NON FICTION: The Singaporean romance (Part II)

Finally, I’ve gotten around to continuing this personal recount. Read part one here.

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The phone rang, and I would sooner chew on broken glass than pick up the call. Cindy rarely called anymore, so when her name registered on the screen, I was sure that having a serious talk would be an understatement. I answered the phone.

“What the fuck, is that bitch, doing sitting on your lap.” It wasn’t a question. Also, there’s something about broken sentences that amplifies the perception of anger, especially when coupled with a seething calm.

“What lap? What are you talking about? We’re just friends!” I said in a tone somewhere between a comforting snigger and a cry for help.

“Don’t lie to me. And what the fuck, are you doing, hugging her.”

“Okay, fine. Fine. Babe, we need to talk.”

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NON FICTION: The Singaporean romance (Part I)

I squeezed my one-way ticket as I boarded the bus. The stub permeated in my sweaty palm, wet from anxiety and excitement. This is it, I thought. A new chapter in my life is about to unfold. I took out my phone and texted her, “On the way. See you love!”

I felt like I was diving head first into things, and perhaps moving in with somebody I just met wasn’t such a good idea, but I’ve always been enthralled by the spirit of adventure, and this was the beginning of one. I looked out into the passing landscape, not knowing what the near future held, and I sometimes wonder if I’d still have gotten onto that bus, had I known what it did.

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