summer days where all you need is a gelato in hand //

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A bottle of Watson's water

12:22 PM

A bottle of Watson's water

Buildings after buildings. Some grimy and grey, dust-stained. Others, spotless and gleaming with the mirrored windows, reflecting a thousand things. Clothes hanging out to dry on balconies accompanied by an occasional potted plant. The teeming mass of people. Red taxis zipping in and out of traffic on busy streets. Rows and rows of shops, tiny and well decorated, their colour adding vivacity to the buzz of the streets. Shop assistants merrily hawking their wares and adding to the hustle-bustle of the sidewalks by calling out greetings in their sing-song voices, enticing passer-bys to take a closer look.

The leafy green trees on pavements offer some respite from the heat and humidity. The lights at the pedestrian crossing emits a familiar ticking sound, like that of a metronome keeping time to the rhythm of the streets. Its people are constantly on the move, the atmosphere is humming and pulsating with energy and the city is so vibrant, so alive.

7-11’s dot the streets the way coloured rice are deliberately sprinkled over a little child’s ice cream cone. She walks into one, grabs her usual green bottle of water from the cooler at the back, lets the chilly air wash over her face and holds it in her hands to cool them down. For a brief moment, he resurfaces sharply to the top of her mind from the back of the consciousness that is there and she stops dead in her tracks, temporarily slowing down the short queue behind her. The cashier quietly repeats the amount again and this nudges her back to the white-topped counter where she's standing at. Swiftly recovering from that brief moment of paralysis, she hands over the requisite coins along with an apologetic smile and walks out of the store, dissolving into the melting pot of people and becoming one of the many faces in the masses.

She walks into a shop with the assistants’ smiling cheerfully, rattling off prices and discounts as she quietly browses through the racks. And she spots a beautiful off-white one hanging slightly apart from its companions. Flowing and soft, thin crisp pleats down the front with little brown flowers embroidered on the skirt, gently spread on a pure, cotton background. The skirt sways gently to the draft coming from the aircond. She thinks its perfect. Perfect for evening tea in the garden. She can picture them both casually lounging on the wicker swing, enjoying the beautiful summer evening and the feel of the green grass under their feet. As she peeks out from beneath her matching straw hat, her eyes shine with a strangely familiar light as he holds her hand and she smiles gently at him. And as her fingers reach out to touch the dress, a voice intrudes upon her reverie and she’s brought back to the present afternoon. A smiling saleslady quotes the price of the dress and offers to remove it from the hanger for her to try. She smiles wistfully and politely refuses the offer. Sighing, she steps out onto the warm pavement and walks into the next shop hoping to find some solace in the splash of colours and the feel of soft fabrics.

On the escalator surrounded by glass-fronted displays with fashionably dressed-up white plastic mannequins, she turns her back on all those to look down at the upward moving steps. She can picture him here, standing on a step below like what he frequently does so that she can look down into his eyes. She almost turns around to smile at him when a sudden jerk of the escalator tugs her back to reality and to the fact that he’s not there behind her.

She walks along the familiar pavements, eyes seeking out restaurant and cafes that were there four years ago. Those narrow streets and alleyways have the same shops from last time. All these are familiar landmarks and she instinctively crosses three streets before making a right. As she walks down the lane, she spots the hotel just there, sandwiched by a jewellery shop and a clothes boutique. The hotel lobby doesn’t seem to have changed an iota. The restaurant opposite is still the same one selling the char siu fan and that snazzy-looking cafe slightly further up which has the horrible tasting bubble tea. The best one is still in Chonburi, Thailand.

Six months hasn’t completely dulled her sense of direction and with some help from a map, she easily finds the appropriate station and boards the train. The train rushes on swiftly and she is surrounded by so many people, but she feels so alone and disconnected, as though something is missing. The last time she was here in winter, each time they stepped out from the subway exits, they were heralded by dvd shops all playing the same music. And this time, as she steps out from the exit, she half expects to hear the familiar notes again but she stops short and reminds herself that it is no longer winter and that they will no longer play those songs because if nothing else, time moves on and seasons change. From winter to spring to summer to autumn and back to winter. The granite benches and the trees draped with lights are still there. The only thing that has changed are the advertisements at bustops. Different faces, different products. Other than that, she could have been thrown back into time. But she can’t seem to find that little dessert shop they stopped at each time they passed by it. The McDonald's is still there, and oddly enough, its summer but she ends up not having the ice cream that she thought she'd have. She walks into a small coffee shop, pretty much like the ones shown on the telly where those ah sirs go to eat and she decides to try their congee and crullers. And a rush of linkbacks and memories assail her faster than she can breathe. Breakfasts in coffee shops. Yau char kwai and kah feh. The smell of coffee and paper. Paper and black ink. Beautifully written stories. Smiles that smile for no particular reason. Faraway looks that invite a single question.

Somehow, everything seems to find its way linking back to this and it all falls into place. There’s really only one place she’d rather be right now, and it isn’t here. Somehow, the knowledge that she’ll be home soon and having more than just an inkling of what’s waiting for her at the end of that flight keeps her walking on under the sunny skies and humid weather.

Written on Thursday, July 05, 2007; 12:22 PM

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