Murky Clarity

Tender Moments: The Alphabet I Propose

A is for the things I’m about to say
B is the book you pretend to read, but you’re listening anyway.

C is for the comfort I feel in your embrace
D is the dreams we share across time and space

E is for the emotions that I feel
F is for feeling those emotions for real

G is the gratitude I have inside
H is the honor of having you by my side

I is for inviting me into your heart
J is the joy you bring me, right from the start.

K is for all the kisses we will share
L is for later, in some room, somewhere.

M is the midnight drives for a cup of coffee
N is “No, I love you, but I will not drink coffee!”

O is for omitting all my flaws
when describing me to your Parents, my future in-laws.

Q is the Question I’m about to ask
R is a reminder that I’m saving it for last.

S is the secrets we hide from each other
T is the trust regardless, it feels me with wonder.

U is for understanding things will never be perfect
V is the vices you have learned to accept.

W is the wobbling of my knees when you are near
X is the XXX things we will indulge in, my dear.

Y is for you, always you, my love
Z is the zero that I am, but you carry me with the wings of a dove.

Now you know my ABC,
Please, dear heart, will you marry me?

Tender Moments: Gravity

 

Dearest heart,

I have no idea if this letter will ever reach you. Even if it does, chance are, you will not even unseal the envelope. But I have to write this. I have to write this for us. I have to write this for you.

Most of all, I have to write this for me.

I have stopped counting the days since we stopped being 'us'. I have stopped fearing the nights with the inevitable dreams that jerk me awake in sweat and tears. I have stopped worrying about the days that feel incomplete without hearing you laugh. I have stopped counting the days and fearing the nights, but I will always remember the exact date, the exact time, the exact look in your eyes when the threads that bound us unraveled, the frayed edges burned, never to be rewoven.

We used to believe that our paths were connected for eternity, that we were each other's strength, that our weaknesses were negligible so long as we were together. It was you and me against the world, remember? You said those words to me the night I sat on your car, my legs dangling in aimless swings, and you were leaning against the side, staring at the few stars that were not hidden behind storm clouds. You and me against the world.

Now it's just me and the world.

Without you.

People around me assured me that time would heal my bleeding heart, that my memories would one day hurt less and less. I repeated those assurances in my head over and over and over, so that maybe if I repeated those words enough, the lies would eventually become the truth. For a while, I started believing, until the moment I saw someone who looked like you.

Every shadow that shadows your figure, every face that looks familiar, every laugh that sounds similar, it still sends my heart fluttering like a caged hummingbird. I berate myself later, every time this happens, but my heart refuses to listen. It still skips a beat at the mere hope of running into you again, seeing you well, seeing you happy.

Because I want you to be happy. God, we did not end in good terms, but it doesn't change the fact that I want the best for you. I used to think every chance of seeing you would mean a chance for us to patch things up, to start fresh. Now, however, I just want to see you living well.

Even this far apart, even though I am lost in the endless depth of space, I can still feel the pull of your gravity. When we were together, that very gravity kept me grounded, sheltered, protected.

It kept me grounded.

I forgot that I was always meant to fly.

I remember that I always hid in your shadow. I used to think that it was because you were bigger than life, that every light shone on you, so that your shadow was larger than everything else. That knowledge brought me comfort. Now that I can no longer seek that comfort, I have come to realize that you kept me in your shadow because if I stood alone, I would not have stolen your light, but I would have become a sun, and my light would have outshone you.

The more time I spend on my own, the more I realize that God had never meant for us to be together until the end of time. God brought us together so that I could learn the value of friendship, of companionship, of love, of trust, and of the strength I have without having to rely on others.

I write this letter not in the hopes of your reading this, but in the hopes that I will heal. That I will move on. That whenever I see someone that reminds me of you, my heart will still flutter, but in such a way that the flutter brings comfortable warmth.

And I will always love you.

 

 

 

Tender Moments

Raya. A time for family. A time for celebration. A time for forgiveness.

At least that's what advertisements keep saying. I've never believed in advertisements. People have a way of making things seem much better than they really are.

I slouch on the sofa beside Abah, whose face is hidden behind the newspaper. Since he retired, this has been his routine, every day at ten in the morning. He even sits in the same position: leaning back with his right ankle on his left knee, the newspaper opened wide in front of him. The only difference is today he's wearing a navy-blue baju melayu, complete with a silver-threaded songket and a blue-black songkok.

Mira is lying on her belly in front of me, her head propped up using a cushion folded in half. She's fourteen, but she hasn't outgrown Raya morning cartoon specials. Tika is beside her, in exactly the same position. Identical twins. I can never understand them. They're wearing matching baju kurung, with white floral-prints on a navy-blue base. Ibu is wearing the same thing, only she's tailored hers into a kebaya instead of baju kurung.

Guess what I'm wearing. Yep. Even at twenty-two, I'm wearing baju melayu that matches the rest of my family, with a songket the exact pattern Abah has. But I refuse to wear a songkok, and after years of squabbling with my parents, it's my one small victory. Not that I have a say in this 'Raya uniform' matter. Six months before Raya, Ibu had already bought swaths of linen and silk to be sent to her tailor. She does this every year. To the same tailor who's been sewing our attires since I was four.

Guess how old she is.

I play 'Patapon' on my PSP, partly because I'm not into the cartoon the girls are watching--Barbie or Tinkerbell, with fairies prancing around--and partly because I have no choice but to sit here in the living area. Raya is a time for family, remember? Ibu is in the kitchen preparing a proper breakfast with Bibik. Her name is Kartika, but I've called her Bibik since I first learned to talk. Ibu said Bibik was my first word. Guess how disappointed she was. Bibik's our nanny and maid, but none of us see her that way. She's more like an aunt, a permanent fixture in the house. Ibu even ordered a baju kurung for her that matches the other ladies in the house.

The spicy scent of beef rendang being heated on the stove wafts into the living area. My stomach growls. I've had some lemang with serunding before going to the mosque at eight-thirty for the Eidulfitri prayer, but lemang doesn't taste right with floss beef. I can also catch a whiff of lontong and kuah kacang. We used to eat them with ketupat, but since none of us had deigned to learn the art of coconut-leaf-weaving from my late grandparents, we have to settle for instant rice cakes.

"Ibu," I call out without taking my eyes off the PSP. "Can we eat now?"

"Yeah, can we?" say Mira and Tika at the same time. Twins, I tell you.

"In a bit," Bibik says. You'd think, after over twenty years living here, Bibik's Javanese accent would have been obliterated. But no. Her Malay still has a certain twang.

"I'm hungry!" I say. And I'm not kidding.

Abah chuckles, sending the newspaper shaking.

"Abang," Tika suddenly says, kicking my shin. "Isn't that Kak Intan?"

The mere mention of her name sends my heart thumping. But I play it cool. "Where?" I ask, feigning nonchalance. I've been getting better at it, of late.

"TV," Mira answers.

I move my head a fraction to look at the LED TV bolted onto the wall. Play it cool.

Remember what I said about advertisements making things look better than they really are?

Scrap that.

Intan looks exactly as I remember her, even with her subtle makeup and her loose curls oh-so-professionally done. In this advertisement she's wearing a peach summer dress that accents her lean figure. The guys are ogling after her. Of course they are. This is Intan I'm talking about.

The same Intan who broke my heart when she ended our relationship after graduating from secondary school.

I've seen her in TV commercials and on billboards. She's the 'it' girl in KL fashion scene. I even heard MTV scouts had approached her last year. Because MTV VJs are all Eurasians. But she turned them down. She wanted to concentrate on her modelling career.

Of course I know all this about her even though we haven't spoken for almost four years. This is Intan I'm talking about. I've followed her web presence like a bloodhound.

I'm pathetic. I know.

"Let her go, Fiq," Abah says.

I turn to look at him. The newspaper half facing me has been dog-eared inward so that Abah can look at me directly. His face is stren, but he has that look that tells me he understands.

"I have," I say. I turn oh-so-slowly back toward the TV.

No matter how much you tell yourself you've moved on, there will always be that one person who makes your heart flutter whenever you hear their name being uttered, when you catch a glimpse of them, however fleeting.

For me, Intan is 'it'. She has always been my 'it' girl, way before the world discovered her. And she always will be.

Within seconds the advertisement ends, and another one takes over. The story of my life.

"Food's ready," Ibu calls out from the kitchen.

The girls are the first to rise. They scamper like six-year-olds to the dining table. Abah folds his newspaper neatly and places it on the coffee table. I stay glued on the sofa, my PSP forgotten on my lap.

"You'll find another girl," Abah whispers and squeezes my shoulder.

"You're right," I say. I smile at him.

But what if I don't want there to be another girl? This is Intan I'm talking about.

I finally rise from the sofa. My joints feel stiff. My whole body feels numb. Will I ever recover from this?

But what if I don't want to recover?

Just as I'm about to go to the kitchen, my handphone in my front pocket blares and vibrates. It plays one of the songs from Glee. The number on the screen is not in my contact list.

"Hellop?" I say.

"Selamat Hari Raya, Fiq."

I freeze where I stand, with one foot in the air.

"Fiq, you there?"

"How did you know my number?" I ask. My heart is doing backflips now. Even her voice is the way I remember it, soft, wispy, dreamy.

"It's the same number," Intan says. "How can I forget?"

"Why are you doing this to me?" I ask. I didn't mean to say it out loud, but I breathe easier after saying it.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted--I thought of you and--I just wanted to say Selamat Hari Raya."

"You still think of me?" It's amazing how my mind can still work.

"Yes."

I've always wanted to hear her say that. I dreamed of it. I fantasized it. But hearing her say it doesn't make it real.

"I thought you have a boyfriend now?" One after another, all models, all much taller and better-looking than me.

"Friends. I've never had a boyfriend. Not after you."

"Oh." Yes. My mind is still working, but my tongue has decided to play dumb.

"Well," Intan says. "I just wanted to wish you and your family a happy Raya. And I wanted to say sorry for what I did to you. Bye, Fiq."

"Wait," I blurt out.

"Hmm?" she says.

"Selamat Hari Raya to you too." I stop talking. For a few precious seconds, I stop breathing. "I miss you."

"I miss you too." Her voice breaks when she says that.

"Do you think--is it possible--forget it."

"Can I see you over coffee?" Intan asks. Intan, not me. "Starbucks? I'll buy you a venti caramel frappucino."

My greatest weakness, after Intan. "How can I say no to Starbucks?"

"Good. Selamat Hari Raya, Fiq."

"You too."

She disconnects the line.

My heart still thumps so wildly my chest hurts. But it's a good kind of pain.

Raya. A time for family. A time for celebration. A time for forgiveness.

Maybe the advertisements are right.

Tender Moments

That Saturday afternoon was perfect for postcards -- brilliant sky, clouds scattered like streaks of white paint, and the sun beaming down with all its glory. I hated it. In postcards you don't get to feel the heat coming from the sky, from the streets, and reflected off buildings. My T-shirt slurped with every movement, and beads of sweat trickled down the small of my back.

"Min, c'mon." Jin-Wei beckoned me to cross the street, where the pedestrian light had just turned green.

I hated the heat, but I loved hanging out with Jin-Wei more. There was no contest. I took his hand and we ran like children, laughing, even though there was ample time left for us to cross. People turned and gave us a funny look. Both of us were sixteen; we had a right to act like children whenever we felt like it.

Jin-Wei didn't let go of my hand even after we made it across the street. God, his skin was so much fairer than mine, almost pale, and I'm fair for a Malay girl. Such contrast to the leather bands he wore around his wrist. He had a firm grip, but gentle at the same time. I could feel the calluses at his fingertips, but the rest of his palm was soft. The checkered shirt he wore, it was my birthday gift to him. He shouldn't have worn it in this heat, but somehow he loved the shirt.

"What?"

"What what?" I asked him back.

Jin-Wei grinned. "You were staring at my head."

"I like your new haircut." It suited him. Short at the sides, messy on top.

"Twelve ringgit. Not bad, huh?" He was still grinning.

"Where are we going? Please tell me there's air-conditioning."

"You're cute when you whine, you know that?"

I stopped and stuck my tongue out.

"C'mon. It's not that far."

We weaved through a throng of humanity along Petaling Street. I couldn't figure out why people wanted to walk about in this heat. Those who didn't wear shades narrowed their eyes to slits. The streets were no less busy. Honks blared, motorcycles sped by, and buses spluttered black exhaust clouds. I kept close to Jin-Wei and kept my own grip firm. I didn't want to lose him in this forest of strangers.

Jin-Wei stopped in front of a shop that must have been built long before Malaysia got its independence. The white paint had peeled off in patches. Guitars covered most of the walls, from shades of brown to colorful ones (there was even a pink guitar). As if the place wasn't crowded enough, I saw at least four pianos crammed at the back.

Jin-Wei raised his free hand to greet a bald man with thick glasses sitting behind the counter. His Pagoda T-shirt looked worn. "Hi, Uncle."

"Aiyah, you said you'd come last week." He looked more like a grandpa than an uncle, even though I was pretty sure he and Jin-Wei weren't related, their exchange told me Jin-Wei frequented this shop. "Who's this leng loi?"

I knew enough Cantonese to understand "pretty girl". I must have blushed, because both the old man and Jin-Wei grinned.

"Min, this is Uncle Chan. Uncle, this is my girlfriend. You replaced the tuning keys?"

"Long time ago. You sure you don't want a new guitar?"

"Nah. They don't sound right."

I suddenly felt out of place. This was Jin-Wei's private world, and I felt like an intruder. I didn't belong here. "I'm going to wait outside."

My anxiety must have shown because Jin-Wei immediately stepped behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders. "Don't. I want to show you something. Uncle, like usual?"

The old man returned to reading his newspaper and gave a lazy wave.

"C'mon." Jin-Wei led me toward the back of the shop. He stopped in front of an upright piano. He pointed at the bench with his chin. I could make out a shadow of a stubble on his otherwise smooth face. "Sit down."

I did as he asked, not knowing what was happening, and he plopped down beside me. He flexed his fingers and spread them on the keyboard.

"I thought you play the guitar?" I hooked my hair with my fingers and let it rest in front of my right shoulder.

"I like it when you do that."

"What?"

"Play with your hair when you're nervous."

"I don't--" Then I realized I was still combing my hair with my fingers.

"Anyway, I'm the only child in a Chinese family. Of course I play more than one instrument." Somehow he didn't sound cocky when he said this. "Promise me you won't laugh." Jin-Wei closed his eyes, bit his bottom lip, and launched into a song that I immediately recognized.

What I didn't expect was his voice.

 

I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand

Jin-Wei's voice was light and pure. He pulled me in and held me in a thrall.

I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete

Nothing else existed, only his voice, his dimpled cheeks, and his endless lashes. I stopped moving. The world stopped moving. Only the song existed.

Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?

Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
So why don't we go

This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?
Somewhere only we know

This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go,
Somewhere only we know,
Somewhere only we know,
Somewhere only we know.

He sang the last two lines without playing the piano, his voice a soft whisper, his eyes closed. Only after he finished did I realize I had been crying.

"That was--"

Jin-Wei bit his bottom lip again. "I wanted to play you the song at a fancy restaurant somewhere, but--"

"That was perfect." And it was. Jin-Wei had brought me to his secret place, and he had sung for my ears alone. I could not have asked for more.

He took my hand and held it close to his lips. "I'm glad you like it." He smiled and kissed the back of my hand.

I saw myself reflected in his eyes, and he must have seen himself reflected in mine, because his dimples deepened.

 

 

 

Tender Moments

I stand at the entrance and crane my neck to look for him, or at least another familiar face. Most of the bar tables arranged in a circular manner in front of a stage are already filled. A couple of guys in black T-shirts are on the stage, inspecting the drumset, guitars and microphones.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. "Miss?"

I look to my left and see a sausage of a finger on my shoulder. I look up, and gulp. A goateed bouncer glares at me from behind a pair of shades.

"In or out? You're blocking the way."

"I'm waiting for my friend."

He steals a quick glance at his chrome watch, which looks too small on his wrist. "You're Eizlan's girl?"

My heart almost explodes. He's never introduced me to anyone as his girl. Actually, I don't even know where we stand. Not knowing what to answer, I can only nod.

The man points toward the center of the bar. "Table twenty. In front of the stage."

"Thank you."

He nods. Maybe he's born with a permanent scowl. His expression hasn't lighten up a fraction.

I weave through a sea of strangers toward an empty bar table with a "RESERVED" sign set in front of a flute-tip vase centerpiece. A single stalk of turqoise rose in full bloom stands in the transparent vase. I take a seat facing the stage. My feet swing idly as I fidget with my phone. Where is he?

As a waitress in a red blouse passes by, I order a glass of Pepsi. Somehow, a cup of coffee seems out of place here, and I'm agitated enough as it is. All around me, there are at least two to four people per table, chatting and laughing and leaning close to one another. I feel out of place, just like a cup of coffee. He knows I don't like strangers. Why isn't he here yet?

After what feels like forever, there is finally activity on the stage. Four guys, all around my age, take their places behind each instrument. I didn't even check which band is playing tonight. Must be someone big, judging from the turnout. I crane my neck around.

"Looking for me?"

I almost fall off my seat. Eizlan is standing behind me, grinning. His hands rest firmly on my arms, though I only realize it belatedly. He turns my seat so that I face him.

I blink at him. I'm still trying to process the intimate gesture he just did. Maybe he only wanted to stop me from falling, is all. "You cut your hair."

He scratched the back of his curly head. "I only trimmed a bit. Didn't think anyone would notice."

I notice everything. Instead, I reply, "Looks good."

"Thanks. Hey, have you ordered your drink?"

"Yep. I haven't ordered for you. Didn't know what you'd want."

"I'll drink later. I need to do something first."

With that, he turns my seat facing the band again and then bounds onto the stage. He stands behind the microphone at the center. He looks beautiful, in a snug white T under an open-button checkered shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I think it's his favorite shirt. He throws a smile at me before addressing the crowd.

"Hi. Welcome to Ben's Singers' Corner. I didn't expect the crowd will be this big. Thanks, guys."

Scattered claps and cheers from the audience. Suddenly I feel like my guts have been wrenched out. I never knew Eizlan has a band. And I thought I knew everything about him.

"I don't know if you guys know this, but our local singer and model, Adrian, used to sing here before he became famous."

"He still does, when I call him!" a Chinese man in his forties hollers from behind the bar.

Eizlan gives a lop-sided grin. "Say hi to Ben, ladies and gentlemen. Anyway, rumor has it that all his songs are written for his girl. That's how he tells her how much he loves her without saying 'I Love You'. I hope to one day write songs as beautiful as his, but for now, I'll cover one of his songs for my own special someone."

I turn red and shrink into myself when I hear claps and hoots from the crowd. If only my fringe was longer, I can at least hide my eyes.

"Tasha," Eizlan continued after the cheers have settled. "I love you."

Before I can react, the drummer starts to play, and Eizlan closes his eyes. He grips the microphone with both his hands, and sings.

Suddenly the rest of the world dims. Only he exists. His voice is clear, with a tinge of huskiness. I can lose myself in his voice and not want to find my way out ever again.

When our eyes meet, I know he is just as lost as I am. He extends his right hand toward me.

I hold out my hand to reach for him.

Tender Moments

I try to rush to the top floor, but I can't do anything about the wall of people going up the escalators. KLCC is not in my favorite list during weekends. I swear half the population of Kuala Lumpur congregate here during non-working days. I look at my watch, a birthday gift from him that I only take off when I shower. Gah! I'm already 45 minutes late, fifteen more than usual. My fingers make a mini Mexican wave on the rubber handrest.

There is something about going up the escalator and be greeted by the pale, great rectangular arch of an entryway leading toward my favorite haunt that causes my heart to skip every time I see it. Maybe it's the familiar chrome letters at the head of the arch, spelling out K-I-N-O-K-U-N-I-Y-A. Maybe it's the full glass-panel wall a few meters behind it, with light streaming in, lending it an ethereal glow. But I suspect it's knowing there are countless books and magazines inside, each with their own weight, their own texture, be it rough or smooth, and their own scents, all waiting to be picked up and read.

I gulp in paper-scented air when I step off the escalator, suddenly remembering to breathe again. To the left, a plump guard in pale brown on brown uniform leans against the marble wall, smoothing his thick mustache. A banner standing next to him is promoting the cafe one floor up, giving 20% discount on hot beverages with every purchase of RM50 and above. Interesting. I'm already thirsty from race-walking here from the LRT station at the basement level.

I rummage out my phone from my leather slingbag. Parts of the bag's surface are already peeling out, making it look like a sunburnt albino cow, but it's still sturdy and can withstand the weight of all the things I stuff in it. Good enough for me. Without looking, my thumb rests on the button '2', his speedial number, but I stop myself before pressing it. He's bound to be here somewhere, lost in his own world. I take two lefts and walk up the wooden ramp. On my way up I scan the stacks of books on my right for any new ones on display. R.L. Stine, Paulo Coelho, Neil Gaiman, more R.L Stine. Nothing new since I came here last week. I continue walking past the new arrivals and bestseller/movie tie-in shelves, toward the fantasy section. I tiptoe the last few meters, and stop with him in full sight.

He is sitting on the wooden backless bench close to the glass-panel wall, leaning forward with both elbows resting on his thighs. His hands are cradling an open book, one of the Forgotten Realm series. His face is lost behind the book; I can only see his spiky jet-black hair. He's wearing a chocolate brown T-shirt. I suspect it's the one with 'Make Peace Not War' printed in white at chest level. And his favorite pair of jeans that looks more grey than blue. Right now, at this particular moment, I don't care I'm almost an hour late. Watching a man--my man--reading sends a tingle down my spine, spreading this warmth throughout my body. Seeing him frozen, occasionally flicking a page, amidst his ever-moving surroundings, gives my body an involuntary shudder--no, thrill is a more suitable word for it.

"Hey, you." In an almost lazy motion, he lifts his head. His eyes trail behind, and they seem unfocused for a few seconds. His whole face suddenly lights up when he grins. A hint of crow's feet line the corners of his twenty-two-year-old eyes. Sparse hair dot the edges of his lips like fledgling raven wings (he calls it a mustache and is proud of it too). "Li Lian." I love the way he breathes my name. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Sorry I'm late." He makes a tiny arc with his left hand.

"Don't worry. This book's good. I'm thinking about buying it."

"Zarif. You bought a trilogy last week."

"Done reading them." He gives me another grin, this time accompanied by a shrug. "So we good for lunch?"

I unsling my bag and lean it against Zarif. Then I slide my navy-blue scrunchie off my hair--slightly askew after lifting the bag off my shoulder--and readjust my ponytail. "Hey. Leave your hair down. You look better that way. And what kind of girl wears a slingbag?"

"And have me sweating my neck off? No way. You bought me that slingbag, and you ask me that question." I roll my eyes at him. "What kind of guy reads so many books?"

"Your type of guy."

"So you have an answer to everything?"

"Not everything." Still smiling, he shakes his head. "Go find a book. I'll wait here."

"You're buying, right? What if I find a two-part book? Or...a trilogy?"

"Then lunch is on you."

"Fine." I stick my tongue out at him, but my smile mirrors his. "Spend more than RM50 on me, and we can get a discount upstairs."

"Fine." I walk away from him with a silly smile plastered on my face. As I veer to the left to the Horror section, I turn to steal a look at him.

He's still looking at me. He mouths something before returning to his book.

"Yes," I whisper. "I love you too."

Tender Moments

I lie reclined on the thick mattress with my elbow in an almost right angle, and my hand cradling the back of my head. My eyes crawl in a lazy trail from her quiet face to the stacks of boxes behind her. Our room is a maze of piles of clothes waiting to be organized in the wardrobe, which still has the strong scent of wood, of picture frames in their protective wraps begging to be released and displayed, of table lamps and other small furniture with their matching partners lost in one of the unopened boxes, of my books and her magazines, stacked into little towers threatening to topple at the slightest sneeze, and of her odds and ends, her makeups, her vanity affair. We don't even have a proper bed yet, just the mattress pushed against the wall with the window. The guys from IKEA promised us delivery of the rest of our furniture today.

My eyes return to her, as they always do. Gentle morning light dances between the leaves of the tree outside our apartment block, peeking through the window, bathing her in a warm glow. The way her body moves with each breath reminds me of the quiet waves of the beach at sunrise. Her hair, usually a mystery of cascading silk, is sticking out everywhere, a stark contrast against her tranquil face. Her long, curved lashes catch the light of the sun, but still her eyes dart about behind closed lids, assuring me that she is still deeply asleep. Her full lips curve slightly. Maybe she is having a pleasant time in her secret dream world. Even asleep she takes my breath away.

I long to caress her smooth cheek, to trace a line down her angular jaw, to the small scar at the base of her neck, a token of her spirited childhood. She always tries to hide the scar, but I always tell her that it makes her even more perfect. Of course, she doesn't believe me. But I love kissing the scar. It's slightly cooler than the rest of her skin, where I love to kiss as well. Heck, I love kissing her, period. But I also love watching her sleep, so I refrain from risking waking her up.

She moves a fraction, and her hair floats down to rest on her lashes. Without thinking, I smooth the hair from her eye and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers caress her earlobe with the slightest pressure.

"Hey," she whispers without opening her eyes. Her dimple burrows a deep impression on her cheek as she smiles.

"Hey."

"Watchadoin?"

"Watching you sleep."

She lets out a throaty groan and pulls the blanket to cover her face. My exposed feet suddenly feel cold from the air-conditioning. I intertwine my feet with hers to share warmth.

"I'm ugly like this!"

I smile even though she can't see me, with her face buried under the down cover. I wait a moment before pulling the blanket over my head to join her. "No matter what time of the day, no matter how you look, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on."

She lifts the blanket enough to peer at my face. She narrows her eyes to slits.

"Well…besides Angelina Jolie." Which earns me a hearty punch on the chest. "Oof! Ouch, that hurts!"

And we both break into a fit of laughs and giggles. I feel a stitch on my ribs from laughing so much. Settling down, I caress her chin between my thumb and forefinger.

"Well, I’m thankful you consented to share your life with me. I’m glad I’m able to wake up beside you every day, and to be able to look at you, to watch over you while you sleep."

She rolls her eyes. "Last I checked I didn't marry a poet." She lifts her hand and uses the back of her fingers to trace the contours of my face. "I love knowing you're watching over me. I love having our feet twisted together like this. But most of all, I love you."

And we kiss, a long, soft, and gentle kiss.

"Ugh," she mumbles between kisses. "Your breath stinks!"

"Yours too. But I’m not gonna stop kissing you!"

Tender Moments

I pluck the guitar strings together with my eyes closed. Picking up the discrepancy in sound, I turn the peghead and try again. I smile a fraction when the two strings sing as one.

"What are you so smug about?"

"Eh?" I crane my neck to the right and look at her looking at me. In her face I register honest curiosity. "Not smug. Why?"

"You were smiling to yourself just now."

"I wasn't even looking at you. How could you tell?"

"Your dimple showed."

"I thought you're reading?"

With a sigh, followed by a shrug, she lifts her book off the grass and continues reading. Brother Odd by Dean Koontz. Not my genre, but then again, we disagree on so many things that I still can't believe she is sitting here beside me under the shade of this old tree, partially leaning against my back. I continue looking at her in silence, but I could've been a stump for all the attention she is giving me. Her eyes, half closed, dart about as she reads, her long lashes catching slivers of sunlight. Her lips are partially opened, and once in a while she would form soundless words.

Careful not to move too much, I give a shrug of my own. I love the feel of her weight on my back. Not too much pressure to make me exert a counterweight, but enough to assure me that she's really here. I turn my attention back to my guitar. Its once polished surface is now faded, and the original lighter color of wood grain shows where my callused fingers have been strumming all these years. I've changed the strings countless times, but the guitar still plays beautiful songs for me. I pluck the strings again, two at a time. This time the tuning is just about right.

I start plucking the opening chords of my favorite song. After playing the same chords twice, I start singing, just under my breath.

"And even though the moment passed me by, I still can't turn away..."

I must have drifted into my own world again, 'cause I don't feel her weight lifting off me. When I look up, she is already kneeling in front of me, her right hand resting on mine, effectively stopping me from plucking the strings. Her head is slightly cocked to the right, her expression a curious mixture that I can't quite figure out. That's one of the things I adore about her: I can never figure her out. Her book is on the grass beside her, closed.

"Wha?" I raise my eyebrows in a show of calm inquiry. Inside my heart is thumping madly against my chest. I give a quick prayer that she can't feel the slight trembling of my hands.

"Stop."

This is the first time I sing in front of her, for her. And she hates it. Goddamit! I knew this is a bad idea. I feel like shoving my guitar into its canvas bag before I do anything rash and stupid with it.

"I told you I can't sing that well. Hell, this is one of the only songs I can play."

"Liar."

"Which part?" I give her the most innocent look I can muster. "I can't sing well or I only know a few songs?"

"I know you can sing a lot of songs."

"Ouch."

"Well, you're not Johnny Rzeznik, obviously." It's a wonder her expression remains unreadable. My own must be changing like a tropical storm.

I look for the condemnation in her eyes. I find none. I watch her in nervous silence, my fingers frozen awkwardly on the fretboard. Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches into her jeans pocket and takes out her handphone. She then looks at her phone and fiddles with it.

"Start again. I'm recording this."

My fingers refuse to budge. "Why?"

"Simply. Sing. Now."

"Why?"

She blows her wispy fringe off her long lashes in a loud huff. Sunlight dances in her dark brown eyes. A slow smile plays on her lips. "Because it's you, singing this song. Because I love your voice more than I'll ever love Johnny Rzeznik's. Because I want to hear this every day."

A sudden wave warms my cheeks. "You'll get bored."

"So sing me a new song when that happens. Sheesh. Now shut up and sing."

I face down toward my guitar to hide my smile. I'm still smiling when I start singing Name.

Tender Moments

We walked side by side, not saying anything to each other for long minutes. I loved the silence between us; it was comfortable. As comfortable as her fingers intertwined with mine. The silver rings on her thumb and forefinger felt cool on my skin, enhancing her warmth in contrast. I loved how she swayed her arms when walking. Front, back. Front, back. Front, back. My right arm swung along with her left one. There was no awkwardness in the movement, despite the tip of her curly head not quite reaching my nose.

All around us, their figures reflected on the polished marble floor of Pavilion, were people milling about with their own shopping trips. Most of them moved at a fast pace, their mannerisms reflecting the pace of Kuala Lumpur. But the two of us were in our own timeline. Our movements were deliberately slow, our arms going front, back, front, back, as our feet moved forward. Despite the surrounding noise, I could almost hear her heartbeat as I felt the pulse on her wrist. My own heart, usually beating fast, must have slowed down to match hers. Not intentionally; she had this effect on me without her realizing it.

The music greeted us even before we came across the string quartet playing on a platform in front of Tangs. The tune was light, but the acoustics of the complex amplified the sounds. Without releasing my hand, she turned to face me and lay her free hand on my chest. I stopped walking with my right foot in midair. If her hand on my chest was causing my heart to flutter, the look on her slightly cocked head almost made it burst.

"I know this song," she said behind her wide smile. Even with the slightly crooked canines, no one else could compare to that perfect smile. "I know this."

"Endless love."

She swatted my chest. I barely felt it, but my heart did a stumble.

"Ouch." I winced, crinkling my nose for added dramatic effect.

"Not fair. I wanted to say it first." Her voice was soft, a feather floating in the wind.

I loved the silence between us, but more than that, I loved hearing her voice. "Sorry."

From the smile on her face mirroring mine, I could tell she wasn't buying my apology. "Make it up to me."

I groaned. My reaction this time was genuine. "Agh...you're not gonna make me try on women's hats again, are you?"

"Tempting, but no."

"Then?"

"Dance with me."

My jaw must have dropped, because she suddenly burst out laughing. I looked around us. The hallway was almost packed. A small crowd had gathered around the musicians, listening to their rendition of the beautiful song.

"Dance? Here? Now?"

"Why not? We're not breaking any laws."

"Yeah right."

"Come on. Dance with me."

"You know I can't dance."

"I can't dance too but that's not stopping me." Her smile was fading fast. I could see disappointment forming on her face from her furrowing eyebrows.

"I mean..." I started, not knowing exactly how to react. "I'm not so sure it's a good idea."

She sighed. She didn't pout; this light of my life never pouted, and only rarely allowed her anger or disappointment to surface. "You're right. It's a bad idea."

She turned and started walking. I saw her shoulders slumping a fraction. My eyes trailed down to her left hand, which was still holding mine. With a sigh of my own, I jerked my hand back, pulling hers in the process. She turned with a high-pitched yelp. I caught her before she could straighten her legs, and encircled my left forearm around the small of her back. My feet started moving with the beat of the music. I was moving at the same spot, one foot lifting after the other. Before I knew it, she was resting her face on my shoulder, moving in perfect rhythm with me. I didn't have to look at her to feel her smiling.

People were looking at us, some even pointing their fingers. Maybe there was approval in some faces. Maybe there was disapproval too. I drowned it all by closing my eyes. In that moment, there was only me, her, and the music.

In that moment, our hearts were beating as one.

Love Letter to my Soulmate (posted on Feb 2nd, 2009)

My dearest heart,

 

All my life I have been adrift, a lonesome boat lost at sea, without anchor, without oar, without direction or purpose. Then you appeared into my life. My northern star that guides me true, my gentle breeze that leads my way, my silken waves that bring me serenity.

You did not know then, and I do not suspect you know now, but you are my salvation. You reached into the darkest depth that was my soul, and found the broken pieces that were me. You mended me with your healing touch, and you held me together with your encompassing love. I would not be the man I am today if it were not for you. I would not be whole without you as my greatest half. I would not have embraced the light without your gentle warmth.

I do not, nor will I ever be, deserving of you, and it is true. Yet here you are, my strength, my faith, my hope, my dreams.

For you are,

My love,

My light,

My life.

 

I love you.