August is marked by ice-melting heat and unexpected onslaughts of heavy rain. Pavements are interspersed with red urns, smoke riding the foreign wind. Dark ash gathers in my balcony, across my apartment floor, and crumbles between my lazy fingers.
Today I walked with my ex-girlfriend. She wore red sunglasses almost too wide for her face, a flowered dress. Her heels were blistered. I had no plasters, but my umbrella shielded her from the insistent drizzle. We talked all afternoon, pausing to sip our cheap, honeyed tea. She was the sort of girlfriend you spoke to, more than anything else. Till now I wonder how long we could have sustained our daily interactions, before we finally ran out of subjects to consider.
Halfway through, she informed me she was having dinner with a woman. One much like herself, with fair skin, who touched my hair constantly - and eventually moved to a distant country. In other words, another woman I used to call mine.
Her admission disturbed me profoundly. I tried to laugh it off, my voice gaining a newly discordant, overly effusive ring. "I won't if you don't want me to," she said, wide-eyed, sensing my obvious discomfort. But I told her to go ahead, hating myself all the while - I couldn't bring myself to command her otherwise.
Even so, I was bothered by the image of them seated at the same table, in what would probably be a reputable restaurant, paced by polite waiters. Maybe it was because the other ex-lover and I were no longer on speaking terms. Or perhaps I couldn't bear the thought of them laughing in unison, clinking glasses, exchanging ideas and suggestions I was no part of. Two people who were an inextricable part of my life at different times, who'd shared an experience they would not openly discuss.
I ended up seeing her off in a taxi. Again, it was her second-last day in Singapore, and she kissed me goodbye at the National Museum's whitewashed entrance, rain grazing our faces. My journey home was uneventful. I boarded the train alone, pushing and elbowing my way through the gathering crowd, steadying myself as the carriage lurched.
Later, as expected, I passed sombre strangers burning paper piece by piece - heads bent down in prayer for ghosts they still loved.
Today I walked with my ex-girlfriend. She wore red sunglasses almost too wide for her face, a flowered dress. Her heels were blistered. I had no plasters, but my umbrella shielded her from the insistent drizzle. We talked all afternoon, pausing to sip our cheap, honeyed tea. She was the sort of girlfriend you spoke to, more than anything else. Till now I wonder how long we could have sustained our daily interactions, before we finally ran out of subjects to consider.
Halfway through, she informed me she was having dinner with a woman. One much like herself, with fair skin, who touched my hair constantly - and eventually moved to a distant country. In other words, another woman I used to call mine.
Her admission disturbed me profoundly. I tried to laugh it off, my voice gaining a newly discordant, overly effusive ring. "I won't if you don't want me to," she said, wide-eyed, sensing my obvious discomfort. But I told her to go ahead, hating myself all the while - I couldn't bring myself to command her otherwise.
Even so, I was bothered by the image of them seated at the same table, in what would probably be a reputable restaurant, paced by polite waiters. Maybe it was because the other ex-lover and I were no longer on speaking terms. Or perhaps I couldn't bear the thought of them laughing in unison, clinking glasses, exchanging ideas and suggestions I was no part of. Two people who were an inextricable part of my life at different times, who'd shared an experience they would not openly discuss.
I ended up seeing her off in a taxi. Again, it was her second-last day in Singapore, and she kissed me goodbye at the National Museum's whitewashed entrance, rain grazing our faces. My journey home was uneventful. I boarded the train alone, pushing and elbowing my way through the gathering crowd, steadying myself as the carriage lurched.
Later, as expected, I passed sombre strangers burning paper piece by piece - heads bent down in prayer for ghosts they still loved.
