On my own

I have been home alone for nearly five days. My parents are away on a holiday in Thailand. And my brother is away on National Service (army).

The loneliness has begun to creep in, and I'm laughing at myself, because I've been entertaining the idea of moving out for some time now.

I've always taken pride in myself for being able to do solitary activities, like reading, swimming, walking, shopping, etc. But now it hasn't even been a week since I've been on my own and I'm already getting cold feet? How ironic.

I suppose you'll always need some time to adjust to a new arrangement. I suppose you need a good bunch of friends to keep you company. I could certainly do with more friends. But real good friends are hard to come by.

It's times like these when I think I need a boyfriend. And I am this close to making a phonecall to a certain someone. It irks me.

I know this may seem a little odd to some of you that I'm nearly 26 and still living under the same roof as my folks. But there's a perfectly reasonable explanation behind this: it's the Asian culture, in case you aren't aware.

To the experienced: how do you get used to living alone?

Vignettes Part Three

The phone rings. I hope it's a call I've been waiting for. "Hello". "Yes, speaking." "Oh hi, thank you for returning my call". For 10 minutes, we talk business. Strictly business.

"By the way, are you the XXX who lives in XXX?" Now, it gets interesting. "Yes." It's all coming back to me. "How about coffee next week to catch up?" I have no reason to say no.

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Wonder how he looks like. It has been six years. I stride towards the train station, straightening my top, hoping every strand on my head is in place and my make-up is not streaking in this perpetually humid weather. My eyes sweep across 180 degrees. I don't think I see him.

I hear my name spoken, firmly but friendly and enough to rise above the late afternoon going-home crowd. Reflexes jerk my head to the left and within an arm's length is him. He stoops and kisses me on both cheeks. I don't remember him being so tall and clean-shaven.

"Let's take a cab", he says with a smile. Ah, that smile. The lips apart, slightly revealing that unmistakable incisor tooth. It may not sound like much, but it's a special ingredient that adds to his wonderful smile.

He opens the door and lets me in first. Seated half an arm's length away, he's a lot more muscular than the 23-year-old I used to know. But there's something else about him that's different. What is it? Ah, an air of confidence. That's it.

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V takes me to an al fresco cafe by the calm river, overlooking tourist boats for hire, the half-lion, half-fish Merlion statue spurting forth a fountain from its stony mouth and twinkling city lights illuminating the dusk sky.

He tells me about studying in Germany on scholarship for over a year. And then he tells me something in German, which he translates as: "You're prettier than before."

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We decide to take a walk. Under the bridges. Lots of couples sitting on the ledge, taking in the evening river breeze. V hooks an arm, silently encouraging me to put my hand under and over it. I do exactly that.

"How did we lose touch?" I ask. "You got yourself a boyfriend." Oh. He rests his palm on the small of my back. He looks at me. We stop walking. Before I look away, he plants a kiss on my forehead. I feel a warmth lapping over me like a tiny wave.

Oh no no no, don't do anything silly, I tell myself. Not before T comes.

Vignettes Part Two

The Inbox page flashes open and there, sitting at the top of the list, an email that is one year overdue. I do a double take. Is it an impersonal, chain email or is it a specially-for-your-eyes-only email? There's only one way to find out.
It doesn't disappoint. The first line sparks the same subtle innuendos that have been sorely missed: "Hello Miss XXX XXXXX...or has some lucky man changed that...". But the best part is the declaration: I'm coming. All the way from London.
Images, flashing like jump cuts in a film, appear in my head: T* in a basketball-type outfit walking, no, sauntering, away from Venice Beach. A dog-eared book in his hand. On a cool Los Angeles summer's day. Just a glimpse before I darted into the cafe to get a bottle of water.
Fade to black. What shall I wear? Do I need to lose some inches around the waist? I need a manicure. A spruced-up hairdo. Oh, I'm being silly.

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I am officially exhausted. My head is floating, my shoulders are aching, my stomach's growling. Switch off the computer. Have just about had it with 12 hours straight of banging away on the keyboard to type out the 5,000-word essay.
Drag my heavy feet towards the bed. Stop. Look at the mirror. Look closer. God, I look like crap. A pimple is erupting on the left cheek. Greenish, dark circles glare under the eyes. The skin is pale and lifeless. How can I look like this when T comes?
Need to, as the cosmetics spin doctors like to say, rejuvenate myself. First, the bed.

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Told best friend, S, of T's impending visit. "I've to approve of him first. If he's a bastard, don't waste your time." Wait, he's a friend. Did you think he's a suitor? "He may very well be."

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A phone text message from T. Unexpected yet expected. When can I call you? (time difference, how thoughtful). You can call me anytime from now. I've just knocked off from work.
An hour later: my phone, which has been quiet, tucked in my hand rings to the tone of Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl. Answers it in my best casual, friendly voice. The usual niceties get disrupted over the Internet phone service. Hold on, I'll call you from the land line, he promises. Five heartbearts and the phone rings again. Crisp and clear, his British accent, despite the chug-a-chug of my train ride home.
How long is he going to stay. Which hotel does he plan on. He has some friends here. "I haven't called them. I called you first". Oh, boy. What else can I say, based on a series of half-forgotten emails.
At the cafe (which really looked more like a shack), I ordered a bottle of water. The dude ducked behind the counter, slid open the fridge and grabbed an Evian, and placed it on the counter, as I picked out the loose change from my purse. Paid what was due, lifted the Evian and turned towards the door. And there he was, standing tall. "This may sound terribly like a pick-up line but you really do look like a friend of mine from back home". British, what a surprise. I responded, I'm here on a business trip. Oh, you've been here for a while to start a clothing line. Wait, my tour bus is honking. Yes, you want my card? Okay, here you go.
I'm tripping over my words, getting ahead of myself. Be yourself, be yourself! Why do I have to behave like such a fumbling idiot around men I fancy? I want to proverbially kick myself.

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*Funny but true, T is a different individual from the one mentioned in the previous post. And much younger.