FINAL VERSION
On that particularly frigid August morning, Alyssa had woken up and performed her bathroom ritual with her usual precision and efficiency, brushing her teeth with the detached frustration of someone enduring a ringing phone during a movie, and driving her brush through her frazzled black hair with more careless ruthlessness than was strictly necessary. Rather than co-ordinate an outfit, she had slipped on an ice-blue chiffon sundress- elasticised at the waist and slightly frayed at the hem- that she’d had since sixteen, before she’d met him. She had paired it with her most comfortable pair of flip-flops and a fake Hello Kitty wristwatch that her best friend, Eileen, had set to New York time and gifted to her just the day before.
They had spent the day together in a daze, her mood throughout the proceedings an embarrassment to her now, having swung violently between accidie sullenness and hysterical happiness. Her laughter- when it came- had arrived in angry spurts loud and harsh and pleading. She vaguely recalled punching him on the shoulder. As for him, he could not laugh, he could not cry; he only knew how to smile. All day, he had untangled the furious knots in her hair, cupped her dew-dipped face and whispered wordless secrets into her soft, pliable ears, but his eyes had been hollow as an empty lake and for the first time in her twenty-one years of age she had found herself flinching, mechanically, from his touch. In defiance, she’d brought them to Little India, where she’d purchased a bottle of henna and, in a deserted park, had painstakingly traced on his back: I will remember Alyssa.
What did you draw on my back?
A swan, she’d said.
Now she found herself seated, alone, on a row of flimsy plastic chairs at Changi Airport Terminal Three. The ceiling lights were bright and blinding as a surgeon’s, and she could not help but feel the pressure of the people around push and press against her, like waves against an ice floe out at sea. She raised her handkerchief to her face, partly out of an impulse to hide it, and was surprised to find that the tears had dried.
Hello jie jie, the little boy said.
Alyssa looked up. The boy was short, stout and appeared no older than nine, and if the softness in his eyes was anything to go by, was younger than that still. With his fat flushed cheeks that constantly huffed and puffed and his red pasar malam t-shirt that had been valiantly tugged over his tummy, he reminded her of a balloon Winnie the Pooh poised to pop. She smiled at the thought.
Hello, she said.
He was very tall, he said.
She put her handkerchief to her face again, knocking her spectacles askew. Her nose felt hot and uncomfortable on her face.
Do you want a sweet?
Slowly, she uncurled her right hand, which- she had not realised until now- had been desperately clutching the edge of the seat. The release, so unexpected, triggered a warm internal flush, like a shot of alcohol, that ran down her arm and lingered in her fingertips. Smiling shyly, a front tooth missing and just the faintest hint of triumph in his eyes, the boy gingerly placed in her proffered palm a yellow tear drop- the candy- which she immediately popped into her mouth as if it were a pill.
It’s sour, she said.
Later then sweeter, he said.
The boy edged a little closer and she lunged forward to hug him. He wrapped his tiny arms around her, and the warmth and contact of his small, plump body was so welcome and familiar that it terrified her slightly, and she began to tremble.
Will you see him again?
I don’t know, she said, her pretences thawing with every word.
I’ll be your boyfriend, he said.
She laughed, warmly.
VERSION 1
On that particularly frigid August morning, Alyssa had woken up and performed her bathroom ritual with her usual precision and efficiency, brushing her teeth with the detached vengeance of someone enduring a ringing phone during a movie, and driving her brush through her frazzled black hair with more careless ruthlessness than was strictly necessary. Rather than co-ordinate an outfit, she had slipped on an ice-blue chiffon sundress- elasticised at the waist and slightly frayed at the hem- that she’d had since sixteen, before she’d met him. She had paired it with her most comfortable pair of flip-flops and a fake Hello Kitty wristwatch that her best friend, Eileen, had set to New York time and gifted to her just the day before.
They had spent the day together in a daze, her mood throughout the proceedings an embarrassment to her now, having swung violently between accidie sullenness and hysterical happiness. Her laughter- when it came- had arrived in angry spurts loud and harsh and pleading. She vaguely recalled punching him on the shoulder. As for him, he could not laugh, he could not cry; he only knew how to smile. All day, he had untangled the furious knots in her hair, cupped her dew-dipped face and whispered wordless secrets into her soft, pliable ears, but his eyes had been hollow as an empty lake and for the first time in twenty-one years she had found herself flinching, mechanically, from his touch. She’d brought them to Little India, where she’d purchased a bottle of henna and, in a deserted park, had painstakingly written on his back: I will remember Alyssa.
What did you draw on my back?
A swan, she’d said.
Now she found herself seated, alone, on a row of flimsy plastic chairs at Changi Airport Terminal Three. The ceiling lights were bright and blinding as a surgeon’s, and she could not help but feel the pressure of the people around push and press against her, like the tide against a boat moored out at sea. She raised her handkerchief to her face, partly out of an impulse to hide it, and was surprised to find fresh tears there.
Hello jie jie, the little boy said.
Alyssa looked up. The boy was short, stout and appeared no older than nine, and if the softness in his eyes was anything to go by, was younger than that still. His fat flushed cheeks made him look as though he was constantly huffing and puffing, and coupled with his shy demeanour- hunched shoulders, inward pointing soles- he reminded her of a balloon poised to pop. She smiled at the thought.
Hello, she said.
He was very tall, he said.
She put her handkerchief to her face again, roughly pushing her spectacles askew. Her nose felt hot and uncomfortable on her face.
Do you want a sweet, he asked.
Slowly, she uncurled her right hand, which- she had not realised until now- had been desperately clutching the edge of the seat, leaving her knuckles lit for one brief moment in a halo of incandescent white, before fading to a ring of sore-red, an ombre tone much like the fringe of her dress. The boy gingerly placed in her proffered palm the candy, shaped like a yellow tear drop, which she immediately popped into her mouth like a pill. He grinned a toothy smile at her, a beaming ray of innocence and sunshine with one missing front tooth.
It’s sour, she said.
Later then sweeter, he said.
The boy edged a little closer and she lunged forward to hug him. He wrapped his tiny arms around her, and the warmth and contact was so welcome and familiar that it terrified her slightly, and she began to tremble.
Will you see him again, he asked.
I don’t know, she said, her eyes frozen with longing.
I’ll be your boyfriend, he said.
She laughed, warmly.
