About Nude Not Naked

Love requires courage. Courage to merge and be one with someone not you. Courage to take care of someone's heart more than yours. Courage to continue loving in times of extreme difficulties. It is easy to love someone when times are good and the sun shining everyday. The true account of love manifests itself in the darkest nights along the looming clouds of troubles. It is at this point that you will find true love. Or not.

There is something magical about darkness. We all instinctively fear darkness because of the uncertainty of daylight. What we must remember is there is always light at the end of the darkest night. And without the darkness, we seldom appreciate light. In these dark moments, we stand to be tested - to see if our love is pure. Those who still stand together when day breaks, now those are the ones who love. And for us to stand at daybreak, we must have courage.

Love. Courage. Faith. These are all emotions. So are jealousy, anger and fear. The lines between the emotions are very thin and if you are careless in your love, you will cross them too easily. There is no right or wrong emotions. Emotions in themselves are neutral. You can love someone and yet feel extreme jealousy and possession. When you lack courage, you will have anger and when you have faith, you will not fear. But more often than not, all the emotions will float in your heart like little boats in the vast ocean.

I am still a student of life and I am still learning about love - when to love and when to hate, faith in the love we share, courage to have faith and wisdom to guard my heart.

I wrote this email to SwedishLove during the two months we were apart. It describes an intimate moment I daydreamed. It clearly and honestly shows the act of loving someone in the most instinctive and purest form and it is probably the only record I have of my own sexuality - my desires, dreams and wants from a lover.

Loving someone demands the revelation of your deepest person and then allowing... no, trusting another person to come complete you and feed your body and soul. The yearnings of a woman deeply in love resonates through the whole email.



*
Subject: close your eyes and imagine this...
Date: 15 May 2001 13:04:40 EDT

Our bed, by the window. Lots of pillows, just the way we like it....

A soft breeze blew into the room. We walked into the room and switch off the lights. I held your hands and led you to our bed. First I laid on my back on the edge of the bed and smiled at you... I teased you to come and give me a hug. You gently lowered yourself on top of me and we hugged each other warmly. We pushed ourselves onto the bed as we gently bit each other’s lips. Our lips met passionately...

I breathed into your ears softly, "I want you." You smiled at me. My hands roamed downwards, caressing your body softly. You took your shirt off and helped me take mine. Throwing the clothes on the floor, you then lowered yourself on top of me again. I kissed you passionately as our tongues touched. I traced your lips with tiny kisses...

You gave my right nipple a gentle kiss. Slowly you moved down a little to suck on my right breast. I sighed as the sensation from your kiss as it floated all over my body. I asked you whether you enjoyed my body. You nodded your head, not saying a word.

I held you tightly in my arms. I leaned upwards and nibbled your ear a little... moved myself away from your face... I moved downwards and smiled cheekily at you. You smiled and gave my thigh a little kiss. Our eyes met. I looked down and ran my fingers along your body, slowly in circular motions.... dancing from your chest to your tummy... and down to your thighs... your eyes were following where my fingers went. Your body yearning for my touch.

I held your right hand and brought it closer to me. Used your fingers to trace my body... from my thighs... to my tummy… along the side of my body... up between my breast... along my neck... slowly I put your finger into my mouth... sucked it... my tongue danced around it... teased it...

Suddenly you took your finger away. I smiled. You reached downwards and kissed my inner thighs... I took a deep breath as you flicked your tongue. I moaned at the sheer pleasure it brought. I leaned to my left and planted a wet kiss on him. Then I put it in my mouth, so slowly it felt almost painful to wait for the pleasure to arrive... Slowly inch-by-inch, I sucked on him. You moaned and showered me with even more kisses. The pleasure was so warm. I sighed. I wanted more. I knew you wanted more...

I wanted to feel you inside but I wanted to feel the longing... of wanting you... I wanted to see you wanting me. I wanted to watch you as you become excited; excited when you licked and sucked me. Excited that you knew that you were going to come inside me. But we had to wait... we waited for the emotions to build up... we teased each other into excitement... time stood still before I could feel you inside... but that was the way our passion built... It felt so good, so good that it felt almost painful... I wasn’t able to tell the difference... it was so good....

The pleasure was so wonderful as you licked and fingered me. So pleasurable that sometimes it felt like time was eternal. So I held onto the pillows to stop myself from stopping myself from feeling the pleasure. Breathless.... I surrendered. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel it all. "Help me..." I let out a soft sigh as the warm sensation flooded all over my body like a wave...

I smiled at you as you wiped your mouth. I hopped on top of you and kissed your lips. You smiled at me. I gently sat on top of you, pushing you in me slowly.. gently... little by little... inch by inch.... I cringed a little. So you lifted my hair up and began to kiss me lovingly as I eased myself into position… you ran your right hand along the base of my neck, slowly making its way along my back… you held me tightly in your embrace... it felt so good to be held… to feel the protection and the love.... What first felt like pain, clearly was sheer ecstasy.... And soon it was warm and lovely when I took him all in...

Holding you in my arms, I started rocking myself back and forth... you let out a sigh..... a sigh of pleasure... I pushed you to lie back on the soft bed... you reached out your hands and cupped my breasts. I continued to rock slowly, squeezing and relaxing.. letting him feel my all... I wanted you to feel how much I loved you.... how much I wanted my mortal body to join with yours.... to please you... how much I wanted to hear you come... how much I wanted to hear you love me... love my body... tell me how much my body is bringing you pleasure because all I want is you...

You hugged me lovingly for what felt like forever... No, we didn’t move…. I could feel you pulsating inside.. You laid me on my back… moved your hands over mine... As your hands reached mine, you held them in security... You pushed him inside of me again as you showered me with kisses…

“I love you” you said.

“I love you too” I replied, feeling your every shiver.

With that, you started to thrust with deep longings. I looked at you. I felt your breath on my face as you felt the pleasure building inside. I loved watching you love me. I loved watching you close your eyes to feel every single sensation that was floating around your body. I watched you making love to me.

Slowly. Quickly. Deeply. Purely.

You clenched your teeth as you came. You moaned deeply, pushing him deeper inside, rubbing her in ecstasy. I squeezed tighter, to feel you more.... More, my baby. I want more.

You closed your eyes tightly to feel every single throb. You rested on me, still breathing heavily. I pat your head, kept you warm in my embrace. Your heart beat fast. I snuggled closer into your arms. As you savor the last few orgasmic moment, I whispered in you ears, “I love you baby.. I love you very much... much more than you know.."

You got up.. held my hands and led me to the bathroom, where we sat in the tub. You cupped some water and ran it on my back. I kissed your left knee gently and offered a smile. We exchanged glances. I took the towel to dry you. You moved your hands along my body with the towel, drying me. We kissed each other as we walked to the bed again.

I curled up in your arms... gave you a kiss good nite... you kissed my neck and held me even closer.. I snuggled warmly into you... I could feel you breath...

Let's dance in style, lets dance for a while
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are you going to drop the bomb or not?
Let us die young or let us live forever
We don't have the power but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The music's for the sad men
Can you imagine when this race is won
Turn our golden faces into the sun
Praising our leaders we're getting in tune
The music's played by the madman


Forever young, i want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever, forever forever
Forever young, i want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever
Forever young

Some are like water, some are like the heat
Some are a melody and some are the beat
Sooner or later they all will be gone
Why don't they stay young
It's so hard to get old without a cause
I don't want to perish like a fading horse
Youth is like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever
So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true

~ Forever Young, lyrics by Alphaville

*


A flood of memories rushed to greet me when I started reading the entries. It was a warm and idyllic time of in my life, filled with traveling and experiencing new places, gooseberry ice creams on hot summer days, walking in Gamla Stan, going out with many friends and eating roti canai under the tree. We played Bomber Lord and watched lots of movies on the bed. We were in Perhentian before it became all hyped up, long before Bubu Long Beach laid its first brick.

I was surprised by the amount of Swedish I spoke and wrote prior to enrolling into Folk University Sweden. The translation for the following phrases in this email is:

"Jag lik den lång" --- "I like it long"
"Tack själv för älskande mig" --- "Thank you for loving me".
"Pojkvän" --- "boyfriend"
"Flickvän" --- 'girlfriend'.

I was even more surprised by our living arrangement - 4 months in Malaysia, 2 months apart, 4 months in Stockholm and 2 months apart. That was a pretty impressive living arrangement, one that gave us so much freedom of movement. I remember having lunches in Vurma on Saturdays and lusting after clothes in Indiska, waking up in the yellow bedroom and dressing up was carefree. Many emails were punctuated with 'see you later at 4 p.m.' or whatever time. It simply indicated that despite being together a lot, we each had our individual space to do our stuff. I was probably at work and he was at Coffee bean when we were in Malaysia. And in Sweden, it was probably the opposite.

We argued once and it was over his ex-gf of three years. They met when she was a foreign student studying in Sweden. I hated the comparison between Malaysia and Singapore, which I felt was a subtle comparison between the ex and I. But for most, the emails were cordial, lively and sometimes a little horny. Having such beautiful emails, you will begin to wonder why the hell we broke up. I found the answer by the end of the email exchanges.



*



Subject: Jag lik den lång
Date: 19 Mar 2001 05:07:35 -0500

To my dearest horny pojkvän,

I am very happy and thankful that I have you by my side. It has been a very interesting week and I bet that it will just get better by the end of this weekend.... mmmmm, geram! Honey, open up your legs....

You have been a tremendous joy to talk to and be with. For example, I am very happy just lying by your side last nite, talking about things. We could joke, tease, tickle and play with each other. I feel so comfortable with you!!!

I am just so glad that you are mine. I am so happy that we can be together, just enjoying each other's company. We make a great couple because we have plenty of things to talk and discuss! Both of us have a sense of humor (thank goodness we do) as do we share common sense of style and ideas..... and we sometimes say the funniest things that brighten up our days.

These days I also feel loved by you. To hear you whispering into my ears that you love me, makes me feel so warm inside. I also know it from the way that you hold me.... I feel very cherished by you. Tack själv för älskande mig :)

I feel excited each time I think about you and about us together. I can smell, feel and taste how good it will be... do you understand what I am saying here?

Anyway I am looking forward to meeting up with you later tonite. We'll attempt watching the movie AGAIN tonite *hahaha* will be there approx. 8:30 p.m. You enjoy yourself, ya?!

Love always,
Otto

I was amazed when I found the following two pieces of correspondence. They were the very first times Henrik and I communicated. What a rare jewel to find these and to discover that we were sat in Coffee Bean on 20th January 2001. Eve and I were having our usual morning weekend breakfast. There was this beautiful creature sat across us, holding a book on architecture. He had the most amazing face and the most piercing eyes.

We devised a plan to find out who he was looking at. I walked over to the dispenser on the pretext of getting us some water. Naturally he would trail after the girl that he was observing. I made my way back to Eve with two white paper cups in my hands and was informed that he was looking at me. You should see the smile on my face... We sat there past our breakfast, hoping that he would walk over to our table and introduce himself. Those were the days when men dropped drinks and themselves at our tables all the time, so it was a very realistic assumption that he would do the same.

After 5 hours, I gave up and told Eve that we'll go home. This was ridiculous, I mumbled. I am not that desperate for a man albeit he is a very good looking guy, I thought to myself. I remember sitting in the car on the driver's seat when Eve bleated, 'Oh just give me your email address. Our new year resolution is to do all the things that we did not dare do and this is crazy....' I jotted my email address on a torn scrap of paper and off she ran upstairs, smiled at him and told him that if he liked me, he could write to me.




*
Subject: coffee bean ;)
Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2001 12:26:49

hi! i saw you today at coffee bean and your friend gave me your adress. i'd
really like to meet you!!! email your number and i'll give you a call...

henrik



*
Subject: Re: coffee bean ;P
Date: 20 Jan 2001 20:22:56 -0500

Hi there! Yes, I saw you too, sitting in Coffee Bean yesterday.... as requested, this is my cell phone number, if you would like to talk to me...

012-XXXXXXX

Please call me on Monday morning between the hours of 10 a.m. to 12 noon. Catch you then...
Otto



*

Greece, summer 2001


This exchange of so few words sparked a whirlwind of adventures spanning many countries and lit a different flame in my being. It marked the beginning of my womanhood, of growing comfortable of my body and asserting my thoughts. Henrik encouraged me to be who I was - a young woman. And till today, I hold a very Scandinavian view of sexuality and the human body. The photos we took of each other stacked more than 10cm high and were the most physically beautiful period in my life.

Reading the emails reminded me of how active we were as a couple. I was still performing dances in churches, learning Sign Language and socializing immensely. Most importantly, we were smiling crazy in all the photos. We were deeply in love.

The last 48 hours was spent in a frenzy letter reading session. Eve found an old box of letters containing all the letters I ever wrote her. I wrote to her nearly everyday while we were in highschool, despite sitting next to her desk! And those letters were very passionate. Many heartbreaking letters about HighSchoolSweetheart and even more letters about the interracial love between a Chinese girl and a Kadazandusun boy in the early '90s.

You know that movie where the guy went back to all his girlfriends to make amends? Well that was my last 24 hours. Those letters to Eve sparked my journey of catching up with those important men in my life. Daytime was spent chatting to HighSchoolSweetheart and the whole night was spent talking with SwedishLove. I can safely tell you now both their names - Richard and Henrik.

We talked about our love and the time spent loving. There were many reflections and many thoughts, often punctuated with love and a small dash of sadness. By the time Henrik and I spoke, I was reading through the old letters we wrote each other. My penmanship is clearly visible and the different stages of my life brought about different choice of words and style of writing. Letters to Eve were emotional, lovelorn and hostile (Eve and I had a lot of teenage pent up anger). Letters to Henrik were, in contrast, full of optimism, love, hope and lust.

I'll try publish a collection of the letters in the next few days. And perhaps you will be able to read my life. These works are graphic and unedited. It is an honest look into the life of a young Malaysian girl - all her hopes, dreams, her wantings and her love experiences. They are bittersweet and lovely. I am sure that I am not the only girl to write as I did and I am not the only girl to receive such letters as indicated in the next few weeks.

I don't know why I am publishing them here. Most probably I am trying to immortalize the words and to rediscover who I was. It is a soulful read. So here it goes - I chosen this particular email exchange for its graphic nature. I was quite shocked and embarrassed when I read it this morning but there were very many letters like this - lustful, flighty and filled with innocent love. I was 25 years old then and Henrik was 28.



*
Subject: wet dreams...
Date: Tue, 08 May 2001 21:03:59

i love you flickvän, it's that simple. today you were on my mind every single second throughout the whole day... again! i miss u!! and it makes me soo happy to get your emails and read about all the things you experience, and especially to read how much you love me. don't let me go!!!

well, i've done some good thing today i guess. it's now 22:10 and i just finished painting for today. half of the first coating is done! so in two days everything will be finished :)

you want a photo of my family? i was actually thinking of sending you one, and maybe take some photos one of these days to finish up the roll. so lets do some trading. i'll send a photo of the family, and you'll send me a photo of you wearing your sexy underware. how's that? so that i can have some wet dreams too... ;)

i'm glad you're feeling sexy at the moment because you ARE extremely sexy. if only you knew how many times a day you turn me on when i start thinking about you. damn!!! not to mention at night when i lie alone in bed, thinking of the times we've been intimate... it drives me crazy!!! i think of that time in the hotel room when i came inside of you for the first time. do you remember? ohh, that was soo good... you were lying naked on the bed letting me caress your body, letting me kiss your lips, your nipples, your thighs... before sticking my toungue inside, tasting you. and then i came on top of you, holding your arms down above your head pushing him inside... slowly, inch by inch until he was all inside. my god!!!!! Otto, never think it's only because of sex that i want you, but oh sex is good with you!

wow, i think i should make my way to bed straight away now... :P wish you were here with me now! have a great day tomorrow and tell me more about your life. i'm longing for tomorrow when i have a new mail from you to read :)

yours forever!!!!!
Henrik

‘Aiyo!’ I sat up and looked at him, ever so seriously. ‘I am on the other fucking ladder!’

It was past 11 p.m. and he was to wake a few hours later to catch his flight back to work. I blinked my eyes and nestled myself on my pillow. It was the harder pillow, filled with some kind of beans that were supposed to promote wellness and sleep. They were not very good beans, I guess. I was awake for the next hour, having a little therapy session with him.

‘What’s the first ladder?’ he asked, smiling. He always smiled and depending on my mood, I either loved his smiles or get superbly annoyed. That night, I loved his smile. If men could be doe eyed, he most certainly was so.

‘The first ladder is the girlfriend ladder,’ I said. ‘Girlfriends are freaking cool, always look like a pornstar, gorgeous hair, good skin, the most beautiful clothes and the highest high heels in the whole land. Girls on this ladder are ever hopeful and exciting. Men love them because they are cool, elusive and coy.’

‘And the second ladder?’ he asked.

I went off tangent and babbled on, ignoring his question. Men love girls on the first ladder because they were dangerous. They smelled like the heavens, knew the rules of games by hard and played even harder. They knew exactly when to bat their eyes and look away. If you asked these girls to spell the word ‘fun’, they would do it with lipstick, high heels and nothing else. Oh yes, they will spell every word in capitals.

And men loved them. Men loved them because these girls always played it right. They knew when to smile and when to get coy. They threw the bait and fish would climb up their poles. You would love them too because truth be told, girlfriends are fantastic. Their sex is stronger and they ride harder.

There are thousands of reasons why men love a girl on the first ladder. The girlfriend, apart from being exciting, is also unavailable. You see, these girls have something that the girls on the second ladder don’t. They have the ability to walk away. And the more able they are to walk away, the more attractive they are.

And quite honestly, girls who are able to walk away are the happiest girls around.



*
‘And the second ladder?’ he asked again.

‘Oh the second ladder…’ There was a pause. ‘… the second ladder is the wife ladder.’ I said, shrugging my shoulders. ‘This is the ladder for the wives, who turned grumpy, naggy, unhappy and all the words that ends with ‘y’… like ‘fatty’ or... or... 'frumpy'!’

He found my comments amusing because he laughed. He laughed so hard that the baby was about to rouse. Perhaps that was what he wanted to do, as a mean to escape our night conversation. But I chose to be optimistic that night and so I thought my remarks amused him.

Women sometimes jumped from the first ladder to the second. Other times they were unaware that they had transcended onto the second ladder and were very surprised (and probably angry) when they woke up one day to discover that they had landed on the second ladder. Whether willing or unwilling, women of all ages will one day find themselves on the second ladder.

And who sits on the second ladder? Grumpy wives, nagging their husbands from sunrise to sunset remain the most popular group on the second ladder. They are angry and bitter, often disheartened and disarrayed after the love glow waned. The men they married still looked the same and more often than not, behaved exactly the same as the first day they were acquainted. Second ladder women have love battle scars. They have the fatty tummy after the baby, stretch marks to remind them of how they used to be or perhaps a 20cm long caesarian scar, like me. Men looked exactly the same and most probably smell just a foul as the first weekend you met them.

Second ladder women are burdened by the responsibilities resting on their shoulders and the years of stress often marked their faces. It is an evil cycle. The more burdens they take on, the more they nag and the more they hate themselves. They hate to nag but they have to nag because the men were not listening. Not that nagging helps anything. Nothing saves these women on the second ladder. It is a lost case. Which is why women here are often resentful and hurt. And they talk like a broken record.

No woman walks down the aisle hoping to land herself on the second ladder.



*
‘I need a broom,’ I whispered.

‘Why? We don’t have a broom,’ he said.

‘To beat the first ladder women away,’ I said as a matter of fact. I could have been reciting the periodic table of elements. ‘I am Chinese and Chinese don’t like the broom… so I guess I need a broom’

He turned to his side and gave me a hug from the back. Ah, spooning. It is such a ‘couple’ thing to do. He was gently breathing behind my neck as we lied in bed together. The curtains were not drawn so the streetlight was shining through. There was a moment of calm. He was holding me tightly as my mind went wild. First ladder. Second ladder. Me on second ladder, now in need of a broom to beat the evil young things trying to tempt my honey away. BAM! Wake up call, babe. My mind was doing the mid night marathon.

‘I know. Probably the vacuum cleaner would do the trick.’

‘So it is not ok for a forty plus woman to dance around like a crazy person?’ I asked again. I asked the question a second time because it was important to get the facts right.

Tim nodded his head. He did not bother justifying himself. The gospel according to Tim says that old men (old by definition here means anyone above 40) can prance around and do stupid things together, It is acceptable because ‘everyone thinks that it is just another bunch of lads doing stupid weekend stuff again’. However women above forty are not measured on the same ruler. Somehow this 42 year old divorced father of three teenage girls and boyfriend to one 35 year old woman thinks it is NOT okay for older women to go mad on a weekend.

‘They just look pathetic,’ he said. No apologies for the statement. ‘A woman over 40 should look dignified. Not slobbering around the pub like a drunken fool.’

‘But it is okay for men above 40 to do so,’ I paused, hoping that he would disagree. If it is not okay for women to do it, then it should not be okay for men to do it too, right?

Apparently, the answer is wrong. As a matter of fact, he agreed whole heartedly that men of whatever age can get drunk, get loud, piss around the garden and have noisy boys nights. But girls, oh girls just do not do such stupid things.

‘Grown up girls just don’t do such things,’ he said.

Scandinavians on the whole are a very forward thinking bunch. Men and women enjoyed similar rights for the longest time. Suffrage movement in Sweden and Finland led its women to the right to vote in 1862 and 1906 respectively. Their men are well house trained, can cook and generally treat their women folk no different from how they would treat another man. (That means no special girlie privileges like opening doors just because you are a girl. You get some and so you lose some, I guess).

I sat at the dining table, imagining some Feminist members crucifying Tim. Yup, Sweden has their very own feminist political party and I am sure those girls would love to hang Tim or do something nasty to him. I was not angry or anything. I was just surprised that men (who are taught from birth to treat women as equals) have double standards. If sexism exists in Scandinavia, you can beat your beans (if you are Jack) on the double standard existing and thriving in a country such as Malaysia. (No offence to Malaysians in a whole but we must admit that we are 100 years behind Sweden in this area – quite literally).

So what makes it okay for men to do it? ‘Well men never grow up,’ Tim said. Men grow old but they never grow up. Put a few men together and you can see them gelling together, merrily enjoying themselves. They can joke, have fun, burp, drink beer, fart and laugh. In Finland, you even get to see your friend’s balls while you burp, drink beer, fart and run naked around a bush during Mid Summers. Such is the camaraderie of men.

Women, according to Tim, were expected to behave themselves and carry themselves well.

‘Carry themselves with dignity,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes. That is the word. Dignity. With dignity,’ said Tim. ‘You just feel sad when you see an older woman dribbling beer all over or is too loud.’ He took a sip of whiskey, then coffee. But why should a woman show restraint and carry herself well all the time? Why can’t a 40 year old woman behave as carefree and reckless as she was when she was a single 20 year old university student? Tim was sharing some ideas why it felt weird looking at a drunk woman.

‘I think it has to do with your image of a mother,’ I said. Psychology is lovely. With psychology, you can blame your mother for every fuck up in your life. Most mothers are anchors in their young children’s lives and they are responsible, caring, attentive, well behaved, restraint etc. A mother’s actions influence her child’s future behaviour.

‘Yes, that must be it. Our mothers always carried themselves well. A drunk 40 year old woman just looks sad,’ Tim said.

I was having dinner with three eligible men, who were all married and then divorced. They were successful and were reasonably good looking for their age (think George Clooney). Tim had 3 teenage daughters and Tapio had one. The Bachelor was a sperminator to some British bird, so technically he has passed on his genetic material. They were all casually meeting younger women. As they grow older, the women became younger and the age gap became larger. They swore that younger women made better partners.

‘Here lies a problem, boys,’ I said. ‘Men intrinsically seek out young women because they make good companions. Tim, now you said that younger women are more spontaneous and happy, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then why do you feel that it isn’t proper for an older woman to just be that – spontaneous and happy-fied? Don't you think it is unfair?'

‘Which is worse?’ he asked. ‘To have too many suitors or to have too little?’

‘I think it’s horrible to have too many suitors,’ I replied. ‘Notice my long list of complaints?’

‘Come on. Admit it. It is much better to have too many than too little,’ he said.

‘If you insist, then yes. I guess it is better to have more choices than a lack of.’

I imagined how beautiful the view out of his window. The Petronas Twin Towers must look absolutely majestic against the slow descend of the sun as we messaged each other on the Yahoo Messenger. Mr. Easter Bunny and I were conversing on a daily basis the week before and after Easter. I was searching for some writing inspiration and he was there at the right place and the right time.



*
If you have noticed (which I am sure you do), I have been avoiding writing lately. I must be one of the most boring persons you ever read about. I write only what I am ready to share and I don’t mince my words around. And when I am not ready to share, I don’t. Hence there is hardly any action here in About Nude Not Naked. I have my regular readers but I am no Kenny Sia.

Not that my life isn’t filled with action. It is. It is very much filled with all sorts of actions but I commit those stories to my memory. I did not tell you that I am doing well and how happy I have become in the last year or so. I dare not share how my life has changed for the better and how comfortable I feel.

And how I finally feel some measure of peace in my heart.

I don’t know how everything started. I hate to think it has to do with age. To admit that I changed because of age is like to admit that I have set limits in my life. And if you know me like how MiniBoyFriend R knows me, you will know that I hate limits. I hate the word because I feel it is constricting.

So no, I don’t think I made different choices (drastic ones, I might add) in the last 18 months or so because I feel that I am getting old. I much prefer to think that I changed because I needed to move onto a new phase in life. I have always felt a need to challenge myself, to push myself further and stretch myself wider. This decision happens to be one of them.

I have never been one that is complacent. My mind is always thinking, moving and changing. My eyes are always searching and observing every minute detail of everything around me. And I always listen to conversations and always enjoyed words.



*
‘Hey sexy mama,’ the voice said.

‘That’s hot, sexy mama to you,’ I said as I continued to type into my iBook. Time to change iBook, I thought to myself as it was overheating. The Apple laptop has served me very well in the last 4 years. I am a happy bird if relationships and friendships were as reliable as my trusty Apple iBook.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Working,’ I said

‘Why working so hard?’ he asked. ‘There is a gig tonight. You must come out. You remember XYZ?’ he asked. ‘He asked me to invite you out tonight because he has not seen you since Famosa’s party’.

I gave a muffled non-commitment mumble of some sort. True to form, I did not go out that night. I watched Heroes on TV instead.

One of the first things that I changed was to reprioritize my time. I have spent too many hours with too many people that I should never have spent time with. They were not bad people. They just weren’t good.

Some of you might ask what motivated me to go out in the first place. There are many reasons and perhaps only MiniBoyFriend R understood them. The main reason however was vanity and ego. It was always lovely to go out somewhere and be admired. Who would not like that? Who wouldn't want to feel that she had just lit up the entire room by just walking into it?

All I needed to do was to spend an hour dressing up (which is a therapeutic experience in itself) and head out for the night. It does not matter which night it was. There were always people out there and there will always be people who would look at you and talk. After some years of dealing with bad 'publicity', I have relented and decided that perhaps ‘bad publicity is better than no publicity’.

Think of it like how celebrities do it. They garner attention each time they go out. The more they go out, the more attention they will receive. They do not appear on magazines and TV for staying at home, you know. Now obviously, the attention can be either positive or negative. For example, having the paparazzi taking your photos, landing you on the best or worst dressed list. But celebrities still battle the paparazzo’s daily because they want to remain in the current news.

It used to be the same case for me too. Continuously dressing up to go out is quite an expensive pastime. However doing so keeps me present in people’s conversations, even when I am not around. The attention has blessed me many privileges. For example, girls working in boutiques reserve clothes for me to try on before they display them in the shops. My hairdresser continuously works miracles by framing my best facial features.

And my bowl of noodles nearly always comes with extra goodies, courtesy of the aunties whom I fondly visit and chat with on working days.

‘Aunty asked where you went,’ PY sms-ed the other day.



*
I have gone under the radar. When once I regularly spent weekends in Lola, I now regularly do not spend weekends there. I miss it every once in a while, so I would dress up again and visit the place. Each time I would try my best to relive all those happy memories I have of the place but I somehow no longer feel the same way. It could just be the booze but I swear that something inside me has changed.

When I look into the crowd of people dancing and gyrating to the music, I no longer recognize anyone. The bar tenders are now strangers, no longer weekend friends. The bouncers however still let me skip the queue and allow me to come and go as I please. Something has changed. I no longer feel that I belong in that noisy place.

I no longer crave for the attention and find no necessity to always be on top of everyone’s conversation topics. I still dress the way that I do and I still have the attention (daytime at least) but I do not feel that I have to push myself anymore.

‘Eh, are you unwell?’ my mother asked me one Saturday night as I sat watching Discovery Channel. She placed her hand on my forehead, to feel my body temperature for sure. ‘You must be sick, if you are not out on Saturday,’ she said.

You know, there was a time when I would just pop one tablet of Panadol and head out on sick nights. Nothing comes between the clubbing scene and me. Not even rainy nights. Nowadays it almost feels okay to be at home on Saturday night, watching TV and answering phone calls.



*
So this is why I no longer have too many drunken stories to share with you. In its place, I have collected many happy and sober stories. Maybe one day, when the time is right, I will share my happiness with you.



*
‘Can we talk?’ R asked yesterday. His message popped on my Yahoo Messenger as I was designing some work related stuff. (Remember that I am the boss, the PA, the dispatch girl and occasionally even the makcik cleaner in the office).

‘Of course,’ came my reply. It must have been the shortest sentence I have written him. Some time ago, I had made a mental note to recognize and allow MBF R to express himself without me prodding him. In short, I recognize that I must change myself, to allow him to write at his pace and not crowd the conversation with my opinion.

‘I must confess to her,’ MBF R started the conversation. ‘She has said yes and I think I should say yes too. So I have to tell her about all my destructive relationships.’

‘Your reasons for doing so?’ I asked.

‘I want to tell her everything, so she is prepared. She is such a precious and innocent thing, I am afraid that I will ruin her.’

R met a girl on a holiday trip and they spent every moment together on the trip. Returning home, the immense feelings they felt for each other did not dissipate. They have gone on with their normal lives and returned to work since they came back from the holiday. It was no longer a holiday inspired fling and they still feel as strongly now in KL, working and busy, as they did while frolicking and relaxing during a holiday.

‘I must cut ties with all my destructive relationships,’ he said.

‘Like what?’ I enquired, waiting for him to mention the not so short list of lunch hour buddies, golf bunnies and genuine muses. Which he did.

It was the first time I ever hear him say that he felt that this was it. The girl gave him the feeling of security and total unconditional love. Actually what he mentioned was, ‘I am 28 years old. I feel that this is the right time. I have to do this right. It is now or never.’ Or something along that vein.

So he is going to cut ties with all the unhealthy relationships and friendships he had developed over time. I understand each and every word R said. I have been down that road before. I have straightened some friendships and severe ties with the rest.

‘But what if I can’t do it?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean you can’t?’ I asked.

‘You know, I like the beautiful girls that dressed to kill, flawless skin under heavy make up, willing to open their legs by the end of the night, drive you insane with jealousy and rage – those sort.’

‘Oh R,’ I said philosophically, ‘aren’t all men the same? They all like beautiful girls who dressed to kill, with flawless skin under heavy make up, ever willing to drop their panties by the end of the night.’ I sighed. Men would be perfect if not for the failure to control their lust factor. (I don’t want to even start talking about this topic).



*
I had a similar conversation with BestGuyFriend years ago, when he first met Nikki. So I guess I had the 'My Best Friend's Wedding' experience, though unlike Julia Roberts, I actually gave my best boy friends away. BestGuyFriend in 2006 and soon, my MiniBoyFriend.

BestGuyFriend married in December 2006 and we have remained casual friends since then. I can see that he is happy whenever I bump into Nikki and him. He is far from the person I knew years ago. He is confident and contented since he rescued Nikki during the great tsunami. I saw them last the weeks before Christmas last year and they looked perfect together.

MiniBoyFriend R and I managed to maintain a reasonable and healthy friendship. We make good friends and catch up for breakfast whenever possible. We still walk the dogs, Vodka and Gin. We still debate if Vodka has preferred inclination since he sniffs boy dog’s bottoms whenever we are out walking. But we no longer spend Sundays painting and cuddling up for movies.

I see D and his bunch of boys mostly in the restaurant that he is now in charge of. He’d call every now and then, for supper but strangely I have not felt hungry enough to dress up at 2 a.m. I think he has also grown up and moved on, although he still goes out with a string of girls, promising nothing to each and every one of them. You have to give him credit when it is due. He was fair to all.

My last memory of Adidas Boy is a happy one. We were walking around aimlessly in Mid Valley and settled for dinner in a Japanese restaurant. We went for some drinks somewhere and chatted until morning when he left for work, holding and manning a video camera and lighting. While snooping around my readers’ blogs (by backtracking to theirs) I discovered that some of you readers actually met and knew Adidas Boy. It is just that you did not realize it. The world is extremely small, don’t you think?



*
I arrived at a stage in my life when I feel that I have a firm grip of everything around me. I do not write about it because I am not ready to celebrate my happiness in public. I still grieve over Alex.

The fantastic thing about men is that they are able to move on after some time. That is nice. That is what I want for Alex. I want him to move on and be happy. Nothing saddens me more than imagining him at a house that stinks of Polish vodka. I rather be the person in the stinky Polish vodka house. I want him to be happy and excited about living. It is important to me that he feels so.

I know that he no longer wears the ring I gave him 2 years ago. I still wear the ring he gave me and I still carry the keys to my English home. It is silly, I know. It isn't like I can open any other door using those keys. But I still carry them because they feel precious. They have a lot of memories attached. One look at them whenever I open my purse and I am transported back to my English home and life. I have not seen Alex for 10 months now, so clearly it is over. It was my decision but I still need time to grief. I just need time to tell myself that it is okay and I can be happy. I do not need to feel bad that I am actually happy inside. I can be free and I can let my happiness show.

Because if I really am honest with myself, I know that I am.



*
'When I first met you and again now as we speak during the past week, I thought that I was sent here to save you,' Mr. Easter Bunny said.

He believed in karma, even when he is not a practicing Buddhist. He believed in destiny and reasons for being. For Mr. Easter Bunny, our sudden conversation spreading over days was not a mere coincident. There must have been a reason why we spoke. I have told him several times that our conversations were just that; conversations. I have no other intentions but perhaps he thought otherwise.

(I do suspect that he reads About Nude Not Naked quite regularly and we are playing a cat and mouse game. He had asked me several times if I published my writings in a blog. He had also very casually mentioned that some of my emails to him were very blog-like, which they were published on ANNN as entries. So you know that I know that you know. Now shhhhhh...)

'That is what you always write about - sins and salvation. So I always thought that I am here to save you. But I now know, it isn't you that needs saving.'

He then told me his dark secret.

'We are talking this week because I needed saving. I have burden - a secret - in my heart. It turns out that you are the friend that I needed,' he said.

It has snowed since Saturday morning. Everything is covered in whitest shade of white, from the trees to the rooftops and from passing cars to the swing in the playground. Everything that was brown, dirty and old, like the road works happening in front of my apartment, is now all white and beautiful.

Wouldn’t it be nice if you could have an emotional snowing, emerging on the 3rd day when you are all blemish-free, pristine and as pure as fluffy snow from the sky?


*
There comes a time when everyone packs their bags and head out into the archipelago, just a little bit off Stockholm. It is like a date that the Swedes have with themselves. 3rd Saturday of June, pack your bags and go into the forest. Prance around the fertility poll, clap hands and sing drunken men songs, sauna and skinny dip with friends accompanied by lots of barbeque and booze.

‘Skål!’ The tiny bottles clinked. Nasty little packages, they are. Nothing starts the day better than 7 a.m. wake-me-up droplets of terribly cheap booze. Come to think of it, maybe that spelt the beginning of doom.

The Scandinavians love potatoes. They have potatoes from Monday to Sunday and on special occasions such as the Mid Summer, they have boiled potatoes with dill. Given the fact that I was a spoilt (still is) little brat that never lifted a finger back home in Malaysia, I was quite a good girlfriend, peeling a bucketful of potatoes with a Korean girl and a Swede.

Don’t feel too happy for me. It wasn’t an international party despite I being totally clueless when it came to Swedish. A Swedish couple adopted the Korean as a baby, so she was oblivious to the fact that she wasn’t really white (or European, if you must) afterall. (We’ll talk about that phenomenon in another story).

Everyone has jabbering in Swedish. One shouldn’t take for granted how little you understand when you understand approximately everything 5th word. Words like “this”, “the”, “one” (and the sequence of numbers), “white”, “come here” and of course, the very famous “potatoes”.

SwedishLove was missing somewhere. He went to help the boys, so I was stuck with two girls jabbering in Swedish. They spoke in English, perhaps 5 minutes of each dreaded hour. Although silent through the whole of their conversation, we managed to skin all potatoes, poured them into an even bigger pot, filled it up and covered the lid after placing some dill in the pot of bubbling hot boiled potatoes.

Everyone gathered and took a walk into the forest. Here is the romantic part, guys. Part of the Mid Summer’s tradition involves girls wearing a garland of wild flowers on their heads. We looked somewhat like earthly princesses, with flowers of every colour sitting in a circle on our heads. A crown of freshly picked and weaved flowers sat on each and every girl’s head. Like icing on top of a cake, I guess.

Henrik and I walked around, searching for little wild strawberries. They were tiny, the size of a large bead. Red and similar to the ones we buy off shelves in supermarkets. Just that they are wild and perhaps taste a little sweeter than the commercial ones. Then again, I think they were meant to be bitter, since they were wild.

‘This is yours,’ he said, then placing the chain of wild strawberries on me. ‘It is traditional to make a chain of wild strawberries for your loved ones.’ He gave me a kiss. ‘Happy Mid Summers.’

It was so romantic, being surrounded by the greenest green forest and wild strawberries on the ground. Summers in Sweden are amazing. The sun rises at 2 a.m. and sets at 11 p.m. With the sun up 20 hours of the day, everything in your soul wakes up. Everything feels more alive and everything is a whole lot more exciting. There were others around but the world felt as if it had stopped. And in that one moment, there was only my SwedishLove and I.

Obviously there is a spoiler to this romantic story. The ghost broke the little moment we shared. ‘So you ready for the barbeque?’ she asked him. She stood a distant away, her hands urging us to join them at the table. The Ethiopian was SwedishLove’s first girlfriend and somehow or rather, they shared friends and were invited to the same Mid Summer party.

Not a problem for the two of them, obviously. But I felt like the 3rd person on a very small bed. The whole lot of them, going on and on, singing and talking in Swedish through the lunch barbeque did not help one bit. Everyone at the party were friends from years ago and they got on like they have never left each other. By then, I wasn’t only the 3rd person on the very small bed. I wasn’t even a person anymore.

I broke down after a few hours of numbness. You will never feel lonelier than the isolation you feel in a sea of people. Loneliness is when you sit at a party where everyone is clearly enjoying himself and you are the only one left at the dock of the unknown. I called the evening short and went back into the dead silent city. Oddly, I didn’t feel lonely despite being alone.


*
It was my first encounter with the 3rd kind - the ghost of past relationships. Obviously everyone has a ghost (or two) but not everyone has to deal with it in the face. Mid Summer party in the company of boyfriend, his ex-girlfriend and 10 other old friends is not recommended.

It did not end there.

‘Let’s clear up the space in the basement,’ he said. We went down 3 flights of stairs and opened the little cage-like space. I remember how the space looked. It was a corridor with space for each occupant to store his soon to be forgotten 6 months later rubbish.

I opened up a black plastic bag and there were numerous clothing articles in it. Dark navy blue, army green, dirty brown, sweaters, trousers and some odd looking t-shirts. ‘What’s this?’ I asked him, showing him the bag. ‘Do you want to keep it?’

‘Put it in the corner. It’s Jenny’s.’

Such a sweet name for a ghost, don’t you think? I hope that you are like me, thinking ‘What the hell are you doing with her clothes still?’. We didn’t speak about it until the day I left for Malaysia at the end of summer.

‘What would you like to see the next time you come back?’ SwedishLove asked.

‘I want all of Jenny’s things gone.’ And it wasn’t even negotiable.

The ghost of Jenny came and went as she pleased. No utter respect for the living, I am telling you.

‘Singapore is so much more advance than Kuala Lumpur.’

‘You can live in Singapore, for all I care. In Jenny’s panties, if you like.’

‘Jenny’s in the US at the moment.’

‘Like I care.’

‘Jenny’s a very smart girl. She speaks Swedish.’

‘I don’t consider speaking Swedish ‘smart’, especially when you have lived and studied here for 4 years.’

‘Why do you pronounce the word like that? Jenny speaks better English.’

‘Well you can be with Jenny then. I don’t give a fuck. Malaysians have Manglish and Singaporeans have Singlish.’

‘She speaks like you when she’s with her friends. But she speaks perfect English with me.’

‘Well then she’s not being her true self with you, isn’t it? She’s more honest with her friends than with you. I speak to you exactly I speak to the rest of my friends. You go figure that one out.’

I can be a bitch when I need to be. But soon though, I was also a ghost in his life. Now my clothes sits in a black plastic bag somewhere downstairs in the basement, right next to Jenny’s. And together, we are the ghosts that will haunt the next girl. I’m smiling because I know that at least I have some amount of taste in fashion.

You can betray your upbringing by changing the accent you speak. But your clothes will never lie.


*
Sometimes the ghosts popped up at truly unexpected places. Like last Saturday at the party. Nothing is more frightening than a ghost in her wedding gown. Damn unlucky, if you ever have to look at a ghost in her wedding dress. It helped that her dress was ugly like Princess Diana’s OTT Cinderella-ish pom-pom sleeve dress. She smiled, one hand holding a bouquet of red and yellow African Daisies and the other hand resting on the groom.

I saw the ghost when Kitty took me on a tour of the summerhouse by the lake. Not allowing me a moment of peace, eh, I thought to myself. Actually I was quite shocked to see the ghost bride. She was dead 4 years ago, so she had no place in the house anymore. But there she was, standing pretty in her wedding dress, next to all the family’s wedding photos.

I did not sleep well that night. The whole house smelled foul with her presence presiding over it. I knew in my heart that I had no place there in the house if she lived there. She haunted me, even if she was just an empty memory sitting on wall. That is the scariest, isn’t it? Of all the ghosts you can ever find (in secret locations such as a box in the basement or a photo album) one that sits openly and proudly on the wall to remind you that she is there, watching you every day is of the worst kind.

‘Why are you so quiet?’ he asked, then giving me a little rub on my upper arms. We were walking around the small supermarket, searching for alcohol and extra booze to boost the party.

‘Nothing,’ I said, mucking about. ‘It’s cold.’ It was a blatant lie. I have not felt cold when I cranked up the thermostat to the max in each and every room. Often time, I have to take off my layers of clothes once I arrive in the shops because it’s too freaking hot indoors.

‘Hey you! How’s everything?’ the voice came and tapped him on his shoulders. It was a friend commonly shared by the ghost bride and him. Blonde and wrinkled eyed, I thought to myself. Don’t worry, I was not the only one rudely checking from head to toe. She looked at me too. It was moment like this that I thanked God for dressing up, even for short trips to the grocer’s. In total I met 3 friends they commonly shared on a 10 minute trip to fetch more alcohol.

Bloody photo, I thought to myself. Whenever I was alone, I found myself staring at her, nitpicking and interpreting every little expression on her face. Same hairstyle from 16 until 38 years, I thought to myself, noting how her hair was the very same as the photo I saw of her when she was only 16. I would hang myself if I had the same haircut for half my life. As it is, I morph myself on average twice a year – hair colour, cut and shape. It is a symbolic metamorphosis of who I am and what I am becoming, shading the dead layers of my old self, emerging brand new.

I faked tiredness and retreated to the bedroom (to sulk). Bloody ghost stared from across my bedroom door. It’s like she planned all of this years ago. Sitting there to haunt anyone who dared to walk into the house. The whole house smelled of her, her presence never left the place and her photo was there to remind everyone that she is alive and living in some dark corner of his mind.

I slept and got up only when there was some noise downstairs. I found myself in a situation, similar to what I experienced during Mid Summers a long time ago. A room full of friends shared by the ghost bride and him, ten thousand eyes staring and judging me. I imagined that they were comparing me to her and decided in their minds that she won. You can never win when they have been friends since childhood. (Biased, biased, biased!)

Again I found myself at the sink peeling potatoes. He spoke and I replied, never looking at him. My lungs felt starved of oxygen as each minute passed. It was the most silent 20 minutes of my life - standing there, thinking, smelling and breathing the ghost. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked.

I nodded, unable to say a single word. The whole world will crumble if I spoke. I knew it. I felt a little tear nesting at the corner of my eye. ‘Damn it. I hate peeling onions,’ I said, then wiping the tear away. 'It's not onions....' a voice said in the background. And there was silence when the pots, pans and plates did not make noise.

‘Can you please remove your wedding photo?’ I asked, in the calmest voice I could muster. I must have sounded like a mouse, afraid that the ghost bride would hear. ‘What?’ he said, straining to hear what I tried so hard not to utter.

‘Can you please,’ I said, then crumbling emotionally a little more. ‘Please remove your wedding photo.’ I looked away, sensing that I have been defeated by the ghost bride. The ghost bride must be happy now, I thought to myself.

‘Pardon, Love?’ he asked again, looking at me in the eye. The tears rolled down immediately. Don’t look at me. I will die if you did. My heart will waste away when you do. I took a deep breathe and said, ‘Please remove your wedding photo. I am disturbed by it. You can place it back on when I am not here.’

‘Of course, Love. Of course, I can. This is why you are quiet, isn’t it?’ he said, then washing his hands. Great, crying in public again, I scolded myself. I walked away and hid in the bathroom for a very long time. I looked at my eyes. Do you know the defeated have red and swollen eyes? I was defeated. I let her win. The ghost won.

The photo was gone by the time I opened the bathroom door. She no longer stared into my room and her presence no longer loomed over me. The whole room felt lighter and I found myself breathing for the first time since arriving 18 hours ago in my powder blue jacket and sexy black boots. But she was still there. She will always be there. That is what a ghost do – hang around, judge you harshly and make your life a misery.

I found myself seeking refuge in the bedroom an hour after dinner. They were speaking gibberish, as far as I am concerned. I don’t get it. Why invite someone to your party if you are not going to speak to her in a language that she understands? It’s the 2nd party when they went on and on in another language, when they knew I would not be able to participate. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak English’ doesn’t cut it for me. In my most generous self, I call it rude.

Then again, I guess this is expected. They will not be easily won seeing that they are friends with the ghost bride now ex-wife. Friends stick by friends, right? Even if the relationship is dead, you still mourn for your friend’s dead relationship, won’t you? You cannot replace your friend with someone new. It’s like betraying the memory.

So even if the dead is dead and the person is nothing more than a ghost in the past, you can count on the living to remind you of their presences. The ghosts will never let you go.


*
‘I’m sorry, Love. I did not know that the photo was there.’

No matter how many apologies you make, it does not go away. It never does. It was very symbolic, the fact that she was still there, hanging and happy. This would be an altogether different story if the photo tucked somewhere in an album or slipped between the pages of a book. But a dead wedding photo hanging next to living marriages is so great a sin, it will live on forever like the ghost.


*
Is your ghost dead?

~ We're Not Gonna Take It, Twisted Sister


The old boys travelled for hours for a very testosterone filled party over the weekend. I, for one, sat in a car for 5 hours on Friday afternoon, to converge for this very special occasion. A 40th birthday celebration is a rather special occasion. Isn’t it?



*
‘I can’t believe he is hugging him!’ she gasped. She was the prettiest girl I have seen in the last three weeks. Which is a very fine compliment for a nation that is really challenged in the looks department. It has been three weeks since I lived here and I have not met a single man I had considered good looking.

And then there was Milly. She was blonde and beautiful. She was a show stopper, in her blood red coat, matching scarf, slutty red boots and a Gucci clutch.

‘Do you know that my husband hates men hugging?’ Milly said again. She rested her chin on her right hand. She observed her husband, Jerry and was caught by surprise. Her husband was publicly showing immense affection for his mate, the birthday boy.

Going old school, they played LPs on an antique recorder. Milly clapped her hands in delight (and utter surprise) when Twisted Sister’s ‘We’re Not Gonna To Take It’ played. The boys jointly stood up, gathered in a circle and chest butted each other.

‘I don’t understand why men behave that way,’ Milly said, just as the boys pointed their index fingers at each other and sang the chorus in unison. Birthday boy was singing into an invisible mic made out of his fist.

‘It’s male bonding. That’s how they… MEN… show love,’ I replied.



*
I have been caught by surprise twice since arriving here and going out with the locals. Maybe I value my privacy more than others. It is always surprising to meet people who are so honest and open during their first conversation with a person, who a minute before was a total stranger.

The first was the conversation I had with a 44 year old man, who is a confirmed bachelor for life. He talked about his relationship problem immediately after ‘Hi, my name is Tim’. His problem involved an ex-wife, 3 teenage daughters and a new slightly younger girlfriend.

The second was my conversation with Milly (with a short interruption by Lucca). Milly grew up with these boys. They were all friends, all part of the cool pack back in the 80s. They all laughed together, sang together and in the summers, swam naked in the lake together. And like ducklings taking to water, these friends naturally jumped into the sauna naked. Together.

‘Sometimes I feel that this isn’t happening,’ Milly said. ‘I am still very young. I wake up sometimes wondering why am I married to Jerry.’ She sighed, feeling almost at lost, in a situation that she had brought upon herself. ‘I’m going to divorce him.’ I am unsure if she was kidding or seriously considering the option.

She felt that she should not be married. Four years older than I am, she woke up one day and felt that the world was her oyster. She could be anyone she dreamt of being, if only she was free. Her life, according to Milly, was filled with ‘if only’-s.

‘If only I am single, I would be in another city’.

‘I love cats and would have a cat, if only Jerry was not allergic to cats’.

‘There are so many things that I can do with my life, if only I am free’.



*
‘Oh god, how long have we known each other?’ Lucca asked, after he gulped some beer from the fresh can.

The numbers popped up like mushroom after a rainy day.

‘Is it 10 years?’

‘No, it has to be longer. I’m married for six.’

‘Hmmmm, I think it was in ’93 that we met,’ Lucca said.

‘No, I was in college and I am sure to have met you before then.’

‘It must have been in 1989.’ Lucca’s voice trailed off as he reflected back in time. ‘Yes, on New Year eve of ’88’.

‘How long has it been?’ Milly asked aloud. ‘That would be 19 years now.’ She paused for a second before bursting out: ‘Oh my god! It’s been 19 years!’

And it was not a happy discovery. ’19 years and look what I have.’

Milly looked miserable. She bit her lips and looked at Lucca, who gave her a hug. ‘Look, I am with Mary for 7 years.’

(In all honesty, 19 years is a hell lot longer than 7 years but one must give the man some credit. He did try to pacify the realisation.)

‘Look, you have Mary for 7 years and you have a child together. What do I have? I have nothing for my 19 years.’

I glimpsed over to the noisy side of the party. There was Jerry dancing with the old boys. Oblivious to what was happening right here on the quieter side. Right here, where Lucca, Milly and I shared her story.

‘I have nothing for my 19 years. Jerry and I don’t share a child. We do not share a car or a house. I am 36 years old and spent 19 years with a man and I have nothing,’.



*
Now here is the strange bit. When it comes to love, human are ever hopeful. We talk about having each other in the evenings, sharing good times and building dreams and memories together. Ask yourself what are the benefits of being in a relationship and chances are you, like me, would quote reasons such as ‘hug each other’, ‘have fun together’ and ‘having a friend’.

We never talk about house mortgage or diaper duties. It is as if, a mortal sin, to talk about what you have gained (and shared) in terms of money, properties, pets and babies.

Here was was Milly, who equated her love to the above – sharing a car loan, house mortgage and lots of dirty diaper changes and milk puke. All the hugs in the world and “I love you” in the mornings do not carry the same weight at the end of the day.

Is it wrong for us to think what have we profitted out of a relationship? Does it mean that we are calculative (and thus insincere) in our love for our partners? Is it wrong to check our relationships and to ask what have we gotten out of the whole deal? Is it wrong to debit and credit our relationship, as if it is an account in the bank?

At the end of the day, what matters in our relationship? Is it the invisible rewards such as security within a (hopefully monogamous) relationship? Or does the crux lie in the very basic human needs – physical sustenance and fulfilment of human needs.



*
As the night wore on, I gave up whatever music standard I had and started to dance with the boys. Obviously they stopped chest butting by 5 a.m. which made it all more convenient. And from the corner of my eye, I saw Milly nesting her arms in Lucca’s. Nothing wrong there, to be honest since I cling onto MiniBoyFriend R every now and then.

Her emotional dam burst and quietly tears rolled down her pink cheeks. She cried, shook her head and cried some more. She got up to take a piece of tissue from the kitchen counter and walked back into Lucca’s arms. He gave her a light kiss and wiped her tears away. Their bodies were aligned into each other’s.

In Jerry’s shoes, I would have spent some private moments with Milly. To talk to her and to show her that she was special. That she was not like the rest of us at the party. He could have publicly indicated that she was someone special to him and that she mattered.

I would have spent some private time with my wife, especially after finding her riding another man like a horse. It was not a drunk stunt one would pull after 8 hours of drinking. It was clearly an attempt to win little attention from her chest butting husband. Jerry kept quiet and let it happen. Maybe he wanted to look cool, that it was okay for his wife to ride another friend. Maybe he did not want to make the issue bigger right in front of friends. Whatever the reason, Jerry either stood and watched without much of any emotion or ignored Milly with continuous head banging, chest butting and merry making with the old boys.

Would you be Milly, in Milly’s shoes? I am more of the “storm out of the party after slapping him” sort but this is Milly’s story.



*
By 6:30 a.m. Milly had her hands, legs and head on Lucca’s hands, laps and shoulders. Everyone created an alternate reality by smoking cigars by the frozen lake. I assumed that Jerry could not take another minute of everything because he went to the bathroom for the longest time. He emerged much later, on the floor. Milly laughed just as Jerry’s snores transmitted from one end of the living room into the other end of the dining cum kitchen area.

Her eyes were swollen. She still sobbed a little, with a tissue in hand. Her head was still latched on Lucca’s shoulders when we all sat at the table to fill our growling stomach. I left the party immediately after that, without much of a word. I washed my face while looking at Zach, who passed out cold on the bathroom floor.



*
‘What makes you crawl back to your wife after all these years?’ I asked a long time friend. He was married to his wife for more than half his life. ‘What is your secret to a happy marriage?’

‘I share a romantic house mortgage and 2 kids with her.’ Not the sort of romantic reply that I had imagined and expected. ‘I will be financially ruined if we divorced. Plus the kids are lovely’.



*
I cringed when I first heard my father’s most memorable advice: ‘Find a decent man who loves you. Get married and have his children.’



*
Reflecting on my own life, if I can have a moment of truth, I know Milly’s story. I understand Milly’s story because I was Milly. I am still Milly and I am not the only Milly in the world.

I am from a different generation of women. Unlike my mother and grand mother’s generations, I have all the freedom accorded to man. I stand on equal ground. As long as I am willing to believe that I can, I know that I can. There is no boundary and no limit to what I can do or achieve. The key is finding the space in my heart and mind to do it.

While some women define their worth by being with a man and having a family, I believe in finding my own place in the world. I believe in carving my own name and future. I never saw the necessity of a man to complete who I am. I admit that I find myself lonely at times and lost for most of the time. I am still trying to define who I am outside of society’s definition: grow up, be pretty, study alright, find a suitable family friendly (good enough a job to mention during parties but will not take up your entire waking hours) career, catch the most eligible bachelor, walk down the wedding aisle, have children and raise them well.

One of the reasons (if I dare to be honest with myself) why I am in and out of relationships is because there was never an anchor in the relationships. Aside from preschool crushes and highschool secret boyfriends, I had 5 relationships in my adult life so far. Barring the starter relationship being mad and destructive, all consequent relationships were wonderful and healthy. So why did the love not last forever?

On days when I dare to be true to myself, I would say to myself that there was never a single thing that tied me to my relationship. Sure, I had fun and the relationships were good. Sure, we travelled here and there, did lots and lots of things. Sure, we laughed more than we cried. But like Milly, I too feel that there is nothing in my relationships to seal the deal. There are no jointly shared properties in our names and no children to call our own.



*
Milly is a young and attractive woman. There will be many men queuing up to comfort her and hold her hand. There will many men to reaffirm her and tell her all that she wants to hear. She will be awoken and she will realise the many things that once clouded her head before.

And when the time comes, when Milly is ready, she will find the courage to share a mortgage and children with someone special. If it is not Jerry, it would be some guy named Peter. Or Andy or William or David. All she needs to do is put her mind to it.



*
I woke up at 11 a.m. to go to the loo. Zach was still sleeping next to the toilet bowl. I returned to my bedroom and sat there for the longest time, just watching the snow fall, covering the old, dirty snow with a fresh layer of white fluffy snow flakes.

Life is like a snowy morning. You are fresh, white and blameless again.

Promise me that you will not tell anyone what I wore on Christmas Eve. Promise?



*
‘I am pathetic,’ I typed a short message to R on Christmas Eve.

‘Surely not as pathetic as me.’

‘Oh yeah? I am in bed at 8 p.m. iBook on lap, watching senseless tv on Christmas Eve.’

‘I’m home too.’

‘What the fuck happened to me? Promise me that you will not tell anyone what I wore on Christmas Eve, ok. Jatuh saham (trans: lose stock value).’

After exchanging more than ten messages, we both agreed that we were too lazy to join the long jam. Can you believe it? I involuntarily volunteered to be alone at home on Christmas Eve. I wouldn’t mind it that much if I had some hot hunk but I was sat in bed all on my own. Actually I didn’t mind sitting in bed at all. I needed all the rest that I got.

Not so long ago, I club hopped on my own, joining different groups of friends in nothing but sexy lace.



*
Somehow everything feels bland in my mouth. Nothing tastes sweet anymore. Is it really true that everything tastes like nothing when I don’t have you? And that love will make even the bitterest experience sweet and it is also love that takes away everything beautiful.

I don’t know if you have noticed but I am escaping somesort. I am avoiding the topic that I do not want to mention. I seriously do not think that I am able to deal with this at the moment. Each time I think about it, my heart sinks and tears will flow uncontrollably. I have lost count the times when secret tears ran down my cheeks - at work, while driving, during dinner at my parents, afternoons in a busy shopping mall, quiet moments at 3:11 a.m. all alone. I woke up at 3:11 a.m. exactly for the past 2 weeks.

‘I can’t do this anymore.’

I practiced that line a million times. Each time I say it, I will hear Alex mew a little ‘babs’. To be precise, I imagine him pursing his lips, eyes cast down with a squeak ‘baaa-aaabs’ and it kills me each time.

Every and every time. And even now as I recall this, tears roll down. Damn those tears.




*
It sometimes feels easier to severe major arteries than with him who makes you sing in your darkest hour.

~ Simple, KD Lang




So here is the deal. I got myself a car. No shit. I did. It started last Monday when MiniBoyFriend R and I were sitting in our little breakfast corner, having the grandest breakfast for the day. I moved my seat away from the reflection of the sun on my old faithful blue Wira. He was busy composing his list of errands for the day while chain-smoking away.

‘You should get a new car,’ he said. He squinted his eyes to avoid the glare.

‘I don’t need a new car.’

‘Yes, you do. Your Wira is old and its safety belts aren’t working anymore. It’s fucking suicide.’

Ah yes. My safety belts were rendered ineffective sometime last year. Even a trip to the workshop did not manage to solve the problem. Apparently the problem can only be fixed with RM500. Brand new safety belts for the very old Wira that is valued no more than RM9000. I did not get the safety belts fixed despite being one of those people who are extremely ‘safety belts on before starting the engine’ sort of person.

Which means it would have sucked if I landed myself in an accident.



*
‘And you cannot get a car that is cheaper than your Wira. That means you cannot purchase a Kancil.’ It is amazing how MiniBoyFriend R seems to be able to read my mind. ‘And you can’t get my car!’

‘You can buy a Honda,’ PY said, shrugging her shoulders casually. ‘Low interest rate of approximately 2% per anum.’

‘Is it approximately 2.9% or 2.1%? There is a lot of difference between the two.’ I asked. It was Wednesday’s breakfast session with PY and R when I decided that we should all venture to the nearest Honda showroom to check out the real deal.

And so we did check the car out on Wednesday. And then I did it again on my own on Friday and on Sunday, four grown men accompanied me to the showroom to confirm the purchase. Who were they? My two brothers, MiniBoyFriend R and The Bachelor, who was happily turning the steering wheel of the Honda Civic, like a play toy.



*
‘Get as much love you wish from this car. I am buying the Honda,’ I said to PY when she slouched in lazily on Monday morning.

‘Wow, that was quick.’ I nodded my head. I was so deliriously happy that I was on my way to buy my very own Honda City. I am a big girl now, I thought to myself.

I can tell you now that it was the calm before the storm. You would think that buying a car is as simple as writing A-B-C. Nope. I had to choose a bloody colour and I could not decide between the bluish silver or the sparkle grey. My mind shifted between the two like a see-saw. Two seconds here and three seconds there. Could not make up my mind.

Then I found out that I do not have the bloody NBC shit. Apparently my Wira was registered under my father’s name to save insurance money. Or for loan purposes. I can’t remember and neither can my parents. So I am starting my NBC at the age of 31. Fuck.

Then I found out that I could not transfer my most favourite carplate number in the whole wide world to my new car. I have to get some random carplateshit. You can be sure that Otto no like.

Then all hell broke loose when my parents found out about the NBC and the carplate shit. They have all the creative suggestions, none of which are effective - to save money, continue to use father’s name for NBC discount. Thank you very much but no thank you. Then there was a moment where the lawyer was involved in this elaborate plan to transfer all the old junk cars at home, so I could transfer the carplate back to the original owner, ME.



*
Some people might call what I am doing now a distraction from what is truly bugging my real self. I mumble nonsense whenever anyone enquires about Alex. I am not ready to face yet another ‘Oh look, Otto broke up with yet another nice boy AGAIN!’ lecture from really wonderful friends and thoughtful parents.

Am I happy where I am now? Yes and no. I am happy because I feel extremely settled at the moment. My business is flourishing because I spent time nurturing it instead of running to Europe like I did in previous years. I have a place to call my own and now I can look forward to a new car. I have a small clique of good friends and then I have my beautiful cats. So yes, I am happy.

But no, I am not happy because I feel that I have paid a huge price. I do not know what the actual price is but I know that it is priceless. To gain control of my life, I had to cut Alex out. I had a life in the UK and now I have a life here.

I also know that Alex is also much happier, despite his pining emails. Or maybe I would like to think that he is. He has been to a few other countries since I left Sevenoaks in May. He has even been to Stockholm. I hope that he will grow and find a place for himself.

And I hope that one day I will come to a place in my life whereby I can say I am home. And if you know me in real life and you love me, do not ask me whether I am with him or not with him or whether I am this or that. I do not know what status I am. Or maybe I do.

All I know is that I am Otto and my real name is Love. And on some days I wished KD Lang was right - that love was truly simple.

"I am calm in oblivion
Calm, as I ever have been
Love will not elude me
Love is simple"
~ Simple, KD Lang

~ Hey There Delilah, Plain White T's

I missed Alex and so two weeks ago, I had wanted to write him an email. How fortunate it was for me that Alex wrote before I did. And soon the emails flew back and forth between time and continents and here we are, two weeks later, chatting like old friends. Each email starts off offbeat and sunny, with greetings and sharing of news. Then like a roller coaster past its first peak point, the email will then tumble into a bloody tirade of emotions, tears and frustrations. It is safe to say, each email is a wordy mess.

We seem to be mourning for our relationship. Instead of the usual "I love you" endings we used to send each other, we now end our emails with "I have a hole in my heart that I know not how to fill". And then we feel a sense of great despair – a sense of loss that we don’t have any words for.

Thus far he had sent me some old photos of myself to remind me who I was when I first knew him. Most were photos taken in the summer, in his mother’s wall garden with beautiful flowers everywhere. We were both so exited and happy in those photos.

And now all we have are these…



We had wonderful conversations that seemed endless on these chairs. Their arms used to touch each other as Alex and I used to lean over to kiss and hug each other. Now these chairs represent all that is in our hearts – a sense of loneliness and lifelessness as the chairs grew apart.



Once I wrote a list of what I enjoyed with Alex. I know that I wrote the list because here is the photo of the note on which the list was written. That is my handwriting and it must have been written last summer. The list was short, consisting of only three items. I am sure that there were more to come, if only I had the time to write them all down.

And if I had to write them down now, I would add:

• The way Alex made me laugh. Eg: how he thinks that fat girls will love him best because ‘there is no love like a fat girl’s love’.


• Immaculate taste. I can trust the man to tell me how my bottom looks in anything. And Alex will tell the truth.


• Chasing each other up and down the stairs like a pair of kittens playing for fun.


• How we watched House and Scrubs in bed.


• How Alex fed an injured fox and managed to tame it enough to be his pet.


• Alex bought crates of tuna cans to prepare for the end of the world…

The list would go on forever and would include, ‘I rather tell people that we are breaking up because you want a baby. It makes everything sound more tragic and girls will want to date me.’ I never really understood his logic but I always loved his sense of humor.

This post has no ending, so I will end it with Alex's email for me today.



*
I'm glad I made you laugh...

So many words said getting a smile from you. I enjoyed teasing you too much, delighted in that little squeal of indignation, seeing you huff puff, and then tickling you better. Almost the entire basis of our relationship...

I would like to be over there shopping for a house with you, using my inflated expat salary to live the life of luxury. Alas just fantasy for the moment. Five years time i will be doing it with some other girl, and you will have found what you wanted with someone else.

Makes me sad, still miss you everyday.



*

Hey there Delilah
I know times are getting hard
But just believe me girl
Someday I'll pay the bills with this guitar
We'll have it good
We'll have the life we knew we would
My word is good

Hey there Delilah
I've got so much left to say
If every simple song I wrote to you
Would take your breath away
I'd write it all
Even more in love with me you'd fall
We'd have it all
~ Hey There Delilah, Plain White T's

While lying in bed last night, all my eyes saw was the little room I slept with Alex in Sevenoaks. How the blue was just the right shade and how the white would bounce of the walls. Yes, I remember now. He painted the room just before I visited him three years ago.

As I thought about this more, I saw the white paper lantern hung in the centre of the room and insects appeared, one after another, as I thought a little more. A few were buzzing around the lantern, searching for where the rest were; in the lantern, nearer to the source of light. I saw the window ajar and closed it in my mind, the way I do whenever I laid in the bedroom, on the bed with my seven pillows.

The whole room smelled of Alex. It was distinctive male smell, very musky and not so floral at all. I am in no way implying that Alex smelled bad. He smelled like the rest of his species – manly. The room was crammed with his books and mine with lots of my shoes under the bed. There was a white cupboard filled half with his clothes and the right side, mine. There was a crumple at the centre of the dark blue carpet, where the walking traffic was heaviest. That must be the reason why it was crumpled. And when I closed my eyes to sleep at night, a faint light was visible, glowing from the Apple Mac, which was put to sleep.

Usually we watched an episode of House or Green Wings, which were short episodes of about an hour each. The last time we laid in bed together to watch something, it was a Chinese movie entitled "Dumplings". Alex had excellent taste in things and his choice of movies never disappointed. Alex tucked into his side of the bed when the movie was over while I arranged my pillows to form a little nest. I had a pink blanket, which I used in the summers under the thinner duvet.




*
Years ago we slept naked together. We never minded how we looked or smelled. I do not even remember if he snored in the first few years we were together. We slept, cuddled like little kittens for tenderness. When it was cold, Alex slept on my side of the bed to warm it up whilst I brushed my teeth or changed out of my clothes.

As the years rolled by, he slept in his dark blue cotton boxers and I slipped into t-shirts and panties. I began to mind us sweating on each other. He had large European nostrils, so can you imagine what I felt when he slept next to my ears. I felt as if a fan was next to me, blowing at 100 km/hr. I found it bothersome the way he breathed into my ears whenever he hugged me to sleep. So I slept in my little corner, away from him. Soon my nest grew bigger and wider. Now I cannot even tell you when we began to sleep as two separate entities on the same bed.

Don’t get me wrong. Alex and I make great friends. We have fantastic conversations and I guess we still would, if we were talking. We hardly argued with each other. Often we shared similar taste in things and would accommodate each other, if our opinions differed. We liked the same eclectic things though I think Alex was more pragmatic of us two. We could talk forever, if we wanted to.

We complimented each other many levels. I would not go so far as to say that we could complete each other’s sentences because I think we never did. But certainly we enjoyed each other’s company very much. For the longest time, Alex was the rock in my life as he provided me with the stability (and craziness) that I craved inside.




*
In retrospect, I guess you can say that I should have seen this coming. But I promise you that I did not. I never dreamt of a day when I will no longer be with Alex and until today, I shut my mind so that it cannot dream about it. Now I despair whenever I think about Alex and I. Whatever happened to the sunshine and happiness we bathed in years ago? Are we forced to grow up with the clouds of future commitment and age issue looming ahead?

Why I did not realise this earlier, I do not know. So do not ask me what my mother asked me since I returned home. ‘What is he giving you? You need to plan for your future.’ Obviously my mother was spot on. I must admit my mother was right however sore as I am with the notion. She was talking about all the things that I held in my mind and the difference between the mother and her daughter was, my mother spoke while I tried to hide.

Now you would think that I would cow to my mother since I share the same concerns as my mother do. Nope. I have been ultra defiant in my replies. ‘Alex might not have given me anything materially but he has given me happiness that you do not know. I have been happy for all the years that I am with him. Can you say the same?’

Yeah, I know. Stabbing my mother’s heart, picking at her emotional troubles is quite the terrible thing for a daughter to do but I have to protect my heart. And I have to protect Alex because all I said was true. Alex gave me so much happiness in the years that we have been together. And I will never allow anyone to say anything bad about him.




*
Last night was the first time I sat and reflected on the relationship I had shared with this Scottish man. He is no longer the boy I knew 6 years ago. I was 25 when I met Alex on an island and he was merely 21. He was a boy and now he is a man. He used to bum around, travelling and then sharing a business with me. Now he wears a tie and goes to work. On weekends, he cleans the toilet and washes his Monday to Friday work clothes so he can wear them the following week again. Alex is a thrifty boy.

When we met, I was a little girl, dancing the nights away, riding in the cars with boys and hopping from one party to another. Life was crazy and it was exciting. When I put on my high heels on weekends, everything was buzzing with anticipation and excitement. And it was okay that way.

Now I am a grown woman and my life has changed. I have to make decisions for myself, decisions that are crucial for my future. What I do in the next 24 months will influence the next 20 years of my life. Where do I call my home? Who should I share my life with? What should I do to secure our future together? When will I play mommie and who would be there to support me when I do?




*
Sometimes when you open your eyes and heart and dare stare into your past, you will see many beautiful things. You will things that you wished you could do again and then there are things that you wished you would never. There will always be heartbreak and disappointments but you will also experience great joy and happiness. And if you are lucky, you will share everything with someone you love.

Life is like a river flowing on and on, even when you feel like you are stagnant, like a puddle of water. That is the beauty about living. The only thing certain about life is uncertainties. You can plan for your future but you will never know what the future brings until the future becomes today.

It was difficult to let go. If I have to think about it again, I do not think I will let Alex go. It is a very difficult decision and until this minute, I dare tell you that I do not think about it much. I keep myself busy and occupied, so I can take a rest from everything and just trust that life will bring me something.

Maybe my future is with Alex. Maybe it will not. But whatever it is, I have realised that it is beyond my control. I cannot count and plan for everything. Everything has its time. So the plan is to get on with my life and do my own thing. Do not bother too much for the future but allow life to bring me whatever blessings it has in store for me.

So I ended up doing the most ironic thing that one can do. I contradicted all that I had worried about. I worried about my relationship but I chose to abandon it. Abandoning it seemed like the most logical decision. I knew that I would straggle the relationship (or myself or Alex) if I stayed on. Take a step back and let everything flow. I am sure I will catch up sooner or later.

Alex asked what happens if circumstances changed and they were not favourable to us. As it is, circumstances are packing up like a mountain against us. It cannot be any worse. And if my relationship with Alex ends, then I guess an end is an answer too.

There is a watch that sits in my top drawer. It is no longer working. It is so old and worn out but still it sits in my top drawer. Each time I open my drawer, I remind myself of its life story.



*
The watch wasn’t special. It wasn’t any of these fancy watches you see these days. It was an ordinary black strap, white face Casio watch, I bought myself a long time ago. I can’t remember when exactly I bought it but I remember who I was with when I did.

The guy’s name was Alan and he was my friend. He was my friend for the longest time and then he became my millennium boyfriend. Yeah, I have had quite a few boyfriends and it seems to me that time is easiest to measure using boyfriends as a timeline. So now I can confidently tell you that the watch must have been at least 7 years old.

The watch wasn’t special but Alan was. He was the first man I loved because he loved me more. It might sound selfish to you but trust me, this arrangement works in the woman’s favour. Loving a man more always spells disaster.




*
‘Why didn’t you fix the watch?’ I asked him. It was 2 weeks since the watch needed a change of battery and I was waiting for Alan to do it for me. Not that I am spastic or anything. I could have done it all on my own but somehow my mind was quite firm on the decision that Alan should be the one to change it.

Somehow along the way, I determined to use it as a test. Somehow I had associated his love for me on this act. The more he delayed, the more I saw that he did not love me. He would have changed the battery by now if he loves me, I thought to myself. Each time I pestered him, he would just mumble some excuse. As days turned into weeks, I grew impatient and one day, I cried.

‘You don’t love me,’ I sat, facing the other side of the room. I did not want Alan to see me cry. He reached over to hold my hand but I withdrew myself from him. If he had loved me, surely he would have changed the battery for me by then. 2 weeks is a long time to wait and I had waited for Alan to proof how much he loved me.

‘I love you so much,’ Alan said, reassuring me that everything was okay - that he loved me and that I was just being silly. The more he denied my feelings, the more hurtful everything felt and soon I was convinced that he did not love me anymore.

If he loved me, he would do it for me. How difficult is it to get to the shopping mall to change a damn watch battery? I can do it myself but I want Alan to do it for me. If he does it, it means that he loves me.



*
The issue became sensitive and I was upset with his behaviour. It was unlike Alan to delay doing something so simple. I set an expiry date for him, 2 full weeks but he did not manage the simplest of tasks set for him. In my eyes, Alan had failed as my partner. He would have done it quickly if I was important to him and since he did not get it done, it only meant that I wasn’t.

I drove to the shopping mall and I fixed the watch. By doing so, I became more angry and upset. I vented my frustration and disappointment on Alan. Oh how my heart bled knowing that the man I loved did not love me enough to even fix a damn leather watch for me.

My heart began to doubt how much love Alan had for me and if he was able to help me through with life. And for a long time, I withdrew myself from him and did not communicate my feelings to him. All Alan did was to cuddle up and kiss me. ‘I love you very much.’




*
‘Happy birthday, Otto,’ he said. It was a few weeks since the watch incident. By then, I had forgotten what the fuss was about. I was my usual chirpy self and we were celebrating my birthday with a group of friends. It was in an Italian restaurant, now I remember.

After everyone had left and we were alone, Alan passed me a box. It was my birthday present and he asked me to open it. Gleefully I tore open the wrapping paper and opened the box. It was a sweet pink Guess watch, just the kind that I liked. I looked at the Casio watch I wore on my right wrist and then at the pretty watch Alan bought me.

‘Happy birthday, Otto,’ Alan said and then he gave me a peck on my right cheek. And then I understood everything that had happened. Alan secretly bought me a new pink watch when he noticed how old my old Casio was. He wanted to give to me as a surprise birthday present and that explained why he did not change the battery, like I had wished he did.

I gave him a hug and I apologized for what looked like a spoilt child’s behaviour in previous weeks. I looked at my watch and then at the new in the box. It was then that I realised something very important.




*
Now whenever I open my drawer, I will see the watch. It is the black one, the one that I had changed its battery. The pink watch was misplaced somewhere unknown. And the lesson I learnt is this.

Women often make the mistake of doing everything too hastily. We are taught to be equals and to be independent. Sometimes we are so independent that a man has no opportunity to show his loving side. But what is love other than creating opportunities for that special someone to love and care for you? I learnt to allow a man space and time to show his affections. Not my way but his. Not my time but his. And you know what? These men never failed once.