Sarong Party Girls

chapter 7

I was still thinking about Big Tongue when I woke up the next morning.

After Charlie chased us out, all of us were so depressed we decided to just go home. We didn’t even have the heart for supper. Charlie was our hero, you know. And she’s secretly screwing a Malay guy? We never would have imagined it. She’s so pretty—she has her pick of all these ang moh guys. Good quality ones some more! So wasted. What would her parents think?

But when I woke up, I understood. Needs are needs. As long as Charlie is not so open about it, fooling around with Big Tongue maybe won’t affect her chances so much. But if it was me, I really don’t know if I could somehow bring myself to do it. Even if no one knows, you yourself will always know. So, somehow you must always maintain standards.

I still remember when we were teenagers and Marina Square was just built—my god, the air-con was so powerful, the cinema was so big, the Isetan there had so many floors and one whole section was filled with all the best makeup counters (Dior, you know—don’t play play!). Sher and all of us just started going there every weekend. At first, it was still quite high-class—mostly families (Singaporeans lah, but at the time we were not so focused on ang mohs yet so it didn’t matter) and teenagers like us. Sometimes the American schoolkids would pop up also, but at that age, they always stuck to themselves and were not so interested in making friends. In fact, if we even said hallo to them they always looked at us a bit shocked, probably wondering how come we don’t understand that we’re too LC to be trying to talk to them. Only the Ozzie international schoolkids might be a bit friendly. But that’s usually because the boys thought we might be an easy snog or something. (Which Fann more than once proved to be true lah. But that’s another story.)

After a while though, all these Ah Bengs started taking over Marina Square! These gangs of guys with their spastic gelled hair and baggy pleated pants and their Ah Lian girlfriends who, even though they’re already sixteen or seventeen years old they’re somehow still choosing to wear Hello Kitty hairclips, just started showing up everywhere. If you go and see a film there, you confirm will find Ah Bengs in the last row talking loudly in Hokkien throughout the show. Sometimes in the food court there were even fights for tables and all—especially near the famous chicken rice stall. So low-class!

We were already considering not hanging out there anymore, especially since the New Paper started doing reports on “Marina Square Kids” after not only Ah Bengs but even their Ah Lian girlfriends started having quarrels and fights all over the place there. When Ah Lians fight, it’s not as happening lah—mostly a lot of shouting about wanting to “whack your face” and then pulling each other’s spiro-perm hair until the Hello Kitty hair clips fly. But some of the Ah Beng fights were actually quite serious—one time, according to the New Paper, one of the guys even pulled out a Swiss Army knife.

But still, habit is habit. So on a Saturday afternoon, if we had nothing to do, then we didn’t mind meeting at Marina Square. One Saturday, Sher and I were sitting outside McDonald’s waiting for Fann. I think we were maybe seventeen years old at the time? Sher was looking chio as usual; me, not so much—I still had a few pimples back then (must carry paper to blot my skin, type). At the time, none of us had handphones, so when Fann didn’t show up after one hour, we panicked a bit. Call her house also got no answer. So we tried calling her pager, which meant that we ended up having to sit next to one of those old orange coin phones to wait for her to call us back. Normally, we didn’t really mind waiting like this. Fann was very often late and Sher and I always could find nonsense to talk cock about for hours. But this time because we had to sit next to the coin phone outside McDonald’s, we were right in the middle of foot traffic. Not only that, it was Ah Beng foot traffic! Normally when we see them we just try to stay out of their way. But McDonald’s is like a giant Ah Beng magnet, man. And if you have two nice-looking girls sitting outside McDonald’s—walao, Ah Bengs confirm will suddenly damn steam. After the fourth oily Ah Beng asked Sher, “Xiao jie, yao bu yao zuo peng you?” I finally couldn’t keep quiet anymore. I know he and his friends and his parents all probably speak Mandarin or Hokkien to each other all the time lah but hallo, doesn’t he have eyes to see that Sher and I were more atas than that? Yah, I mean, my parents still speak Hokkien to each other at home when they don’t want me to understand what they’re saying, but even they know that English is the future. That’s why we always try to speak proper English!

“Be your friend?” I said to the Ah Beng, blinking at him and then quickly looking away sideways before looking back, like you see those bitchy girls do in all those Cantonese TV serials. “Who wants to be your friend? You think we what? Desperate, is it?”

Wah, Ah Beng became damn angry. After his face turned color a bit, he turned around and used his finger to signal his friends to come over from their McDonald’s booth. And once they all stood up, even without hearing the sudden rumble of many many chairs, I realized they were quite a big group. I was a bit scared but I knew that there is one golden rule—unless it’s your own girlfriend, Ah Bengs don’t hit girls. (If this guy had an Ah Lian girlfriend there, then I would really be scared. Girls can always whack other girls, even if it’s not their fight. That’s fair game.) Even though this Ah Beng was angry, I could see that he suddenly remembered that, so he knew he had to back off. Sher stepped in to do what she always does. “Um, sorry ah,” she said, smiling very sweetly at the Ah Beng. “My friend today a bit moody lah. You know, the usual girl stuff.”

Ah Beng was quiet for a bit—his friends were all surrounding him now like idiots, not knowing what to do because they weren’t quite sure what was going on. (I tell you ah, the brainless group mentality of Ah Bengs is always amazing to watch. If I ever meet a professor at Harvard I confirm will tell him to come to Singapore and do a study.) Then Sher extended her right hand and said, “Come, OK, let’s be friends.” Ah Beng’s sour face suddenly disappeared. Now, happy lah—even though it had to come to this, he finally got what he wanted. The fucker smiled and quickly shook Sher’s hand, asking, “What’s your name ah?” Sher just said, “Oh, we are waiting for our boyfriends.” Then, like that Ah Beng lost interest—he just said “Orh” and then walked away, his friends all following behind.

When we discussed it later, Sher actually said, “You know, that Ah Beng was not bad-looking for an Ah Beng.” It’s true lah—when I thought about it, he was tall, skinny, had a Cantopop nose and his hair wasn’t so stiff and poufed up, like all his friends’.

“Aiyoh, Sher—come on lah,” I said. “Ah Beng is still Ah Beng. Once you go with one, you are nothing better than an Ah Lian.”

Which is why, even if it’s a secret, I don’t know if I can ever sleep with a Malay guy. Must always maintain standards.

And this was clearly something Sher never understood, considering the Ah Beng she ended up marrying.

Not that I had a lot of time to sit around thinking about big tongues and Ah Bengs that Sunday morning. Kin Meng this week was on holiday so, feeling super free, he decided to organize a brunch. At first, I was not so interested—his friends are all quite snobby. And they are all Singaporean! If some of them are ang moh, then they at least have some reason to be snobby. But when he told me where they were brunching, I said, OK—set.

By the time I arrived at Relish, the place was already damn happening. I had only been here for dinner once before, on a weeknight some more, but even then I already knew that this one was a potentially good place to meet guys. Bukit Timah neighborhood is where all the expats live, after all—so if you want to meet an ang moh, must sometimes come and just casually hang out where they go and makan, pretend like you always hang out there. No pressure, just smile sweetly, act like you belong, then maybe you can make some friends. And Relish is one of those places—casual restaurant with good pastas and burgers. Both of those things are what ang mohs like to eat, so confirm Relish is a good place to go. The one time I went, Sher and I decided to just go and have girls’ night dinner by ourselves—the scene was quite slow; some more it was mostly filled with families or couples. “Maybe lunch or brunch better,” she whispered to me, after we spent all night looking at cute guys who, if we met them at Harry’s or Clarke Quay maybe would buy us a drink, but with their girlfriends or wives around? Forget it—please, they confirm don’t even dare look at us.

Kin Meng and his friends all live in Bukit Timah—all born rich, Anglo-Chinese School boys lah—so they were all regulars at Relish, usually for dinner with their wives. When I got there, they were all at their usual table all the way in the back—good spot for people watching. From that back center table you can see everyone who walks into the restaurant—and then you can quickly decide whether you want to make eye contact and say “Hi” or not. The restaurant is on the second floor of this old colonial townhouse so the windows are quite big, got a lot of light type—very easy to spot anyone you want to talk to. Some more in the center usually there’s a display of cakes or some shit so you can use that as an excuse to get a closer look at people at the restaurant—and I guess, the cakes also lah.

I’ve only known Kin Meng a few years—he’s an old friend of Louis’s. Once Kin Meng got promoted to managing director of his shipping company then he started having to travel and entertain clients a lot and go to KTV lounges all the time. After going to a KTV lounge, he said, regular clubs at Clarke Quay were boring lah! It’s so much easier after all to be able to pay a chio girl to sit with you for a few hours, listen to you talk cock and laugh at all your jokes. No strings attached. So we stopped seeing him so much after that. But he and I always got along quite well so I don’t mind keeping in touch, even though he’s married (and Singaporean).

Kin Meng stood up when I got to the table so he could give me a hug and a kiss. “Hi babes, how are you?” he said. Wah, this uncle today was damn stylo—wearing loose, tailored white cotton cargo pants, brown Gucci sandals (got logo all) and a tight white V-neck T-shirt. His hair, as usual, was only slightly gelled and combed all the way back like Chow Yun-Fat in The God of Gamblers.

“Eh, where’s your wife?” I asked.

“Mah-jongg,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know how much she’s going to lose today, man. Fuck.”

Kin Meng’s wife ah, is really mah-jongg queen. She started playing when he got promoted and had to travel a lot—everyone needs a way to pass the time, that’s what she said. So even though Kin Meng told her that hallo, there are other ways to pass time—for example, maybe she can be like other bored tai-tais and take a flower-arranging course or volunteer at some bullshit charity? Or maybe she can get pregnant? But his wife doesn’t want to lose her figure—or freedom—yet. So even though they talk about having a kid nonstop also in the end, it’s all lumpah pah lan. Balls bang your cock until both stop motion—no matter what you do, there’s no movement anywhere, the outcome also the same. In the end, nothing happens. Just frustration. So, like that lah. No kids, but got lots of mah-jongg. And from the way Kin Meng talks about it, also got lots of money exiting his bank account.

Kin Meng sat back down at the table, in the center of everything as usual. I said hi to Ramesh and his wife, Heidi, some American-born Chinese that Ramesh met at uni in California and somehow managed to persuade to come back to Singapore with him. George, this guy who’s the fucking snobbiest one of them all, was there also. He works for some theater company or some shit—and he even has a power British accent all, calling it “theea-TAH” instead of “tear-TERR.” His wife, Susan, was there also—not that it mattered. I think in all the years that I’ve known her, I’ve only heard her voice three times. Each time for some stupid cock reason like, asking me if I can pass the chili sauce or something.

I got there so late that everybody had ordered already—Kin Meng even ordered for me, said he remembered that I like eggs Benedict or some shit. I don’t really care lah. Unless it’s at a hawker center, food is just food. All ang moh food is quite the same to me. No matter what it is, put chili sauce on top, then everything will be shiok.

At least that is my strategy now. The first time I went to an ang moh restaurant I still didn’t know this because I was quite young. It was Imo’s birthday and we were all in Primary Two. Her mum had this idea to bring us all out for a nice lunch at the Dynasty Hotel on Orchard Road after school—at the time I didn’t know anything about such places. Imo had been to places like that before lah—not often but at least once or twice with her parents. But the rest of us were still quite toot. (Come to think of it, I’m not sure whether my parents have still ever been to a Western restaurant in an atas hotel—got cold air-con, use fork and knife to eat type of place.) From the moment we walked in though, I wanted to walk out. The restaurant was so beautiful! Everything smelled like air freshener—and not the cheapo metallic kind that really hits your nose if you get too close to the dangling Christmas tree in taxicabs, but like actual roses or something. In fact, the restaurant had vases of flowers all around so after a while I wondered, eh, maybe it wasn’t even air freshener. Until that moment, I hadn’t even considered that there are some flowers that actually can smell like perfume.

I remember it being really hot that day, so hot that my school pinafore and white blouse had that thick, sour smell from morning sweat drying then mixing with early afternoon sweat. Even my ponytail was greasy. So greasy that I could taste it when I chewed on the tip of it—something I only did when I was nervous. But that day I was damn fucking nervous.

The waiters all wore ties; the waitresses had nice black dresses and deep red lipstick. Everyone had very clean fingernails and everything was quite quiet. We could hear some violins or classical shit playing in the background. When I touched the edges of the white tablecloth before we sat down, the corners made me think of the sharp origami cranes Cikgu Hamidah had just taught us to make in art class. Sher, Fann and I didn’t really know what to do so we just followed everything Imo did and let her mum handle everything.

“You girls like sausages, right?” Auntie said. “Like hot dogs but without the bun?” We all just nodded. Since Auntie was paying, whatever she wants, of course we will just follow along.

Auntie had invited one of her girlfriends to come, so once she ordered the sausage plate—no soft drinks because, as she noted, one lousy Sinalco was four dollars each! — for all of us, the two of them just sat in a corner and started yapping. The rest of us were just left alone. Usually, the four of us always had a lot to talk about. There were the St. Michael’s boys on the bus, of course—all of us at the time were wondering whether Simon, the Eurasian boy in Primary Four, would ever notice us—and our stupid teachers, especially Mrs. Ting, who always made us do extra sit-ups in PE because she probably knew we stuck out our tongues at her whenever she turned her back. And actually, that year we had just started playing dirty Barbie—the week after exams were over we always were allowed to bring toys and books to share with each other. At that time, no matter how poor you were, you also got at least one Barbie. It’s the one toy all parents, even if you are working in a longkang shit job, also know that you must buy for your daughter. So when we could bring toys, we all brought our Barbies to school. Since we were still quite young at first, our Barbie games were still decent. Actually, when I think back to that time I also don’t remember what was so fun about it—we just sat around combing our doll’s hair and exchanging clothes. For fuck? But in Primary Two, Jill Ong’s mum bought her a Ken doll. At first we just had the Barbies all fighting for his attention but then one day Veera Yap brought in a magazine she found under her parents’ bed. Wah—naked pictures of women all over the place! Some also had men in the photos, rubba-ing here and there. We weren’t quite sure what was going on but I remember it making us feel very excited, even though we didn’t know why. Set lah! After that our Barbie storylines suddenly became damn happening. For some of them we even called Ken “Simon.”

These kinds of topic, though, how to discuss in such a nice restaurant? So the four of us just sat there—Imo looking at me, me looking at Sher, Sher looking at Fann, that kind of stupid thing. All of us were also not sure what to do. That’s mainly what I remember about the lunch—I can’t even recall what the sausages tasted like, whether Imo’s one slice of nine-dollar black forest birthday cake that we all shared was good or not. I just remember feeling scared.

All around us, everyone was so proper. And there I was in my lousy pinafore and my moldy school blouse. I bet the waitress could smell me. If I could definitely smell myself—I forgot about the nice lunch that day and was wearing the one blouse that was starting to get yellow stains at the armpits—then so could she. Die lah.

I had never been around so many ang mohs before—and all were so nicely dressed! Not like those tourists in shorts and slippers that you sometimes see at the botanical gardens. No, these ang mohs were all tall, looked damn smart, wear glasses type. The guys were all good looking—not say cute like Scott Baio but good-looking in a normal way. And not too hairy. Or red-faced and pig-nosed. The women looked so sweet; each handbag next to them had a shiny logo. Everyone was smiling, quietly chitchatting. Sometimes you could hear a bit of soft laughter—the refined kind, not like those noisy Ah Cheks in kopitiams who, I tell you, if one of them tells some joke, then the whole gang of them will start shouting and laughing so loud that even if you’re on the tenth floor, you confirm also can hear.

I guess it was then that I realized. I told myself, Jazzy, if you are going to want anything in life, this is what you should want. All this—this world.

Which is why even if I think Kin Meng’s friends are all jokers, if they are meeting in Relish then I don’t mind coming. This is the life, this is the world. Once my eggs Benedict came I decided to try and at least be nice and make some conversation. Not that they really asked me about my job or that I remembered anything that they said lah. But still, it was nice. For an hour, at least I could somewhat pretend that I already belong.

On the way home, in Kin Meng’s new Mercedes SUV, I was still thinking about brunch. The bright airy restaurant, sunlight coming in the large colonial windows, the clean white furniture that was atas country house — style, like the ones you see in those actor’s houses in Vogue. Kin Meng had the air-con on so high in his car I wish I’d brought a sweater. “Why—cold ah?” he said, leaning to press a button. The leather seat underneath me started to throb.

“Crazy ah,” I said, laughing a bit. “Singapore so hot—why the fuck do you need seat warmers?”

“They offered what—so why not?” he just said, pulling down his Dolce & Gabbana aviators from the top of his head and turning to smile at me. “Also, hello—it’s called foreplay.” I whacked him on the arm.

I was looking out the window, watching the wide sleepy Bukit Timah streets roll by. On each median the grass was perfectly green, each tree was evenly spaced apart, all bushes were nicely shaped. Yah lah, the government street workers really know how to take care of landscaping everywhere—even in my longkang housing estate, lorries of Malay workers come by once every two weeks to prune everything. But somehow in the expat neighborhoods the bushes always seemed more perfectly round, the trees fuller, the grass brighter.

I didn’t feel like talking but didn’t want Kin Meng to think I was treating him like a taxi uncle. “How’s work?” I asked.

“Busy, but boring,” he said, sighing. “Clients keep coming in. Night after night I have to go to KTV lounges—after a while, even that can become damn boring. Also, must be careful lah—you see the same girls over and over again. Give them the wrong impression only. Uncle over here is not the ‘Let’s be texting friends, I buy Gucci for you’ type. Please, I already have one of those bossy women at home.”

This one, I knew was not entirely true—the last time I saw Kin Meng, we were having a beer at Bar Bar Black Sheep, this outdoor pub in Bukit Timah that was kind of like an ang moh kopitiam. Guys in slippers and shorts were sitting by the roadside on British pub-style benches, having an early Sunday beer with chips. Even though they were by a longkang, this was still atas in a way. No nose digging or foot scratching. The conversation was civilized. I can’t remember how Kin Meng and I got on the subject—not hard, actually, considering it’s his favorite topic—but he was telling me about the KTV lounges he was going to these days.

“Eh—how? Cute or not?” he had said after we’d been sitting for half a pint and he’d already finished his first cigarette. Kin Meng pulled out his iPhone, swiped the screen with his finger a few times before showing me a photo. The girl was one of the more high quality ones, I could tell—fair skin, but just dark enough to be a bit Korean-ish. For a long time, the Japanese girls used to be the most expensive—if you go to any KTV lounge, if the menu has Japanese girls, then you’d better make sure you have a platinum card. If not, maybe you can settle for the Japanese-looking girls—white white complexion, eyes big big one. If she has a dimple on one cheek—wah, those are the best. (Those look the most like porny schoolgirls in Japanese blue movies.) But these days, with K-pop girl bands and all, the Korean-Korean look was starting to become damn happening in clubs and KTV lounges. Long light brown hair, wispy fringe falling all over your face, sort of fair skin, big eyes, full lips—those were the girls that were now making guys like Kin Meng steam.

I looked at the girl—she looked like she was about sixteen. Her face was tilted to one side so her fringe was draped over one eye; her dark pink glossy lips formed an O, as if she was sucking a lollipop that wasn’t there.

“Steam, right?” he said, taking the phone back from me, looking at it and letting out a big sigh. Then he swiped his finger across the screen again and handed it back to me. “This one also not bad.”

A different girl this time—same complexion, with a little darker hair but with her head tilted the same way so hair fell over the side of her face. This one had a demure slight smile; the way her eyes looked up in the camera, I could almost imagine her peeking up at a client, offering herself.

“Akiko,” Kin Meng said. “We all know she’s not Japanese, of course. The moment she opens her mouth, hello, anybody can tell she’s just Chinese. But she told us she chose the name to fit her bedroom personality. Wah—with a girl like that, how not to steam?”

Now, I don’t care about Kin Meng in that way lah—and I definitely heck care about his gambling den wife so I don’t give a shit who he’s fucking. But I didn’t know that KTV girls were so daring—sending pictures to clients and all. Wasn’t the point of a KTV lounge that it’s a one-time business transaction kind of thing?

“Oi, Kin Meng—how come you have all these pictures of KTV girls? Your girlfriends ah?”

“No lah—crazy!” he said, quickly taking his phone back from me. “Just text buddies. These are their WhatsApp profile photos. Now and then, if I’m bored, I’ll just send them an SMS. Just flirt flirt only. No harm.”

No harm? As if it wasn’t enough that we had all these guniangs in clubs and bars to compete with and the China girls coming over to spoil our market. Now we have to think about KTV girls trying to climb their way out of their lousy lives by stealing decent guys like Kin Meng?

“But these girls are so dirty! Don’t you know how many guys they entertain each night?” I asked. “Why don’t you just do the usual thing and get a regular girlfriend?”

Kin Meng laughed so hard he snorted. “Aiyoh, Jazzy. These KTV girls are pros!”

I must have looked confused—after all, yeah, who wouldn’t know these KTV girls are working girls? What do you think? They are rubba-ing you because they genuinely like your backside, is it?

Kin Meng took out another cigarette and lit it, putting both elbows on the table and leaning forward to get closer, looking serious for a moment.

“You see, it’s very simple,” he said. “Girlfriends? Please. They’re too much work! Especially Singaporean girls—whatever you give them, they just keep expecting more. And if it lasts longer than a few months, forget about it—either they want you to leave your wife, they get jealous if you go to a KTV lounge or go out with other girls when your wife lets you out of the house, or you end up paying big bucks. The presents they expect will only get bigger the longer you are fucking them.”

He stopped to take a long drag from his ciggie before shaking his head and continuing. “Even the Malaysian girls these days are getting to be more like Singaporeans. It’s all too much. But these KTV girls—so sweet, so friendly. When you text them just to say hi and chitchat a bit, they confirm will text you right back. And they know the boundaries. I tell you, if they bump into you on Orchard Road on a Sunday when you’re out with your wife, they won’t even look you in the eye. They’ll walk right by you like you’re any other guy on the street. Like I said—they are pros.”

Until then, I hadn’t even considered KTV girls seriously when we were watching out for all the women getting in our way. But clearly I had been wrong.

“But aren’t you afraid they’ll get too attached to you and start expecting things?” I asked. “I mean, even KTV girls still have that Pretty Woman dream of meeting a rich guy and getting married and all, right?”

Kin Meng laughed again. “Of course lah—girls everywhere, all the same one. But you have to just manage their expectations.” The way he was talking, I could see how he’d risen so far up in his company.

“You see, the girls only get attached if you form a professional relationship with them—if you just text them now and then, it’s no problem. But if you go and keep requesting the same girl each time, for example, you’re just asking for trouble. After a while, they start to feel like you’re a ‘couple’ or some shit like that—then if you go sometime and decide you want a different girl, my god, sometimes they’ll give you a pouty face and all. Kani nah—if you let it get to that point, it is all habis already.”

“But don’t you go and… you know?” I asked, pushing my fist in the air a few times to illustrate a bit, just in case he didn’t understand me. “That level of girl—they’re all looking for rich guys. Even if you just pok them one time and start texting them after, wouldn’t they still think you want something more, no?”

“That’s why you must be smart,” Kin Meng said, shaking his head as if I’m so toot. “I never fuck those girls. The most I’ll do is get a Japanese bath. They just strip me, bathe me and, aiyah, you know lah. Like that, I can still come home and answer questions honestly. A blow job, some people still consider is sex but jerking you off—confirm is not sex! When wifey actually bothers to come home from her mah-jongg game and ask me whether I did anything bad, I can honestly say ‘No.’ ”

In Kin Meng’s car, I thought about reminding him about this conversation and all his photos and KTV text buddies. But he was in such a good mood, I thought maybe better not. But I did want to ask him something though.

“Kin Meng—at these KTV lounges, do they allow girls to come inside?” I had been thinking that I’d never been to one. But so many guys I know—and probably guys that I want to know in the future—go to KTV lounges all the time. Maybe if I see it once, I can at least understand the system a bit.

“My god, no lah,” he said. “Other girls are competition for their business! Unless… it’s a work situation. You know how it is—nowadays there are women managers and everything. Sometimes we cannot help it. Must let them in otherwise they might scream sexual discrimination or some shit like that. KTV entertaining is business, after all. The lounge managers don’t like it, but they know they have to let them in sometimes.”

This was my chance. “Bring me,” I said.

Kin Meng turned to look at me. “You serious? Why?”

“I just want to see. Why not, right?”

He was quiet for a bit. I was just thinking he was going to just say no.

“You can behave or not?” he asked.

Wah, guniang here was damn surprised. Of course I nodded.

“You’ll dress exactly as I tell you and do everything I say?” he said. “If so, I could actually use a non-KTV girl in the group for some clients I need to bring out tomorrow night. See how.”

Set lah!

After that I quickly switched the subject so he couldn’t change his mind. But when Kin Meng dropped me off at my block, he kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll text you tomorrow, babes.”

Walking through the gray concrete void deck underneath my apartment block, past the wrinkled uncles playing Chinese checkers, past the aunties burning joss paper offerings in the giant red communal barrels by the dustbins, I began to wonder what the scene would be like at a KTV lounge. If going to Lunar and seeing those shameless China girls was already so terrible, leaving us all feeling so bad, then wouldn’t a KTV lounge be worse?

But Jazzy, I thought, you cannot be so scared. Must “yong gan de zhou.” Bravely walk.

Thinking about our mums—maybe not Imo’s but definitely mine, Sher’s and Fann’s—they just did the same thing their mums did. They all had the same boring tunnel-visioned approach to finding a suitable man and figuring out the husband landscape. So in the end, nothing happened for them! They never went anywhere. They just ended up having the same lousy lives that their mums had. And now Sher was doing the exact same thing. I can tell you her Ah Huat is never going to bring her to brunch at Relish. Ever.

Just thinking about Relish made me happy again—so white, so clean, so perfect. Then the lift doors in my building opened and some small sweaty fat fuck ran out, almost knocking me over. His mum just casually walked behind him, not even bothering to apologize. When she noticed that I was staring at her, she just stared back and said, “Got problem is it?” and walked away.

Getting into the tiny five-person lift, I could feel the air, hot and sticky, seeping into my hair. As the lift went up, floor by floor, I felt like I was swallowing warm clouds of urine and cigarettes. Bloody hell. And as usual, when I got to the flat, before I could even open the door, just from the turn of my door key, it all started back up again.

“Ah Huay?” my mum shouted from all the way back in the kitchen. “Finally come home already ah?”