"Many of them say nasty things behind my back but every last one of them smiles at me and says hello - that's all that matters to me"

It has been quite a jog, run, hop and now it's so painfully comfortable to sit here watching people, cars, pass you by.

Though this is not where I want to be it's tolerably beautiful and peaceful. Maybe I could sit here the whole night. After all, I'm not very keen on going anywhere, not very keen on going home, not very keen on finding home.

Is that, a sin?

Running through the streets up buildings kicking doors open with a girl I don't know I don't remember taking out bad guys with super powers with a pow!

The sense of loss is not unfamiliar, yet it feels, so strange, so very strange.

I do think that people do know what they signed up for.

I do think that people can sense how high the probability of a divorce is when they get together with a certain someone.

It's very simple. Just remember that people don't change and use your intuition.

You know, it's not even funny, it's not even imaginable, it's not even acceptable, if you were to pass away even before your kid turns twelve?

You know, you will remain dead, even when your kid turns twenty-four, turns forty-eight?

There's this inexplicable desire to throw things out, to abandon things. To get a new haircut, to change my name. This must indicate an underlying problem.

Time doesn't seem to move on quiet afternoons.

The sort of an afternoon, lazing at home, with no work, no house chores, with nothing important to do. Where everyone's out of the neighborhood. Or catching naps in bed. And the sun shines bright. No breeze. Only birds. A gentle clear day, when you can do anything, everything you want.

The clouds pasted on the sky still looked the same as when I stepped into her room.

Her standing fan shook its head slowly, from left to right and from right to left.

"So," she said, scratching the lobe of her ear, "why are you concealing your problem?"

I said nothing.

"Why the hell do you do it?" she asked. "Cheating yourself. When you could give so much more?"

I'm so warm. I don't know if it's the alcohol. The writing. Or my recurring fever.

I was in her cozy room at 6.35am. Outside hung a dark morning. With only the occasional flashes of lightning. The distant rumbles. The cold wind blowing in. The shivers. We had a glass of whiskey each in our hands, to warm our hearts.

A table lamp lit part of her room.

"I love the way you write," she said.

"Live. Love. Dream. And then Die. That's pretty much what story-folks can do in a word universe," I replied.

She was sitting on the bed. Pink shirt and shorts. But she had her blanket wrapped over her body, for warmth, and perhaps for more modesty.

The curtain hanging at the window. The cloth was floating up, slowly. The icy breeze.

"Frankly, I was quite surprised that you came. I mean.. well, I am..," she paused, "I am happy."

"I expect payment, of course," I said.

"Payment of course. Whatever you want. I'm just happy that you came." She was not looking at me when she said all these. Her blanket had fallen to her side. Pink shirt and shorts. And smooth skin.

Earlier we finished her remaining bottle of absinthe chatting about everything. About anything. Like the way you can tell an intimate stranger your fears, your joys, yourself. The easy way of spilling your own secrets. The desire to bare all to someone else.

Or perhaps it was too much alcohol. The floor was wobbly.

Finally, a little out of breath, she said, "so, how do you normally charge?"

"For this? For seeing you?"

She nodded.

I looked at her. And in that instance, she pulled up the blanket and wrapped it over her body. She looked away, at the curtain. It was two lonely people in the room once more.

"No. Not sex. Not today." I said. I could read her mind.

There was silence for a while. Blushing, she said, "What do you want then?"

"I would like to take your photo. Anything. Just a few photos of you now. Doing whatever you feel like doing."

She bit her lips. Then she looked up at me and said, "Ok." Her eyes were clear and bright and playful.

She got up to shut the door. Turned around. Faced me. Pulled off her pink shirt. Pulled off her polka dot bra. Pulled down her shorts. Hesitated. And pulled down her panties. She covered herself with both hands. "What are you waiting for? I'm posing already lah!"

I snapped her pictures. She climbed onto the study desk. Pushed away everything that was on it. Scratched her head. Scanned around her room. Climbed down the desk. Sat on her desk. Climbed back up the table. Posed. I continued snapping. She giggled.

She sat on the table. Spreaded open her legs. To show me her pussy. She then pursed her lips, before asking, "Is it okay if I masturbate in front of you?"

Under the hood. Out of the morning dew. A pink rosebud awaits. Fingers strum. Strumming her hunger. For air. And she gasped. And she gasped for air. The gushes and the juices and the back-arches. Peeking forth from the hood. The rose blossoms. Petals unfolding. In full ripening. And there is nectar. Sweet nectar within.

She could not stop moaning. And her face was in agony. Anguish. And tears rolled down. Tears rolled down. Her moans turned to sobs. Soon. Very soon, she was crying. Silent sobs, of a body-shuddering kind. She hugged her knees in a tight fetal position and rocked herself back and forth. The tears never stopped rolling.

It was raining outside.

I covered her with the blanket and carried her to her bed where she curled up like a baby. I laid down beside her, patted her, and sang her a song that had no words, until eventually, she went soft and deep into a deep quiet sleep.

I left her room. And back in my room I reviewed the photos I took, and deleted them one by one, and so, when I woke up,


I never saw her again