Bedbugs

I woke up with a string of red, itchy lumps down the back of my left hand, wrist and forearm. I don't know what could have possibly caused them and you don't remember seeing them the night before.

"Bedbugs!" you cried out over the phone some days later. "The bed is infested with bedbugs! I got up in the middle of the night to spray Baygon on the mattress."

"Baygon? Is there a special spray for bedbugs?"

"Baygon works. But there is a special spray, probabaly similar to the medicine to get rid of ticks in dogs."

The next weekend I realised you had removed the bedsheets and we would have to sleep directly on top of the mattress. There was a hint of insecticide in the air from the Baygon but it was bearable. Armed with a pair of tweezers and a can of Baygon, we examined the edges of the mattress and divan for any signs of the pest. I found a number which you quickly caught with your tweezer and squashed in a piece of tissue paper.

"There were quite a number on the right side of the bed," you said, matter-of-factly.

"My side?" My first response was to feel guilty that I might have been the medium that had introduced the bedbugs.

"Hey wait a minute," I retorted, after a while. "Do bedbugs avoid the light? Your side is nearer to the window so obviously they will want to hide on my side cause it's darker."

"Perhaps," you said.

The Tissue Lady

We were at Da Lian this morning. We both ordered mee kia dry and were waiting for our orders to come, you sipping your kopi-si-kosong and me my teh-si.

I was wondering aloud why the tissue lady was nowhere in sight. You replied that perhaps it was because she was sleeping late. "I don't remember seeing her the last few times we were here," I said as our noodles were being served.

As I was eating the piece of tur kwa in my mee kia dry, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw that the tissue lady has arrived.

A great bag of packet tissues was slung on her left arm as she strode towards Da Lian. The rising fumes from the lighted cigarette in her right hand mirrored her mass of grey, unkempt swirling hair.

She threw a few packets of her wares on our table and pointed to the fifty cent coin beside your wallet, the change you obtained paying for our kopi-si-kosong and teh-si.

Simultaneously, we both refused, telling her to retrieve her packet tissues.

"Fifty cents would have been enough to buy a stick of cigarette," you said.

"Really?" As a non-smoker, this was new information to me. I had always thought that the cost was nearer to a dollar.

"If she buys one of the cheaper brands," you explained.

Problems At Work

I met you for dinner at 10pm after you came back from the police station. One of your sales staff was involved in a money embezzlement case and you were tasked with the difficult job of reporting him.

You were parked by the side of the road. I sat in your car and listened as you spoke to the perpetrator's distraught wife on your handphone. It was a most unpleasant conversation.

I slipped my hands into yours and we held hands. I realised then that we haven't held hands for a long time. It still feels nice.

Differences

I guess we are very different people.

I have a B.Sc. (Hon) while you stopped school after sec 2. But sometimes, I am able to help you draft letters, emails or documents when you need.

Your network of friends and contacts is amazing while I hardly keep in touch with people from my previous jobs. But sometimes, you just need to pick up the phone and call a friend when I require services like air-con maintenance, bulk photocopying, electrical installations, discounted leather products, affordable computers and assessories.

I am a teacher while you are a sales manager. But at the end of the week, we will both sit on our black leather sofa and talk about our own work. I will tell you about my naughty students and the loads of marking I need to do and you will tell me about the strategies you have employed on your customers to get that deal and the difficult sales staff you have had to work with.

I am glad we are different. How else will we have so much to talk about?

The Androgynous Pastor

Mom about her one of her customers, “The first time I saw him, I couldn’t decide if he was a man or a woman. He was dressed a man, but he was gentle and soft-spoken and you aren’t really sure. You can tell he was the thrifty type, but he was a good customer and never haggled over the price of the things he bought.

Then out of the blue, he informed us that he was getting married. He looked like he was in his late forties so we were quite surprised but we congratulated him of course. He then went on to share about how his fiancée was planning a high budget wedding and complained about how she was digging into his finances.

The next time I saw him, about three months later, he said he was no longer getting married. The excuse was that he was uncomfortable with the way his money was being spent.”

“He loves someone enough to want to marry her but gives her up because he doesn’t want to afford the wedding?” I was intrigued.

“Yes, he’s weird.” Mom replied.

“Perhaps he’s really gay and was pressurised into marriage by his family or church?” I suggested.

Mom looked thoughtful, “We will never know.”

Assuming my suggestion about the pastor was true, I told her I couldn’t imagine myself leading such a life of denial and self-rejection.