Teman sebangku

Pictorial writing prompts.

Your old rattle trap sputtered, coughed and died on the hottest day of the year in the middle of nowhere. It was another ten miles to the nearest town and any kind of help.

You pulled out your phone. Figures. Following Waze's misdirections since you left the asshole this morning has drained its juices to the last 12 per cent. No signal either, the old trees scratching the sky that lined the cracked and bumpy blacktop blocked any and all signals from the nearest cell towers.
You groaned, and smacked your head against the cheap vinyl cover of your steering wheel again and again. The day has been nothing but the best examples of how Murphy's Law leisurely trips you and kicks you in the teeth while you're sprawled on the ground. 

You rolled up the window, blocking out the desultory hot breeze. You stuff your dying phone, the water bottle with two or three sips of warm, metallic tasting water from the park water cooler you passed by this morning, and wallet into your knapsack. The car door opened with a protesting whine and you slammed it shut, muttering imprecations under your breath. You shoulder the knapsack and walked in the direction you were heading, not bothering to lock your dead and unlamented rust bucket.

An hour had passed, sweat left unsightly patches on your clothes. The last gulp from the water bottle barely made a dent in the dry cotton lining your mouth and throat. Your legs, long accustomed to your sedentary gamer lifestyle, protested against the abuse of hauling your bulk for the past 2 miles, threatening cramps on 4 separate locations. Thankfully your battered Nikes were well broken in and comfortable, though your slouchy socks have begun to feel like a cum rag after a long, dry weekend.

You saw the sign for a bus stop ahead and your heart leapt with joy. You hitch up your knapsack more securely and trudged on. There was a slight dip in the road ahead.

Then you saw the bench that served as the bus stop and the fellow passenger waiting. Your feet refused to take another step. Was it the eerie smile on the perfectly caked makeup unaffected by the sweltering heat? The black balloons clutched in his hand?

The free hand not holding the balloons patted the bench as if saying "Come take a seat."

On its own volition, your tired feet began to move.

Journey End

Through dust and rainstorm he made his way. Anticipation cramping his belly, but his feet was fleet. He could feel the weight of the day falling away, freedom beckoning.

Soon he no longer need to breathe.

Poison my love

 Her mother's father gently tilted her head in the right direction. On a snowy branch her lover perched, an arrow notched at the ready. The silver and flint tip caught stray moonlight to twinkle like stars on a cloudless summer night. He was hunting for her kind.

A silent tear trailed down her cheek, followed by others. She wondered that the forest did not echo with the sound of her heart breaking. The pain robbed her limbs of vigor, her ears deaf to the world beyond her sorrow.

But the gentle prod on her upper meridian sent a shock of energy coursing through her limp body, clearing her mind. The clarity of duty made it easy to discard the false promises whispered by her lover, poisoning the roots of love entrenched in her heart.

She slipped away in the shadows with her mother's father. She needed time to regroup and marshal her thoughts. This time, the bastion of the garl will fall for good. She will make sure of it.

Inspired by art by Ashram entitled Hades and Persephone.

Autophagy*

Picture by alizzzz is stolen from here. 

I taste like clouds.

The scissor didn't hurt as much as I'd thought. Its point slipped through the fibre of my skin delicately, elegantly. The blades snipped through me almost by its own volition, its jaws opening and closing with unexpected gentleness, separating the threads tenderly.

I taste like clouds.

I look down as the scissors progressed from the base of my belly, moving up and up, all the way to my throat. The blades stopped. My skin separated beneath the pressure of the incision.

I taste like clouds.

Almost immediately my stuffings fell out, like eager children after the bell rang, tumbling out the door that had confined them. My stuffings billowed out like exuberant clouds racing through the sky of a sunny afternoon. It fell out between my paw-feet, pillowy soft. I could feel the pressure within me ease. My knee gave way and I slumped against the wall.

I taste like clouds.

My paw-hand trembled as I scooped up what once gave me form and dimension. It seemed wrong to leave it wasted on the floor. I didn't know what to expect. It was soft and springy, the darker pink contrasted beautifully with the pale shell of my skin.

I taste like clouds.

I squeezed my hand-paw. I thought I'd feel a tug within, but nothing. My stuffing regained its former fluff, with a faint trace of the shape of my palm. The slight breeze from the fan made it quiver. I didn't notice as more spilled out of me, decorating the floor with whimsy.

I taste like clouds.

My stuffing crossed my lips. It was like a blissful sacrament of tenderness and joy. The sweetness was indescribable. It rested on my tongue for an eternity, before my jaws moved slowly, my teeth grinding my stuffing industriously, thoughtfully.

I taste like clouds.

The adults always tell you not to play with scissors, but they don't know what I know now: the scissors were a liberator. I am now free of the weight of my form and function.

I can just be.

I am.

Free.

*Title is taken from the biology term that describes "eating one's self". Cross-posted.

Penyelamat Ranggi

Picture is writing prompt in Mari Menulis group.

Segala lenguh-lenguh yang mencengkam otot-otot yang membawanya menjejak dua lembah dan separuh jalan menaiki Bukit Sepah lenyap apabila pandangannya tertangkap kepada susuk kecil yang mengerekot di perdu pokok ketapang kecil itu. Gatal-gatal gigitan serangga dan pedih calar-balar diraut oleh ranjau sepanjang trek itu terlupa buat seketika. Ahmad menghela nafas lega apabila dilihatnya kanak-kanak itu menguit-nguit, tanda dia masih lagi bernyawa.

"Rosina..."panggilnya dengan lembut. Anak kecil itu membuka mata dan mula bangkit, duduk. Wajah mungilnya terkesan dengan bekas air mata, comot dengan kesan tanah dan pelbagai lagi. Bau asap yang kuat menyelubungi kanak-kanak itu.

Ahmad mendaki satah bukit itu dengan berhati-hati, tanah dan daun kering melurut turun di bawah but bersaiz 12 itu. Tangannya mendepang untuk merangkul anak yang mula menangis itu, tubuh kecilnya ringan sekali dan hangat. Perlahan-lahan Ahmad membawa kanak-kanak itu turun, tidak menghiraukan klik-klik daripada telefon bimbit yang merakamkan adegan itu.

Sehingga hari ini Ahmad tidak tahu bagaimana anak kecil itu ditemui 15 kilometer daripada tempat perkelahan keluarganya berlibur dan cara mana dia terselamat daripada kebakaran belukar yang telah memusnahkan hutan lipur itu.

The Key to a Man's Heart is Through?

Scene 1

The garden lay in shadows; the sun had dipped below the top of the old mangosteen tree. The cool breeze was heavily scented with the jasmine blooms from the riotous border shrub, verdant green and white, interspersed with the subtler but more intoxicating ylang ylang from the massive tree next to the house.

The veranda was empty except for the white rattan and steel loungers. Wispy smoke curled lazily upward from the footed brass tray positioned neatly on the edge of the veranda. On the tray, seven different coloured and scented flowers, slices and whole kaffir limes, a brass bowl filled with water, and an empty spot that held a bowl of uncooked rice ringed a small earthen dish that bore the ember remains of the kemenyan.

A shadow passed by, carrying with it the scent of burnt incense and promises made in darkness.

Scene 2

Maria Callas was pouring out her heartbreak from the discreet speakers positioned to beautifully amplify the acoustics of the kitchen. The granite counter top under the bank of windows had been cleared, leaving only the gleaming coffeemaker and a porcelain jug filled with cheerful daisies and white chrysanthemums. The lacy curtains fluttered with the lazy evening breeze.

The air was fragrant with the scent of caramelising meat, the oven's lambent light illuminating the fowl reposing on the cast iron pan, sizzling in its juices. Turmeric and lemongrass bubbled in the creamy sauce on the stove. An old fashioned copper pot was steaming rice gently next to it. The simmering broth in the slow cooker released a rich, citrusy smell, invigorating and indolent.

The crystal plate on the kitchen island held crisp zucchini and carrot sticks, matte green long beans cut military-straight of equal length, crispy cabbage leaves sliced thin and curls of home made mung bean sprouts. In the center of the verdant arrangement was a matching bowl filled to the brim with peanut sauce; studded with crunchy nuts, sweetened with palm sugar to counter the heat from the chillies.

She stood at the sink methodically rinsing the pots and pans before placing them in the dishwasher. Her gauzy lilac kebaya was protected by an apron with The World’s Best Cook emblazoned on it, the floral embroideries draped over her ripe breasts water-stain free. Her full, sensuous hips were wrapped in Javanese batik carefully pleated and cinched with a silver belt, the dark hued cotton hitting mid ankle perfectly. Her dark hair was pulled back in a stark upswept do, held in place with silver combs. The quivering cucuk sanggul of intricate silver and garnet flowers from her mother-in-law completed the style. Her bare feet made no noise on the terracotta tiles except for the discreet clinks of the gleaming gold ankle rings, heavily chased with motifs of mythical beasts of the Nusantara.

The timer chimed, indicating that the fowl was done. She protected her hands with an old dish towel before retrieving the cast iron pan from the oven. The crispy skin of the bird were perfectly browned and crispy, the juices from the roast bubbling gently at the bottom with the marinade that had dripped from its flesh. The fowl was transferred to a chopping board, light from the overhead recessed lighting flashed on the cleaver as she dismembered it with skill. She arranged the roast on the silver trimmed ceramic dish, its fragile filigree belying its sturdiness. The gravy streamed into a matching boat from the ladle. She ground the Sumatran coffee beans, measured the water into the coffeemaker reservoir and turned it on. She sprinkled chopped cilantro on the soup in the tureen, the fresh herb adding a sparkle to the decadent fragrance in the kitchen.

All was set.

Scene 3

The steam from the overhead jets fogged the mirror. He stood under the stream, allowing the force of the pumped heated water to loosen the muscles of his shoulders and back. It seemed to him that the commute to and back from the office was taking longer and longer. He flexed both ankles and feet, trying to ease the cramp from driving.

He dried himself and walked out of the damp bathroom to find his clothes laid neatly on the bed. The cool cotton was comfortably loose. He cinched the drawstring, brushed his hair, and spritz a bit of the perfume she favoured on his neck. 

The delicious aroma from the kitchen teased his nose as he hung his towel. The weariness from the day's drudge evaporated; he could feel the blood coursing energetically through his veins. The heavy teak door stayed open as he exited, following the scent trail.

Scene 4

She had put on her favourite gamelan album on the sound system. The bass-y notes of the brass instruments were soothing and atmospheric. The lighting in the dining room was turned low; the shadows dispelled by the strategically placed fat white candles. Her homemade potpourri provided the background notes of the aroma in the dining room. The table gleamed with mahogany polish underneath the Belgian lace draped over it, her best damask place setting protecting the fragile lace from the porcelain dishes over it.

Ice cubes clinked in the crystal goblets, fat condensation hugging the cool clear surface before sliding down because of its weight, obeying gravity. The cold liquid could not quench the thirst burning in him but he sipped anyway. Before seating him, she pulled him to the side board where the brass wisuhan was; her long fingers washing his, digit by digit, from base to tip. She  pressed her thumb at the base of his, the heat it ignited was a lower hunger than the one induced by the dishes she had prepared.

He learned to eat with his fingers when he married her. She laughed at his earlier clumsy attempts and cheerfully kissed away the inevitable mess at the corners of his mouth. By now he was an expert, ignoring the subtle burn of the roasted fowl when he pinched the tender flesh, pulling it away from the bone. He swabbed the piece in its accompanying gravy, neatly balling it with the rice and vegetable before popping it into his mouth.  He sipped the clear soup occasionally, the delicate balance of spice and cool lime clarifying the palate. 

“Aren’t you having any rice?” he asked. 

She had shaped the rice on his plate with a pleated bowl, but had none on her own.

“I’m on carbs reduction, dear,” she smiled, her curved lips wet with the sip of the liquid in the goblet. Her strong white teeth crunched on a carrot dripping with the peanut dip, her long tongue swiping an errant drop on her littlest finger. The raw vegetables contrasted with the creamy, spicy sweet dip and seemed to be the only thing that she was having.

In contrast, he was ravenous. The fluffy starchy grains of the perfectly cooked rice were a beautiful match to the rest of the dishes, balancing out the richness of flavours. Each chew was like a burst of delight on his tongue, each swallow decadent. She prepared his plate for each helping, refusing his assistance when she sashayed to the kitchen to add the rice. When his plate was clean, he licked his fingers, sucking each flavour to the last drop.

Again she washed his hand at the wisuhan. She poured the clean water slowly, using her soapy fingers to remove any oily residue on his hand. The massaging movement was strong yet gentle, and it aroused him beyond bearing. Her calm demeanour betrayed nothing as she gently patted his hand dry with clean linen, using an edge to wipe at his lips.

The meal ended with cups of fragrant black coffee and tiny pearlescent jellies and fruit. He sat still, sipping his coffee as she talked, her hands waving about gracefully. The meal had set in his belly comfortably, which was surprising considering the amount he had eaten. He watched her, and waited.

She rose from her chair and placed the dirty dishes on the sideboard. A tudung saji covered the leftovers.

“Shall we?”

His chair almost fell over in his haste to follow her.

Scene 5

He carefully crept out of bed and retrieved his laptop, and settled down on his favourite overstuffed wingback chair at the corner of their sitting room. His fingers trembled as he scrolled through the archived feed of their home security system.

He clicked on the outdoor cam folder and chose the backyard. The azure evil-dispelling eye from Turkey that hung over the veranda door hid a high definition camera. Impatiently he dragged the feed to the desired time, the sun moving across the sky and every movement captured by the camera moved at high speed in a comical manner silently. He paused at 1838 hours when she stepped out with the brass tray laden with the ritual offering. He slowed down the playback and savoured every movement on the screen.

The strike of the match to ignite the kemenyan.

The flare of the flame.

Her full lips moving as she chanted the incantation.

His heart was beating a staccato behind his sternum as she disrobed on screen, revealing the rich curves of her body, smooth skin gleaming in the low lights of the dying sun. Strong legs wide apart as she stepped over the brass tray, the smoke of the kemenyan writhing upwards to the apex of her thighs. She pushed a long strand behind her ear, her lips unceasing her chant as the kemenyan smoke stroked her between her legs and flowed down again to stroke over the white grains of the uncooked rice in the bowl.

He switched to the kitchen cam. She had prepped everything else except the rice. She measured the water over the grains with her long finger, and set the copper pot on the stove. It took an expert to cook rice on a stove top with not a single grain dry or singed. He could still recall the taste of the fat, fluffy rice; a hint of salt to flavour the steamy starchy aroma. The chicken and gravy and vegetable were also perfectly done, but he could only remember the texture of the rice, sliding smoothly down his throat.

“Do you want the key, baby?”

The head on his shoulders and between his legs jerked upwards. Her tall firm figure was silhouetted by the light from the dressing room that she often left on low. His mouth went dry.

“Yes, Mistress.” He wanted to shift his genitals to a more comfortable position but knew that it was pointless. Besides, she could see him do it and may decide to keep the key a lot longer. Anticipation and hard won submission stayed his hand.

“Then put your toy away and come here. You have been a bad, bad boy, haven’t you?” she murmured and turned away. Obedient, he rose, the Macbook abandoned on a side table and followed her.

p/s It was my writing circle pals' idea for the nasi kangkang reinvention. You may thank them for it. The writing prompt: A sensual meal.

Surprise can be a good thing.

Note: This is a first draft that is a part of a longer story. Drafts posted may (is definitely) not be in sequence. It is very rough and unedited; typos and grammatical errors are a given.

They said goodbyes outside the restaurant to the others. He hugged his Mom and watched her get into the car with his sister and waved at them till the rear lights of his sister's Preve disappeared around the corner. He retraced his steps back to his car when he saw her crossing the street. She sat by herself at the taxi stand. His brow furrowed and he jogged over to her.

"Where's your car?"

"Didn't feel like driving this morning so I took the cab. What do you care?" she glared at him. He thought it was unfair that she still looked glorious under the unflattering fluorescent lighting of the taxi stand, whatever makeup she put on this morning was probably long gone. How on earth can she be looking at him down her nose in that queen-of-all-she-surveys manner of hers when he towered over her seated self?

"Come on and I'll drive you home," he said.

"No, thanks. A cab will be passing soon. You go on ahead," she flipped her ponytail over her shoulder and deliberately turned her head towards the oncoming traffic.

"This place is not so safe for a woman at this hour. Your place is on my way. Come on and I'll drive you," he extended his hand.

"I'll be fine."

"Stop being a stubborn git and come on. Not two days ago a woman broke her wrist from a snatch thief just down the road. My car is just over there," he exasperatedly wondered why did he bother arguing with her. She's a city girl born and bred and she knew how to take care of herself.

"Okay. Whatever," she rose, reluctance in every line of her body.

He blipped the remote and his dusty ten year old Nissan chirped. She didn't wait for him to hold the door for her, letting herself in at the passenger side. He half thought that she'd make her way to the backseat and pretended that he was the taxi driver sending her home. When he slid into the driver's seat, she had buckled the seat belt and sat composedly, looking straight ahead with her tote bag tucked neatly against the door. He  sniffed surreptitiously for the smell of eau de McDonald that he had as a hurried lunch in his car yesterday. The lemon pine air freshener he stuck on the dashboard overpowered any possible old food and socks smell. Good. And he kicked himself for caring enough to think to make a good impression with her.

The radio blared cheerfully as he cranked the engine that he lovingly restored at his pal's auto shop. The car may not look like much but the engine purred like it rolled out of AMG's assembly line and was just as responsive. Without asking for permission she lowered the volume of his radio and randomly pressed the change button until she found a station playing classic rock. He thought of taking her to task for it but his favourite Def Leppard song was on and he cranked up the volume.

They did not talk at all during the ride to her apartment. Instead, they both sang along to the classic rock hits playing on the radio that night. He pulled to a stop at the kerb outside her apartment to the accompaniment of the Beatles' Yellow Submarine.

"I can't believe you know the lyrics to The Crystal Ship," he muttered. He wasn't looking but he was sure she curled her lips at him.

"Do you have anything going after this?" she unbuckled her seat belt and angled herself to look at him.

"Not really. Why?" he glanced at her.

"I need a favour with something. Come up with me for a minute?" The streetlight made her eyes sparkle like an anime character on speed. He had thought to catch some of the match playbacks on his new 72" tv but there's a strange hollow intensity in her eyes that he couldn't identify or ignore.

"Okay." He turned off the engine and followed her out of the car. The night doorman opened the door obsequiously for her. She waved at him absently with a greeting as they walked to the bank of elevators, their sneakers squeaking slightly on the marble floor. The lobby was luxuriously appointed with hard wood paneling and polished brass accents, not unlike a five star hotel. He deliberately pressed his palm on the shiny brass railing, smudging it. The elevator ride was quick and silent, his ears popped slightly at the speed of ascent.

They exited the elevator to a hallway carpeted in plush pile that muffled their footsteps. There were only three doors in the corridor she took. He estimated that each apartment was about 1,300 square feet. She must have some serious money. She keyed in her code on the number panel next to the door at the end of the corridor and opened the door by placing her palm on the reader.

"Come on in," she threw over her shoulder as she toed off her sneakers at the shoe rack just inside the door, leaving it wide open as she sauntered in. He had a bad feeling about this, and he knew that he should step back and walk away, but his feet moved into the doorway. The next thing he knew, the door was shut and his feet was also bare.

He followed her through a short hallway that ( ... description of apartment with post modern simple elegant design with ethnic accents ...). She tossed her tote bag on the breakfast counter separating the kitchen and the dining area.

"You want something to drink?"

"No, thanks. What was the favour that you wanted?"

She said nothing but just smiled as she walked past him. The sliding door to the balcony was open. The filmy curtains framing it was billowing gently from the night air, aided by the lazily rotating fan on the ceiling. He could feel the slight dampness and the heavy humidity, harbinger of a possible storm later in the night. She  leaned on the balcony railing, on tip toes like a young girl. The long muscles of her calves bunched and relaxed as she lowered herself on her heels and went tippy toes again. He dragged his eyes away from the enticing sight but his vision was stuck on the rounded mounds of her firm butt clad in yoga pants, the hem of her shirt had ridden up to expose a thin line of bare flesh.

Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes, averted his head slightly before opening them again and saw a near life sized photograph of her on the wall. It was a black and white print from the waist up. She was wearing some white fuzzy sweater which hugged her body in a real good way. Her hair was pulled back starkly from her face, leaving those strong features unframed. Her cheeks held some of the roundness of youth, not yet developed into the current angular structure that lent her profile a regal aspect.She was unsmiling.

"You know what I miss about living in the city?" there was an uncharacteristic wistful tone in her voice.

"What?" he asked absently. There was something about that picture that niggled at the back of his head.

"The stars. I once went camping with some friends near Alice Spring in Australia, and I was blown away by the amazing clarity of the night sky there. It looked like midnight velvet with diamonds carelessly strewn over it. I actually pulled my bedroll out of the tent and just lay back staring at the sky for the three nights that we were there, falling asleep with the stars all shining on me."

"A star shines on you daily."

"Come again?" she came back inside to stand beside him, watching as he studied her portrait. She brought with her the scent of cool, rain-laced wind, mingled with the perfume she spritzed on in the morning and her own unique smell. He felt a little dizzy.

"The sun is a star. If you go out in the day, you have a star shining on you too," he said. Her lips quirked up in a slight smile at his reply. He felt like kicking himself. She knew he's a geek, he didn't need to confirm it for her. She aligned herself beside him, cocking her head to the side as she looked at the picture on the wall.

"What do you think?" she gestured at the picture.

"It's beautiful."

She leveled him a look from under her lashes. It was a devastating glance designed to slay men right where they stood. He had to lock his knees just to stay upright.

"That was my best memory from my modelling days. It was taken by Klaus Hinger, a really famous fashion photographer."

"Never heard of him," he could feel the sweat trickling down his back and beading on his upper lip.

"I'm not surprised. Besides, he's already dead. An argument with a jealous boy toy that went south." She moved away from him and fiddled with a remote on the table. Norah Jones' dulcet croon emanated from hidden speakers.

"Norah Jones? Really? Isn't it a little cliched?" he folded his arms. She widened her eyes innocently, laughter sparkling in her eyes and shrugged. No wonder she's got a whole battalion of former boyfriends; that faux innocence was really something.

"It usually works. Personally, I prefer Dave Gahan's growl to her saccharine mellowness, but ..."

"Don't go there. I like Depeche Mode too and I don't want you to spoil it for me," his growl could have matched the band front man's bass-y baritone.

She met his gaze levelly and leaned closer to him. Her soft hand trailed up his forearm. He didn't know the inner part of his elbow was so sensitive. Without breaking eye contact, she stepped right into his personal space and pressed that incredible body against him. She was tall for a woman, and her lips only reached his collarbone, against which she pressed her pillowy mouth in random scattering. She gripped his biceps with a surprising amount of force; she's a lot stronger than she appeared.

"I won't spoil it for you. In fact, the next time you listen to DM, you'll be enjoying some excellent memories, I promise," she purred. Her hot breath feathered his throat, raising goosebumps. Her scent reminded him of the sundal malam flowers that blossomed in the night outside his grandmother's window, spiced with her heat. Desire flowed from the top of his head, heating the back of his neck and the soldier between his legs stood up and saluted. Her firm and rounded breasts teased his pecs, a thigh sinuously rubbed against the vee of his braced legs.

For a while, there was only the sound of their rough cast breathing and Ms. Jones' mellow voice in the apartment. Her hand crept under his shirt to trace his back, tongues of flame following each stroke. He couldn't think, could only stood there with his feet apart like a soldier standing at attention while she explored with her lips and hot hands. His own hands were not exactly holding her away, and he discovered the lithe curves draped by her clothes. She tasted like heat and the zing of the coriander that flavoured her dinner.

"C'mon. My room is just over there," she murmured, linking her hand with his, tugging him. The slight space gave him the much needed reprieve from her drugging scent and his head cleared slightly. He hasn't panted this hard since the nature run his pal conned him into entering.

"Where's your DVD collection?" his voice was a hoarse rasp. He's so going to regret this later.

"What?" she found out that she couldn't tug him along when he planted his feet.

"You DVD collection. You're in advertising; with all the product placement Hollywood has going now, I bet you have a great selection to watch as homework." It felt like his dick was staging a sit-in protest in his pants but he vowed that this time, the larger head was going to take control.

"I don't believe this. You want to watch a movie? Now?" she was incensed, her cheeks flushed as she gritted those words through clenched teeth.

He disentangled himself from her limbs and blindly wandered over to where her television was mounted on the wall. There was a ______________ and he pawed open the door to a selection of DVDs and Blu-Ray disks that would make any illegal DVD seller jealous. He randomly picked a disk and pulled it out.

"It's been ages since I've watched ... Pride and Prejudice?" he squinted at the cover. "Hell no." And went back pawing through her disks. He could feel her fuming behind him but he searched determinedly until he unearthed Hot Fuzz.

She marched to the front door with an angry swish to her hips. Furious fingers stabbed the code on the panel and she jerked the door open.

"Get out," her voice was chillingly low.

"No. You offered me a drink earlier. I'll take whatever soft drink you've got. Or tap water," he fumbled the disk cover open and inserted it into her Blu-Ray player. It whirred softly and he turned on the television.

"I'm not giving you a drink or anything at all. I want you to get out of my house. Right. Now." Her fury was almost palpable.

"No. You asked me for a favour. Whether you like it or not, I'm up here and I'm gonna do exactly that." They glared at each other over the expanse of her living room.

"Well, I don't need you to do me any favours now, so just go," she crossed her arms under those fantastic breasts and his pecs mourned the loss of contact. He debated with himself for the right words and decided to just get on with it.

"You don't need a boink tonight," he said bluntly. "What you need is a friend. Did you think nobody noticed  how your eyes were fixed on Huda's engagement ring for the whole day? I know there's something else going on. You're going to tell me what it is, we'll hash it out and then have a good time watching Nick Frost and Simon Pegg shoot up the English countryside."

"There's nothing going on and there's nothing wrong with a girl admiring another girl's engagement ring. that damned thing was at least one and a half carat of Cartier's finest, and ..." her face crumpled at the last word. Oh God. The monsoon has arrived.

He walked swiftly towards her as the fat sobs escaped her. With one hand he shoved the door close and the other embraced her. Her knees gave way and he lifted her up like he did his niece when she tripped at the playground and he sat with her on his lap on the plush sofa. His erection took some time to get down; her splotchy face and hiccupy tears notwithstanding, that world class ass was *on his lap*. He ain't dead, for God's sake.

She cried like her world was ending. He rubbed her back in circles and made the crooning noise that never failed to calm his nieces and sisters when they were on a crying jag. His  t-shirt was soaked by her tears. He saw a box of tissue at the end table and reached over to snag it.

"You want some?" he waved the box in the vicinity of her head. She blindly reached out, grabbed a few and began blowing her nose noisily.

She'd reached the end of her crying jag and pushed herself off to sit next to him on the sofa, with her legs still draped over him. "Gimme a minute," she mumbled and went off to where presumably the bathroom was located. He heard water run for a minute and then silence. The night wind coming in from the open sliding door blew cool on his torso; he forgot that his t-shirt was wet.

She returned to the living room in an oversized sweat shirt that hid her curves completely and a tatty pair of shorts that showcased her fantastic legs. She gave him an uncharacteristically shy glance and walked past him to the kitchen.

"Turn on the dvd," she called to him. He could hear some clanging, the fridge opening and closing, a cabinet. Was she extracting a cleaver to use on him? he wondered irreverently. For a short while, he reconsidered his idiocy for turning her offer down, but he knew that he couldn't live with himself if he did say yes. He leaned back on the plush sofa and exhaled. Oh well.

She reappeared with two chilled bottles of Bundaberg root beer and  large packet of fried keropok ikan tamban and emping melinjau. This woman knows her snack. Without a word, she handed him a bottle slippery with condensation and plopped next to him on the couch, the crunchy titbits between them.

They spent the next two hours giggling madly at Simon Pegg and Nick Frost's antics on screen, decimating the large bags of snack between the two of them with a short break while he scrounged for cold water and glasses to quench their mutual thirst. As the credits rolled, they both leaned back on the sofa. He reached over for the remote and turned off the tv.

"So ... " he twirled the remote in a complicated move over and over. She couldn't stop staring at his long fingers nimbly manipulating the plastic piece. It was evident that he's a man who worked with his hands; there were nicks that had whitened with time all over the back of his hands and she recalled with great pleasure the roughened tips on her skin. She caught her absorbed reverie and busied herself picking up the remnants of their late night snacking. When she rose to her feet to bring all the garbage to the kitchen, he snagged her wrist.

How could a man have such long, curly lashes? she marveled. It's not fair that she needed the assistance of Ms. Revlon and an industrial strength eyelash curler to get a similar effect. She thought that his eyes are the common brown of most Malay men, but somehow the light above his head captured slivers of crystalline amber flecks in those dark depths.

"Sit," he invited softly, pulling all the garbage from her unresisting hands and dumping them on the floor beside the sofa. To her mortification, she flopped gracelessly beside him, her wrist still imprisoned by his implacable hand. They stared at each other for a long time, synchronising their breathing as the moment played out.

"You want to tell me what happened?" he asked quietly. She broke away from his gaze and stared down at her lap, her hair having escaped the claw she used to secure the topknot swung brushing her cheeks.

"I ... used to date Huda's fiance," she began reluctantly. But once she started, it all poured out. The euphoria of finding someone who hit all the sweet spots, the dreams and fantasies that she wove around him, the pain of the fall, everything. It was like lancing an old suppurating wound. She didn't realise that her tears began to fall again until she felt him gently blotting her cheeks with tissue paper.

"There you are, all the horrible and pathetic story like you wanted," she gave him a watery grin and blew her nose. She'll need a decongestant tomorrow with all the crying she did tonight.

"That son of a bitch."

She looked at him closer at the low growl he emitted, which had a similar texture to the cough of a tiger in the forest. His incredible eyes were flashing with anger, much to her surprise.

"He had no right to treat you like that," his hands knotted into formidable fists.

She shrugged, "Well, he wanted someone who can save him, apparently. You should have seen his face when he told me, as gently as he could, that he cannot picture introducing me to his mom. I mean, talk about a blow to the old ego."

"Wait, what? Save him?"

"You know the old chestnut. A good woman for a good man, and vice versa? That one should look for a spouse who will guide one to Paradise?"

He stared at her like she'd grown another head.

"No. You got that wrong. He got it wrong," he stared into her eyes, one hand gripping the back of the sofa behind her head. He closed his eyes and opened them again on an exhale.

"You don't need to be saved by anyone," he said quietly. "You will save yourself. You don't need him to get to Paradise. You'll get there on your own merit. The Quran says that we are all responsible for our own deeds, good and bad. No one will be punished for the transgression of others. God is kind. He is just. So the idea that your spouse is going to save you is an idiotic one. Forget it."

"But ... that's what all those ustaz and ustazah has been teaching us since way back when ..." she couldn't hide her bewilderment.

"No.They got it wrong. Read the Quran. All this nonsense stems from some fabricated hadith that said that women led men to go to hell. It's wrong. Don't believe it," his conviction resonated with her. He was so close in his urgency to convince her that his scent, male and delicious, permeated her senses.

"I am sorry that the bastard hurt you for no good reason. I am sorry that he will hurt Huda too with this nonsense idea. But really, heaven or hell is nobody's judgement but God. I know that there are people who say that paradise is under the husband's feet, but that's bullshit too."

"You're saying that all the things that the preachers taught us about marriage and relationship is wrong?" she was skeptical.

"I'm saying that we should go back to the Quran and stop listening to rubbish. God would never punish you for someone else's sins; that was promised in the Quran. And if you are evil, you will go to Hell for it, no escape if you didn't repent. That's also in the Quran. Anything else is rubbish. Men have used religion for their own purpose for years. It's convenient for them to make women feel bad."

"Golly. You're a feminist," her eyes were wide with wonder. He snorted and leaned back, taking away all that delightful scent much to her sorrow.

"I lived with seven women in the house. You think I can get away with things just cause I'm a guy?" he laughed. "My Mom taught me that women are just as good as men. I've seen so many families that are held together by the womenfolk because the men dropped the ball on responsibility. And I've read too much to believe nonsense ideas shoved down our gullet that made women somehow lesser just because of their gender. Is that being a feminist? I don't know."

His grin really transformed his face, she thought. If taken individually his features may seem harsh and older, but his smile changed it completely. She was still trying to wrap her mind around the idea (....) but his physique kinda distracted her brain. Here was a man who actually said no to her advances, and had the cheek to invite himself over for a movie and made her spill her guts out, telling him things that she'd never said to anyone before.

"Tell me more about this weird feministic ideas of yours," she said, and pulled her legs up to sit tailor-style on the sofa. To her surprise, she enjoyed listening to his philosophy and ideas about religion and people and a host of other things. He was articulate and thoughtful, and explained the things she didn't understand without making her feel stupid about it. The conversation meandered on over a variety of topic. She couldn't remember the last time she had such a fun time just talking to a man.

He yawned widely, cracking his jaws. His eyes widened when he looked at his watch. "Damn. It's almost 4 a.m. I better get a move on."

She stayed him with a touch on his forearms. "It's super late. Or rather, super early. And you're sleepy. Better not risk driving home right now. Just sleep now and go back later in the morning. I'll get you some pillows and stuff."

"You sure?" he yawned again. He has really excellent teeth, she couldn't see any dental filling on any of his molars, that was how wide he yawned.

"I'll get you an extra toothbrush. I got loads of 'em from the airlines," she rose and went to her room to get them. She had only just realised how sleepy she was too. She took a couple of spare pillows and a duvet from the closet and dug out a pack of disposable toothbrush and toothpaste from Etihad.

When she came out again, he was guzzling the last of the water on the table. She plumped up the pillows and placed them neatly at one end of the sofa. He eyed it with some skepticism.

"Do you mind if I just bunk on the floor? I don't think the sofa is long enough for me," he matched it with action by spreading the duvet on the carpet to the side of the couch and plopped the pillows on it haphazardly.

"I ... guess it's okay. Let me get you another blanket," she said.

"No need. I'm a warm guy, I don't usually sleep with covers anyway. It's all good. The bathroom's that way, right?" he pointed to the powder room door. She nodded distractedly as he picked up the toothbrush pack and walked towards it.

"Well. Good night. Or morning." Why on earth was she flustered?

He stopped in front of the open door of the powder room, half turned towards her with that impish smile. "Yeah. Night," and closed the door behind him.

She crawled under her fluffy duvet and thought about the man settling down to sleep outside. He wasn't the first man to sleep in her apartment platonically, but he was definitely the first to do so after being invited for more. She closed her eyes and fell asleep to visions of wicked smiles and amber flecked eyes speaking to her wordlessly.

Faithlessness

Note: This is a first draft that is a part of a longer story. Drafts posted may (is definitely) not be in sequence.

The cool air from the airconditioner wafted over her nudity, but the chill didn't bother her. The darkened room was quiet, punctuated by the hum of the climate control system and his faint but steady snore. She pulled her knees up and rested her chin on the knobby protrusion of her joint. There was a gap between her curtains, the lights of the city twinkling beyond the glass like stationary fireflies.

Next to her ______ slept on. He was what the Cosmo sex quiz called a flopper, often falling unconscious almost immediately after sex. There were a few times when she had to push him off, the muscled frame a hefty weight that can suffocate an unwary lover. He was sprawled on over half of the bed, the twisted sheets half drawn to his chest.

She shifted her position to study him. He was a long one, reaching 6 feet in his socks, wide of shoulder, strong of limb. He was fond of pitting himself against others physically; be it tennis, racquetball, football or volleyball, and it honed his muscles to an athletic toughness that was attractive underneath his clothes. Tanned from the outdoors, his inner thighs and buttocks were pale, indicating his northern Indian ancestry. His eyelids were closed, dense, long lashes sweeping the high bones of his cheeks. Puffs of air escaped his parted lips, exposing the edge of his straight, white teeth.

Such a pretty, pretty man.

Such a lousy, lousy man.

Unconsciously she rubbed the center of her chest. The pain had subsided long ago, but sometimes its echoes caught her unaware, making her eyes burn from the force of holding back her tears. She didn't quite know why he's back where he was on her bed, she knew that it's temporary, nothing with him ever lasted. It felt odd to be physically sated, her body languourous from the multiple orgasms he'd enthusiastically wrung out of her; but the wheels of her mind focussed with brutal clarity on the deep unspoken anger within.

She swung her legs off the bed and made her way to the bathroom. All jets on. The water was hot and steaming, almost stinging her tender skin. She squirted a generous amount of soap on the loofah and briskly scrubbed herself, paying scrupulous attention to remove every trace of his touch on her flesh. She shampooed her hair twice and used the leave in serum to condition the long locks. She brushed her teeth vigorously and gargled with the mouthwash.

She exited the bathroom clad in a robe and turned on all the lights in the bedroom. She ignored his sleepy protests, extracted underpants, a sweat pants and a t shirt. The design on the front of the shirt has faded, but it's soft and comforting and she needed all the comfort she can get right then.

"Wassup?" he mumbled, bracing himself on his elbows, squinting against the brightness. He blinked blearily at the sight of her dressed and yawned so wide, his jaws popped. His position threw all those lovely muscles into stark relief, presenting a pretty tableau. Italian masters would kill to sculpt him, she thought dispassionately.

"It's time for you to go. Thanks for dropping by," she said, standing beside the open door pointedly.

He licked his lips at how the soft cotton clung to her damp skin. He sat up and patted the place on the bed next to him invitingly with a smile. "What about a second round? Let me make you scream in ecstasy a few times more."

She didn't return his smile. "No, thanks. I need to sleep and I want you to go right now."

"C'mon," he started to cajole but her stiff posture told him that his efforts would be to no avail. He sighed and clambered off the bed.

"Fine," he said with a huff, raising a hand in her direction in surrender and made his way to the bathroom. Behind the closed door she could hear the toilet being flushed and the shower running. She picked up his clothes that were strewn all over the room and dumped them on the bed. The clothes that she wore earlier were collected with the rest of her laundry and she took them to the washer. The load wasn't full but once the bed linens were added later, she can start the wash cycle.

She turned on the television and flipped the channels randomly, finally settling in for HBO. Some action movie was on, there were explosions aplenty but oddly no gore. Leaving the characters to fight out their differences on screen, she returned to the kitchen and nuked a mug of water with an Earl Grey bag in it. Her grandmother would be appalled at the tea desecration, but she wanted something hot now and did not want to wait for the kettle to boil. She took her mug to the breakfast counter and pulled the sugar container closer to her seat.

"Kicking me out, eh?" his voice was low, the quiet inflection hiding a wealth of unsaid emotions. She stirred her tea desultorily, pulling out the tea bag and throwing it into the sink in an expert overhand toss. The soggy bag landed with a dull splat.

"Yup. Thanks for scratching my itch. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," she sipped the hot brew meditatively. He dressed back in the ____________ and ___________ that he wore earlier in the evening. Although crumpled, he still looked like he just stepped out of a fashion spread.

He said nothing and leaned on the counter facing her, studying her nonchalance. But when she raised her eyes, he dropped his gaze, his cheeks ruddy with embarrassment. Sounds of gunfire from the television set broke the silence.

"Are you going to tell Alena?" he asked, seemingly fascinated by the grain of the granite table top, hands stuffed in his pockets. His feet were bare, she suspect the bulge in his left pocket to be his socks.

"No," she said, taking another sip. "What happened here has nothing to do with her."

He exhaled audibly, shifting his weight slightly and nodded. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me. I like her and I don't want to hurt her. It's bad enough that she'll marry an asshole like you, I don't need to compound things," she rose, mug in hand to flop on the overstuffed couch in front of the television. Her eyes appeared to be watching the screen but she took in nothing, her inward gaze hiding her feelings.

He moved closer to her but kept his distance. The keys in his pocket jiggled, betraying his agitation. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I hurt you. I ... didn't mean to. But we just ..." his shoulder jerked, his toes clenching the deep weave of her black and white rug.

"Yeah, I got it. I'm not gonna be the woman who'll guide you to Paradise," her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"It's not you ... I ... need her. She  ..." he appeared to be casting around for words. "She makes me a better man. She makes me want to be better. It's easy with you, but it's not the same."

"Yeah, a good woman for a good man and vice versa. Does she know that you're not a good man?" her right brow arched disdainfully. Did you not know I once harboured hopes that you will be the one to lead me to Paradise? Did you not know I once hung my dreams of a life together into old age on you? Did you know and did not care anyway? Did you?

He reddened again and said nothing.

"So, what now?" he asked.

"You go home and do whatever you want. Me, I'm going to be hanging out with your fiancee tomorrow and making a mural."

He flinched.

"You don't have to worry. I'm not going to blab to anyone about your lapse tonight. We'll pretend it didn't happen, just a time out of time. Consider it a send off. Vaya con dios," she fluttered the hand not holding the mug.

He knew her well enough that there's nothing else to say. He was relieved in some ways, wretched in others. But he was grateful that she's giving him a way out of a potentially sticky situation and decided to leave before he shoved his foot deeper into his gullet. With a polite nod in her direction, he made his way to the entrance hall, slipping on his trainers. He closed the door quietly and left.

She rose from the sofa, abandoning her tea and opened the door to the balcony. The night air was chilly even during the hot season at the elevation of her apartment. She leaned against the cold ballustrade and looked down at the empty streets. A growly engine coughed and she could see his Cheyenne leaving the parking of her apartment. The brake lights lit once when he approached the intersection and the vehicle disappeared around the corner.

Her eyes were painfully dry as she raised her gaze to the moonless sky. She was like the Alison Moyet song, all cried out. Inside she felt hollow. Maybe she no longer have a heart, if everyone who left her took a piece along with them. He was just another man in a long series of men who left. Men always left. From her father, to Jake, and down to him, they all left. There will be another man, she knew. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but there will be another man who will come into her life, and leave again when it suits them.

The brightness of the city lights obscured the stars, just like how her smiles hid her fragmented heart. She made a moue at her sentimentality and went back inside, closing the door firmly on all her hopes and dreams of making a life with someone else.

Malam minggu yang bosan

Aku menghela nafas lega setelah habis memuat naik ke pelayan tugasan terakhirku. Tetikusku menari-nari sambil aku memeriksa kesemua pautan pada laman web pelangganku dan mungkin aku masuk lif picit sendiri (dan sememangnya pun!) tapi semua kulihat elok dan sempurna. Komputerku di"tidur"kan dengan beberapa klik tetikus; cukuplah kerja untuk malam ini.

Angin malam membawa kehangatan seminggu tanpa hujan di ibu kota. Kipas silingku berputar bak gasing tapi tidak melegakan. Malam ini saja sudah dua kali aku membasahkan tubuhku; sekali lagi dan kulitku akan menyamai tangan nyonya si penjual tofu di pasar Chow Kit; kembang tapi berkedut.

Aku ke dapur menjengah peti ais. Buat beberapa ketika aku menyamankan diriku dengan hawa dari kotak pembeku. Aiskrim yang aku beli kelmarin telah tamat riwayatnya. Mendengus, aku tutup kembali pintu peti ais dan melangkah ke sofa.

Aku kutip buku terbaru Lee Child yang telah aku habiskan dan cuba mencari mukasurat yang aku sukai, cuba untuk memendam keresahan yang merengsa di bawah permukaan kulitku ini. Di luar, sang bulan membentuk sfera yang hampir penuh. Aku tahu yang keresahan ini akan hilang sekiranya aku keluar berburu, tapi aku seakan malas untuk ke Bukit Gasing atau Klang Gate untuk melepaskan diriku yang sebenar.

Telingaku menangkap bait-bait sebuah lagu rock yang dilapiskan dengan unsur-unsur jazz. Aku memejamkan mata, mengatur nafasku seperti yang diajar di kelas yoga, membiarkan aku dilenakan oleh keindahan muzik itu. Tamat lagu itu, rentaknya berubah ke sebuah lagu bossa nova. Aku suka.

Bingkas, aku bangun dan ke bilik, menukar pakaian dan mencapai dompet serta iPhoneku yang usang. Kedua-duanya ku sorongkan ke kocek seluar kargoku. Aku melangkah keluar, koridor rumah sewa ku suram dan sunyi. Kunci rumahku masuk ke satu lagi kocek. Inilah sebabnya aku suka seluar kargo; semua poketnya berguna.

Aku mengatur langkah di bahu jalan, menyusuri pelbagai kenderaan dari motosikal kapchai hingga ke model Volkswagon yang terbaru. Tidak ramai yang menyedari lorong-lorong belakang di ibu kota ni boleh jadi sesunyi perumahan sub-bandar selepas jam 12. Kerancakan aktiviti malam kotaraya ini hanya kelihatan setelah aku memasuki jalan besar yang menaungi pelbagai kelab, disko, restoran dan bar.

Sinar neon melimpah menerangi pelbagai jenis manusia di jalan yang terkenal dengan pelbagai pusat hiburan. Aku menuju ke Jim's, sebuah pub tidak jauh dari rumah sewaku. Kelab itu bukan pusat tumpuan anak-anak muda yang ingin melihat dan dilihat. Jim adalah tempat kegemaran para pekerja asing (jenis expatriate kulit putih, bukan yang sawo matang dan gelap likat yang kerja pembinaan) syarikat minyak dan gas yang tidak jauh daripada situ.

Sebaik sahaja aku membuka pintu Jim's, hidungku yang sensitif diserang asap rokok dan bau pelbagai jenis alkohol yang dihidangkan di situ. Aku mengerut hidung dan menarik nafas cetek, dengan harapan agar hidungku segera terbiasa dengan pencemaran udara di bar itu. Dindingnya berpanel kayu dan disinari lampu sorot kemalapan kecuali di kawasan pentas, menyinari seorang lelaki kulit hitam yang tegap memetik tali double bassnya dengan penuh khusyuk dan nikmat, manik-manik di penghujung tocangnya yang berdozen berklik dengan pergerakan kepalanya. Jim's saling tak ubah persis bar-bar lama yang pernah ku lawati di Eropah.

Aku menuju ke kawasan bar dan mencari sebuah kerusi untuk melabuhkan punggungku. Pelayan bar malam ini adalah Jim sendiri, seorang lelaki British yang sudah melangkaui pertengahan abad. Dia datang ke Malaysia sebagai seorang juruukur untuk sebuah syarikat perladangan gergasi pada tahun 60'an, jatuh cinta dengan seorang wanita tempatan dan hanya pulang ke England dua kali setahun (sekali untuk harijadi ibunya dan sekali lagi untuk Hari Natal) sehinggalah kematian ibunya - selepas itu Jim tidak lagi menjejak kaki ke tanah kelahirannya.

Kepalanya yang licin merah berkilat di bawah sorotan lampu di belakang bar. Dia mengangguk ke arah ku dan menuang air soda yang diperah sepotong lemon sebelum menjatuhkan hirisan itu ke dalam gelas. Ais di dalamnya berbunyi riang apabila berlaga dengan dinding kaca gelas itu. Semangkuk kacang juga diletak di hadapanku.

"Lama tak nampak," sapa Jim sambil mengelap permukaan bar di sebelahku.

"Malas nak keluar," jawabku. Aku meneguk air soda yang dingin dan masam itu, habis dengan sekali hirup. Jim menambah air soda ku dan menambah satu lagi hirisan lemon. Kali ini aku menghirup minumanku dengan lebih perlahan-lahan.

"Nasib kau baik. Setengah jam lagi Freddy akan naik pentas," kata Jim. Freddy yang dimaksudkan ialah Freddy Ganesan. Dia merupakan penyanyi utama untuk sebuah cover band yang mengkhusus kepada muzik Queen. Nama asal Freddy ialah Prabakaran Ganesan; tapi setelah mengambil persona arwah Freddy Mercury, dia hanya menjawab apabila dipanggil Freddy.

Aku memang suka Queen dan Freddy dan rakan-rakannya mengalunkan lagu-lagu Queen dengan baik. Memang nasib aku baik malam ini.

"Donna tak ada malam ni?" Selalunya isteri Jim akan duduk di suatu ceruk dengan komputer ribanya, menyelesaikan buku kira-kira perniagaan Jim dan juga dirinya. Donna Liew-Coleridge adalah seorang akauntan bertauliah yang pernah berkhidmat dengan PWC; dia kini menjalankan pekhidmatan setiausaha syarikat dan pengauditan kewangan untuk syarikat-syarikat kecil dan sederhana.

"Tak. Maureen turun KL jadi dua beradik tu ada rancangan sendiri pada malam ini," kata Jim. Aku mengangguk dan kembali meneguk minuman ku. Sang pemain double bass sudah mengakhiri persembahannya dan tunduk menerima tepukan daripada pelanggan-pelanggan yang ada.

"Satu lagi wiski," minta pelanggan yang baru mendekati bar di sebelahku. Jim bergerak ke arah tempat botol alkohol keras tersusun untuk menjawab permintaan pelanggan yang mengambil tempat di sebelah tempat duduk aku. Aku tertangkap pandangannya dan terpaksa menjawab senyuman yang dilemparkannya. Bukankah rakyat Malaysia harus peramah orangnya?

"Hai," dia menyapa. Rambutnya yang perang kemerahan didandan gaya faux 'hawk yang popular di kalangan lelaki muda kini. Orangnya tinggi dan susuk tubuhnya yang dibaluti kemeja kotak-kotak yang dibuat daripada kain kapas nipis kekar berotot, kakinya yang panjang disarungi seluar jeans biru muda.

"Selalu datang ke sini?" dia mengalihkan tubuhnya untuk menghadap aku.

"Kalau lapang," aku mengusik gelas minumanku. Matanya hijau bak daun pisang muda, bundar dan dilapisi dengan bulu mata yang sangat lebat, membuatkan dia kelihatan seakan-akan memakai celak. Dia menghulurkan tangan kanannya untuk berjabat dan aku sambut. Orang Amerika memang suka genggam tangan orang dan goncang kuat-kuat bila berjabat tangan. Aku memendam keinginan untuk meramas tangannya dan membuatkan dia meraung. Aku harimau; aku lebih baik daripada itu. Telapak tangannya lebar dan hangat, dilapisi kematu. Ini orang yang kerjanya memerlukan kudrat.

"Awak orang tempatan ke?" aku tercium bau wiski dan bir pada nafasnya. Nampaknya wiski yang dipesannya bukanlah gelas pertama untuknya malam ini. Aku mengangguk, tanganku yang dijabatnya ke mangkuk kacang, mengutip beberapa butir untuk masuk ke mulutku.

"Pertama kali ke Kuala Lumpur?" tanyaku sambil mengunyah. Pertengahan minggu ini kacang yang dihidang masih lagi rangup. Aku mengalihkan tubuhku untuk menghadap dia, memudahkan aku untuk menjamu mata. Mat saleh bukanlah jenis yang aku gemari, tapi yang ini boleh tahan kacaknya.

Dia mengangguk dengan penuh semangat, wiskinya yang baru tiba terus hinggap ke bibir. Aku rasa dia ini jenis pemabuk yang ceria; kalau kau kena lepak dengan orang mabuk, jenis yang macam ini paling menyenangkan jiwa. Kalau macam Desmond, bukan hanya kau akan rasa nak bunuh dia, tapi juga nak bunuh diri kerana dia sungguh depressing bila mabuk. Tapi kalau macam Chula pun susah juga; dia mabuk lepas tu asyik nak cari gaduh.

"Bagaimana dengan cuaca di sini? Boleh tahan?" aku memberi isyarat kepada Jim untuk memesan sandwic. Perutku berbunyi lagi walaupun aku telah makan malam pukul 8 tadi.

"Takde masalah," jawabnya sambil tertawa. "Sesiapa yang pernah bekerja di Williston pada bulan Julai dah tak hairan lagi dengan kepanasan. Tapi, ambil masa juga untuk tahan kelembapan di sini."

Memang aku perasan ramai orang asing yang tak pernah duduk dekat dengan garisan Khatulistiwa sering akan merungut pasal kelembapan di sini. Tapi elok lagi lembap dan hangat di sini daripada hangat dan kering macam yang aku pernah rasa bulan Ogos di New Mexico. Sebulan setengah aku di sana, hari-hari aku nyaris dilemaskan oleh darah yang mengalir keluar dari lubang hidungku yang comel. Menderita!

"Williston tu di mana? Awak buat apa di sana?" rasa ingin tahuku tercuit. Walaupun dia bergaya seperti seseorang yang biasa dengan gaya dan fesyen di kota besar, tapi telapak tangannya memberikan cerita lain. Bahunya lebar dan berotot, lengannya di bawah lipatan lengan bajunya persis lengan seorang buruh kontraktor pembinaan.

Pelancong Amerika itu menyambut buka bicaraku, memperkenalkan dirinya sebagai Evan, seorang wildcatter yang berasal daripada New Jersey. Dia menganggur hampir dua tahun selepas mendapat ijazah Kesusasteraan Inggeris daripada New York University, angan-angannya untuk menjadi penulis ruangan pojok yang disindiket ke seluruh negara musnah bila berhadapan dengan realiti alam pekerjaan dan kemerunduman penerbitan akhbar di Amerika Syarikat. Nasibnya berubah setelah berjumpa dengan seorang saudara fraternitinya yang bekerja di salah satu telaga minyak di Dakota Utara. Mendengar cerita bagaimana dia boleh mendapat hampir seratus ribu dolar setahun bekerja di telaga minyak, Evan menjual permainan video dan komik yang dikumpulnya sejak berusia belasan tahun; duitnya digunakan untuk membeli peralatan berkhemah dan makanan kering. Kesemua miliknya itu disumbat di dalam sebuah trak pikap yang dulunya milik datuknya dan dia pun memulakan pengembaraannya di Dakota Utara.

"Sekarang ni awak jadi koboi minyak lah?"

Evan tertawa. Dalam dia asyik bercerita riwayat hidupnya padaku, sudah tiga lagi gelas wiski diteguknya. Melihat sandwic tuna lapan lapis aku, dia pun membuat pesanan yang sama. Pingganku sudah licin, tapi sandwicnya masih lagi ada separuh.

"Lebih kurang. Dah lama saya asyik bercerita pasal saya saja. Awak pula? Apa yang awak buat di kota yang hebat ni?" dia mengangkat sepotong sandwic yang digigitnya dengan giginya yang putih teratur.

"Saya pereka laman web," jawabku dengan ringkas. Aku memerhatikan rahangnya yang bersatah bergerak sambil dia mengunyah.

"Kenapa awak pilih untuk datang bercuti ke Malaysia?" tanyaku.

"Mula-mulanya saya ke Bangkok untuk bercuti dua minggu lepas. Awak pernah pergi ke Angkor Wat? Saya ingat tempat tu besar macam yang kita tengok dalam filem Lara Croft tu, tapi sebenarnya taklah besar sangat." dia tertawa.

"Rasanya bukan semua kompleks Angkor Wat tu dah dibaik pulih dan dibuka untuk pelawat," jawabku berdiplomasi. Dia ni sesat kah, dari Bangkok tapi melawat Siem Reap? Atau fail geografi?

"Dan saya sedih pasal tak ada pun patung dewata tu yang terbang," tertawanya lagi. Memang sah mamat ni dah mabuk betul.

Bunyi feedback daripada pembesar suara membingit, menarik perhatianku ke arah pentas kecil yang diduduki pemain double bass tadi. Rupa-rupanya sambil aku berbual dengan mat saleh Amerika ini, Freddy dan rakan-rakannya telah tiba dan menyusun peralatan mereka.

"Tuan-tuan dan puan-puan, inilah - Freddy and the Gang!" umum Jim. Pelanggan-pelanggan yang ada memberikan tepukan yang sambil lewa sambil Freddy mengambil tempat di pentas.

Malam ini Freddy mengenakan seluar sukan putih dengan kasut dan singlet sedondon yang pernah digayakan oleh arwah En. Mercury. Kumisnya disisir rapi, rambutnya yang hitam dan tebal diminyak dan disikat sebiji seperti idolanya itu. Dia memulakan set dengan I was Born to Love You. Lagu tu kegemaran aku sejak darjah dua lagi (ya, aku dah tua!).

"Awak nak menari?"

Keasyikan aku terganggu dengan soalan itu. Evan sudah menghabiskan makanannya dan berdiri tercegat di sebelah aku, sebelah tangannya dihulur, tapak ke atas, dalam isyarat mempelawa yang universal. Aku termangu sebentar; tak pernah aku menari di Jim's.

"Awak nampak suka betul dengan lagu ni. Marilah kita menari," ajaknya lagi. Aku menggelengkan kepala, melihat ketidakstabilan cara dia berdiri. Silap haribulan, dia pening menari lepas tu muntah atas aku. Oh, tidak.

"Tak apalah. Saya cuma suka dengar, saya tak menari," aku terpaksa meninggikan suaraku kerana lagu itu telah sampai ke bahagian gitar elektrik yang mendesing. Evan kembali melabuhkan punggungnya di sebelahku sambil menarik wajah pura-pura merajuk. Alahai, orang dah dewasa kalau merajuk buruk rupanya, bang. Dia memesan lagi wiski daripada Jim dan kembali menghirup minuman kerasnya.

Aku tidak menghiraukan pelancong Amerika itu dan terus menikmati persembahan Freddy dan kugirannya. Setelah habis set kedua, aku terperasan yang Evan telah lama diam. Aku pun menoleh ke tepi, tapi tidak ternampak dia lagi. Ada sesuatu di penjuru mataku membuatkan aku merendahkan pandangan. Rupa-rupanya Evan sudah tersepuk di kaki bar, matanya terpejam. Nasib baik pelanggan di Jim's tidak berapa ramai malam ini; tiada siapa yang terseradung dengan kakinya yang terjulur tak bertulang itu. Bila Freddy habis memainkan Tie Your Mother Down, telingaku dapat menangkap dengkuran halus dari mulutnya yang ternganga sedikit.

"Jim, ada orang dah pengsan," kataku kepada Jim yang sedang mengelap gelas.


"Biarlah. Aku akan kejutkan dia bila nak tutup kedai nanti," kata Jim, acuh tak acuh. Mungkin pemandangan sekujur tubuh berdengkur di lantai pubnya bukan sesuatu yang baru padanya.

Aku duduk mendengar lagi empat lagu yang dialunkan oleh Freddy sebelum rasa gelisahku kembali lagi. Aku menyeluk saku, mengeluarkan beberapa keping not merah yang aku tinggalkan di atas bar. Jim yang sedang berdiri di hujung bar berborak dengan seorang pelanggan lain mengangkat tangan kepadaku apabila aku membuka pintu untuk keluar.

Suasana di kaki lima masih lagi hingar bingar dengan khalayak yang masih lagi memburu hiburan pada malam minggu ini. Aku berdiri sebentar, menghirup udara dan memeriksa iPhoneku untuk sebarang pesanan. Hanya mesej minta nyawa Candy Crush daripada beberapa rakanku. Ah, kalau nak menang sangat, bayar saja lah, rungutku dalam hati dan menyimpan semula tali pusat elektronik itu.

Aku kembali ke jalan besar, memerhatikan kerencaman masyarakat yang masih lagi berpeleseran di tengah kotaraya mega ini. Di seberang jalan ada beberapa kumpulan "anak ikan" berlegar-legar di pintu hadapan kelab gay yang paling popular masa ini. Kesemuanya kelihatan seperti mereka lahir daripada makmal yang sama mengeluarkan bintang K-pop androgini yang digilai ramai mutakhir ini: kulit licin bak telur dikupas, mata yang bundar digaris dengan celak, bibir mungil bak delima merekah, rambut pelbagai warna yang dibentuk styling products seperti ekor merak dicabai.

Salah seorang daripada spesis itu melangkah keluar daripada kelab itu dengan seorang lelaki kulit putih separuh umur yang menggayakan fesyen seolah-olah dia baru melepasi usia remaja. Silaplah, kemeja mahal mana sekalipun tak dapat nak menyelindungi keboroian yang dipam oleh bergelen-gelen bir yang pernah diteguknya. Ada di kalangan anak ikan yang menanti di luar itu menjeling rakan seangkatan yang berpasangan dengan mat saleh berusia itu, seakan-akan cemburu. Pemuda itu berbuat-buat tertawa kepada sesuatu yang dibisikkan oleh mat saleh itu, seakan-akan baru mendengar jenaka yang lebih hebat daripada apa yang disajikan oleh Maharaja Lawak.

Sebuah kereta BMW model baru yang tidak aku cam (macam aku peduli sangat dengan kereta) menderam dengan machonya ke kaki lima. Seorang valet tempat letak kereta melompat keluar daripada tempat duduk pemandu dan membuka pintu kereta itu dengan hormat untuk pasangan itu. Dengan langkah mendada, pasangan mat saleh itu menyelinap di belakang stereng sementara valet itu menutup pintu tempat duduk penumpang untuk mat saleh itu. Buat seketika aku terfikir, siapakah sebenarnya anak ikan dalam hubungan itu? Setelah kedua-duanya masuk, BMW itu memecut ke arah Jalan Ampang dengan ngauman enjin rekaan Jerman.

Aku meninggalkan jalan besar yang dibarisi kladeiskop hiburan kotaraya itu menuju ke rumah sewaku.Tak sampai dua minit aku melangkah, suasana kembali sepi. Kawasan rumah sewaku itu banyak didiami penghuni yang telah menginjak usia emas dengan beberapa pasangan muda yang baru mendirikan rumah tangga dan dua tiga orang bujang seperti aku. Rata-rata mereka membeli flat di situ ketika ia masih murah pada tahun 60an dulu; anak-anak yang sudah berkahwin mencari kediaman lain yang lebih luas dan selesa.

Angin malam membawa bau mawar dan melati daripada pasu-pasu yang membarisi hadapan rumah En. Selvamoney. Isterinya yang mendandan pokok-pokok di blok itu, kebanyakannya bunga-bungaan harum yang diikat menjadi kalungan dan dijual di hadapan kuil Dewa Ganesha dua jalan dari sini. Aku teringat satu insiden sewaktu aku balik daripada sembahyang terawikh dengan rakan-rakan ku dulu. Kami melalui sisi sebuah tapak perkuburan apabila tiba-tiba terbit bau wangi entah daripada mana. Suatu susuk putih dapat dilihat seakan-akan melayang-layang daripada celah-celah nisan yang tersusun rapi.

Rakan-rakanku menjerit-jerit dan mengangkat tapak langkah empat puluh empat melarikan diri. Tinggal aku seorang saja tercegat di situ. Setelah kelibat rakan-rakanku hilang, bunyi hilaian ketawa yang menaikkan bulu roma terbit daripada kawasan perkuburan itu. Dua susuk tubuh yang samar-samar muncul dan melangkah ke arahku, Kak Yong dan sepupuku yang sebaya dengannya, Kak Ton yang berjalan seiringan sambil ketawa berdekah-dekah. Aku tercium bau bunga yang diramas daripada tangan Kak Ton, dan Kak Yong sedang menggulung kain telekungnya yang digunakan untuk menakut-nakutkan kawan-kawanku yang memang pengecut itu.

Tanganku yang gatal memetik sekuntum bunga melur isteri En. Selvamoney dan menghidu harumannya. Kejadian itu telah menaikkan sahamku di sekolah sebagai seorang yang tidak takut dengan jembalang sekalipun. Aku tersenyum sendiri, mengelamun sambil aku menapak naik ke rumah sewaku. Ah Kiong telah mengganti kalimantang di koridor itu, bayang-bayangku sepanjang hantu galah mengekori aku. Aku membuka pintu, menguncinya kembali dan menghempaskan tubuhku atas katil setelah menanggalkan pakaianku yang tepu dengan asap rokok di Jim's.

Malam esok aku akan ke Klang Gate dan menghapuskan kegelisahan yang merengsa di bawah kulitku. Aku memejamkan mata, terlelap dengan imej anak-anak ikan yang lari dikejar harimau dalam kotak fikiranku.

Kisah sebelum ini:

Ironi.
Katakan sayang dengan...
Tidurlah wahai permaisuri
Rezeki
Gig
Belasungkawa

Kisah Cinta Tanpa Nama: Bahagian Dua

( Disunting untuk ketepatan butiran.)

Bahagian 1

Kipas angin di siling bilik guru itu berputar malas, mengitar udara dalam bilik yang dihuni dua puluh orang guru di Sekolah Menengah Perempuan Queen Elizabeth. Jam bermuka putih di atas pintu masuk itu menunjukkan jam empat, hanya tinggal tiga orang guru yang masih lagi di meja masing-masing, asyik melunaskan kerja.

Edith Baumgardner menerima segulung ijazah daripada Mount Holyoake dengan semangat berkobar-kobar untuk mengubah dunia. Apabila terbaca tentang program sukarelawan Peace Corp, Edith dengan pantas mengisi borang dan menghantar permohonannya. Ayah dan ibunya kurang bersetuju dengan tindakan Edith. Ibunya risau yang dia akan dihinggapi malaria dan entah apa lagi penyakit eksotik di negara dunia ketiga; manakala En. Baumgardner mengomel tentang pembaziran wang yuran kolejnya di tempat masyarakat tempatannya masih duduk di atas pokok. Bibirnya mengukir senyuman kecil mengenangkan betapa nyamannya udara di negara tropika ini berbanding musim panas di rumah ibunya di Brooklyn.

Sudah tiga bulan Edith di Malaysia dan dia sedikit pun tidak menyesali pilihannya. Dia sukakan cabaran mengajar di daerah kecil di kaki Titiwangsa ini; bandar kecil ini terlalu sunyi tidak seperti kota New York yang ditinggalkannya. Mengajar empat kelas serentak adalah lebih berat daripada yang dijangkanya, tapi anak-anak gadis yang diajarnya rata-rata bersemangat untuk belajar dan mengambil sepenuhnya peluang untuk mengasah kemahiran bahasa Inggeris mereka. Pelajar begitu membuatkan Edith berasa puas untuk menggalas tanggungjawab sebagai guru di sini.

Pensel di tangannya mengilas kajang di hadapannya. Lakaran kasarnya kini lebih terbentuk, timbul gambaran sebuah poster majlis tari menari. Edith memblok bahagian untuk tajuk posternya dan berdebat jenis font yang terbaik untuk membuatkan posternya itu lebih menarik. Awal tengahari tadi dia telah berbincang dengan jawatankuasa Kelab Kebudayaan yang dikelolakannya. Cadangannya untuk menganjurkan sebuah majlis tari menari untuk mengumpul dana bagi aktiviti Kelab  telah disambut dengan riuh; kesemuanya sebulat suara bersetuju dan mula berbincang apa persediaan yang perlu dilakukan bagi menjayakan majlis tersebut. Setiausaha Kelab dengan lekas telah mengeluarkan kertas kajang untuk mendraf surat memohon kebenaran daripada pengetua sekolah.

Dalam kerancakan AJK Kelab itu membuat perancangan, Edith sedar yang tanpa lampu hijau daripada pengetua, ianya hanyalah angan-angan mereka sahaja. Dalam beberapa pertemuannya dengan Puan Sakunthala, dia mendapat gambaran seorang pentadbir yang tegas tapi boleh dibawa bertolak ansur. Edith mempertimbangkan pendekatan yang perlu diguna pakai olehnya untuk mendapatkan persetujuan Puan Sakunthala dan memutuskan yang dia memerlukan lebih banyak maklumat. Pensel di tangannya diletakkan dan dia berpaling menghadap guru muda yang duduk di penjuru sudut dengannya.

"Cik Lee, boleh saya tanya sesuatu?"

Lee Ai Lin mendongak daripada buku latihan yang sedang ditandanya. Pen dakwat merahnya ditutup kemas agar tidak mencomotkan jari jemarinya. Dia sebenarnya berasa lega dengan pertanyaan guru Peace Corp daripada Amerika Syarikat itu, terasa seperti otaknya sudah beku menanda jawapan kefahaman pelajar kelas tingkatan tiganya itu.

"Ada apa, Cik Baumgardner?" Ai Lin meregangkan jari jemarinya yang lenguh dan memalingkan wajahnya menghadap Edith.

"Tabung Kelab Kebudayaan tu terlalu cetek untuk membuat apa-apa program yang menarik. Jadi, kami bercadang untuk mengadakan satu majlis tari menari untuk mengutip duit untuk tabung kelab. Pada pendapat Cik Lee, agaknya Puan Sakunthala setuju tak nak beri kebenaran untuk kami anjurkan majlis tu?" Edith bangun dan merapati meja Ai Lin. Dia memerhatikan dengan sedikit rasa iri akan rambut Ai Lin yang lurus tersisir rapi di bawah skaf yang sepadan dengan dres hijau air tanpa lengan yang dipakainya. Corak buluh kain dres itu seperti menekankan kelangsingan tubuhnya Ai Lin, menambah kecemburuan Edith.

"Menarik cadangan tu, Cik Baumgardner. Saya rasa, ada kemungkinan yang agak baik untuk Puan Sakunthala memberi persetujuannya. Ini bukanlah majlis tari menari pertama yang diadakan di sini. Tahun lepas ada yang menganjurkan joget lambak di dewan sekolah ni," kata Ai Lin sambil tersenyum.

"Joget lambak tu apa, Cik Lee?"

Ai Lin pun menerangkan konsep majlis joget lambak kepada Edith. Dia siap bangun untuk menunjukkan beberapa langkah tarian joget untuk Edith, menerangkan yang joget adalah tarian yang sopan; pasangan yang menari langsung tidak bersentuhan. Edith menyuarakan kehairanannya tentang bagaimana seorang lelaki dan perempuan boleh menari tanpa memegang tangan sekalipun. Ai Lin tertawa dan berkongsi kisah joget lambak yang dulu sering dikunjunginya semasa dia masih tinggal di Melaka.

"Mungkin kita boleh gabungkan elemen joget lambak dalam majlis tari menari kelab Cik Baumgardner untuk memberi suatu kelainan kepada majlis tu," saran Ai Lin. "Boleh jadi ia akan menarik orang yang tak biasa dengan konsep tari menari Barat untuk turut serta."

"Bagus juga cadangan awak tu, Cik Lee. Kalau awak ada sikit masa, boleh tak kita bincangkan perkara ni dengan lebih lanjut? Saya rasa kami akan perlukan input daripada awak supaya benda ni boleh dijayakan dengan betul. Sekejap, saya nak ambil buku nota untuk tulis saranan dan idea awak," ujar Edith, sambil melangkah ke mejanya. Dia mencapai buku nota kecilnya di dalam laci atas dan sebuah pen yang baru diisi dakwatnya tadi dan kembali ke meja Ai Lin. Ai Lin dengan gembiranya mengenepikan sebentar timbunan buku latihan yang perlu disemaknya dan mereka berdua pun rancak berbincang dan mencatat butiran rancangan untuk menganjurkan majlis tari menari mengumpul dana yang pertama di Sekolah Menengah Perempuan Queen Elizabeth.

Bahagian 1

Kisah Cinta Tanpa Nama: Bahagian Satu

Mentari petang masih lagi terasa keterikannya. Dari jauh, nampak logamaya yang mengapung di atas jalan yang baru diturap itu. Tarnya masih hitam, berkilat, bau likat yang hangit menusuk hidung. Kuli-kuli India yang tadinya meratakan kerikil, menuang tar dan menggeleknya hingga sebati atas jalan itu berbaring-baring di bawah pokok tembusu di simpang itu. Rumput yang terpotong rapi itu tidaklah segebu tilam mahal, tapi cukuplah untuk melabuhkan tubuh yang kepenatan.

Kicauan unggas dan dengung serangga yang menghuni taman dan persekitaran Kelab Sultan Idris itu disulami suara-suara jantan yang rancak berbual dalam bahasa Tamil. Sesekali angin petang meniup mengeringkan keringat, membawa hawa petanda hujan akan tiba malam nanti. Tercium bau kelembapan walaupun mega belum muncul.

Kelab itu pada mulanya didirikan sebagai rumah kelab rekreasi untuk pegawai-pegawai Inggeris yang bertugas di daerah di kaki banjaran Titiwangsa itu. Kekayaan bijih yang dikaut dengan rakusnya oleh Inggeris memastikan yang prasarana kelab itu setanding dengan kelab lain di Georgetown dan Kuala Lumpur. Tiap petang gelanggang tenisnya riuh dengan tawa dan sorakan pemain dan penonton. Setiap pagi Jumaat menyaksikan pelajar-pelajar lelaki di sekolah mubaligh berdekatan belajar berenang dan terjun di papan anjal di kolam renang bersaiz Olimpik di sebelah gelanggang tenis berkembar itu; sekurang-kurangnya tiga orang perenang wakil negeri berasal daripada sekolah mubaligh itu.

Senibinanya mirip rumah kelab golf di Glasgow tempat kelahiran jurubinanya, ciri gothiknya diimbangkan dengan kemasan cat putih yang memberikan gambaran saiz yang lebih besar daripada yang sebenar. Lanskap mukabuminya telah mengubah sebuah kolam tinggal setelah habis bijihnya dilombong menjadi satu pemandangan indah yang boleh dinikmati daripada dewan tari menari dan dewan santapan rumah kelab itu.

Tapi keringnya bijih di kawasan itu selepas Perang Dunia Kedua telah membawa kesepian kehadiran Inggeris di situ. Orang Kaya Jajahan daerah itu mengambil alih pengurusan kelab itu dan dinamakan Kelab Sultan Idris. Langkah pertama yang dilakukan oleh bangsawan itu ialah mengarahkan papan tanda "Europeans Only" di pintu hadapan kelab itu dicabut dan papan itu dibakar. Kini pintunya terbuka kepada bangsawan dan orang ternama tempatan, saudagar-saudagar Cina yang kaya raya dan pegawai-pegawai kerajaan serta keluarga mereka.

Ada suatu binaan yang jauh sedikit daripada bangunan kolam renang bersebelahan dengan garaj kenderaan kelab. Ianya menjadi tumpuan setiap petang Sabtu bagi penggemar tinju; gelanggang tinju di gimnasium itu menjadi medan peninju amatur daerah belatih dan bertanding. Kesemua tingkap dan pintu gimnasium itu terbuka untuk membenarkan angin petang meredakan bahang yang terkuap dalam bangunan itu. Di penjuru tergantung sebuah beg pasir yang sedang terbuai-buai mengikut tumbukan padu yang dilepaskan oleh satu-satunya pengguna gim pada petang itu.

Peninju muda itu tinggi dan kekar, lebih tinggi daripada rakan-rakan sebayanya. Kemeja dalamnya lutsinar dibasahi keringat, melekap, melakar lanskap otot tubuhnya dan bahunya yang lebar. Lengannya berlingkar urat dek kuatnya genggaman penumbuknya. Nafasnya deras dengan setiap tumbukan yang hinggap kepada beg pasir itu. Muhammad Ali berdiri di dinding sebelahnya dengan kedua penumbuk di paras dada, seakan-akan mencabar peninju muda itu untuk beraksi dengannya.

Sepatu di kakinya berdesir dengan setiap tumbukan; jab, cross, hook dan uppercut, silih berganti. Setelah tamat masa yang ditetapkannya di beg pasir, peninju muda itu berhenti. Sederet lima botol Coca Cola tersusun di tepi telah diisi dengan air kosong. Disimbahnya wajahnya yang hangat dan dihirup barang tiga empat teguk untuk melincirkan kerongkongnya yang kering. Dia bersandar sebentar untuk memperlahankan nafasnya yang kencang. Satu jalur sinar matahari yang menembusi tingkap dari sudut ufuk barat menyinari wajah peninju muda itu. Kulitnya sawo matang dan licin; berdahi luas di atas sepasang mata yang dalam letaknya. Bulu matanya yang lebat membuatkan matanya kelihatan seakan-akan digarisi celak tebal; punca dia sering diejek sejak kecil dan menjadi satu pendorong kepadanya untuk menyarung sarung tinju. Hidungnya yang panjang jelas pernah menerima hentakan buku lima yang keras; batangnya sudah tidak lurus dan terbonjol sedikit. Bibirnya jarang mengukir senyuman; tegas peribadinya menyorokkan suatu sense of humour yang menghargai kesinisan dan lelucon mainan kata.

Reda alunan ombak dadanya, dia membuka gulungan pembalut yang melindungi buku limanya daripada kain guni yang meliputi beg pasir itu. Buku tangannya berbelulang, tindak balas pelindungan kulitnya akibat hentaman yang biasa dialami kerana ayunan penumbuknya. Dengan cermat dia menggulung pembalut itu untuk digunakan semasa latihan akan datang, disimpan kemas di sudut simpanan. Dia mencapai tali dan kembali ke kawasan lapang untuk cool down skip 100 kali seperti kebiasaannya.

Peninju muda itu asyik melompat mengikut irama kiraan dalam kepalanya tanpa menyedari dirinya diperhatikan oleh sesusuk tubuh di luar gimnasium itu. Yang empunya mata itu berhati-hati untuk berdiri hampir dengan pohon spruce yang ditanam di perimeter bangunan itu, menyorokkan tubuhnya di bayangan pokok malar hijau itu. Dia memerhatikan peninju muda itu beralih kepada push ups dan sit ups sebelum melakukan latihan kalistenik meregang, mengagumi kekuatan dan kelasakan sang peninju itu yang berlatih dengan penuh dedikasi. Mendengar namanya dipanggil, si pemerhati itu bingkas beralih, meninggalkan peninju muda yang mengelap peluhnya dengan tuala.

Kawanan gagak memanggil-manggil untuk pulang ke sarang mengiringi derap tapak peninju muda itu melangkah ke rumahnya. Angin petang meniup lembut, menyisir rambutnya yang mula kering. Beg sekolah dan peralatan latihannya digalas kemas, berayun dengan irama setiap langkahnya. Peninju muda itu bersiul-siul, meniru siulan serindit. Tenggelam mentari di ufuk barat memberinya bayang yang panjang bak hantu galah, mengekori geraknya pulang di kuarters kakitangan kerajaan yang tidak jauh dari Kelab Sultan Idris.

Dan sang pemerhati menatap lagi daripada tingkap belakang Daimler yang menyusuri jalan ke rumah-rumah banglo di kaki bukit.