proper to intrude our privacy and hope we didn't mind while he worked his way into "hoping" that he would have a pants to crawl into tonight.
Well guess what. I'm not particularly approving, especially when half of the time your eyes are fixated on me. Ugh.
Puke.
Sake being served in cute ornate trays and tiny porcelain cups. I however choose to go with Riesling, and he goes with a Sauv Blanc. Amazing how he and I share the same taste for whites. Not many people do anyway.
The group is splitting up to fit into the three cars so that everybody can go to Lotus to have a good time. I however am picky; Lotus is not good enough for me. In my head, I see noodles and rice. I am hungry. I ask him to take me somewhere to eat. Anything to take me away from the group and into his private company. Walking down Lonsdale St. I hear a familiar voice behind me, asking me to "get over it" when he sees me holding hands with the person walking next to me. It’s that whitey who was sitting with us in Golden Monkey. He seems to be walking home alone.
Home cooked food for me, he says. How can I bear to say no to him.
Collins St. is deserted at this time of the day. 25 minutes at the tram stop and we finally conclude that the tram isn’t going to come. Bloody money sucking taxis are the only alternative, though I can tell he doesn’t really mind climbing into the back of one. It must come natural for him; I am more of a miser when it comes to splurging on transport. Read “fare evader”.
Noodles in mince pork and chili flakes making its way down my throat into my hungry stomach. I can almost taste the love that was put into making the noodles; God they are delicious. Three cats crawl around my legs hoping for a quick bite from my bowl. They must be able to smell the sweet scent of pork from a mile away.
A friend picks us up and we are heading towards the Peel. Then again, there wasn’t anywhere else to go to, nor anything else to do.
Blurry. I wake up in a bed that is not my own. Dozens of bourbon-cokes later and a slight memory about jumping into a cab after being dragged in by a friend, I can’t remember what I had been doing or the sequence of events that led me here. I feel an arm across my chest, gently holding me in an embrace. Noticing the soft sound of air bubbles from a nearby fish tank and a tight band of moonlight streaming through blinds, I find my tired eyes shutting themselves and beckoning me to call it a day. Gently tugging at the sheets and embracing the person that lays beside me, I let out a sigh of relief that the day turned out to be more than I could ever have had imagined it to be.
Blackout. I am asleep within seconds.
Fell from the sky at 5:22 PM
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