Wednesday

Our story takes place in the Bangsar LRT station, a small, unassuming building just a stone's throw away from a little row of shops. At certain times of the day, the station is bustling with people, the majority of which are busy commuters moving from point A to point B, only to repeat the same process in reverse a few hours later. Those people left the station a tad irritated, as their combined levels of stress brought down its usually good mood. It also felt that their focus on the destination took all the fun out of the journey itself, but likes to keeps its comments on the evils of fast-paced living to itself.

However, this story is not about those tired, jaded individuals, nor is it about the lone woman manning the ticket counter (though if asked, she would have quite an impressive number of tales to tell about the people who use her counter, one of them in particular ending in a very beautiful wedding-- but I digress).

Instead, we shall focus instead on a certain young lady sitting on the stoop opposite the escalators. Her appearance is somewhat unremarkable, her feet resting on a battered trolley bag as her eyes scan the faces of the people coming up the moving stairs. When her eyes finally rest on a young man making his way through a crowd of preoccupied university students, her face lights up, her smile remaining in its place when he finally reaches the woman to stand looking down at her.

The words spoken during their short exchange are inaudible over the noise of traffic overlapping announcements made in weary Malay, but we see her head nod in response to the young man's question. At that, his face breaks out into a matching grin, and he takes her hand to pull her to her feet.

We may never know just who these two people are, or just what it was about that particular Wednesday that made it so special to the both of them, but if the way they held hands as they stepped onto the train is anything to go by-- Well, the station was witness to quite an extraordinary thing, indeed.

Mind if I bum one?

Free country.

Jesus. How can you stand this shit?

You get used to it eventually. So, mind telling me what brings you here?

Well, in the beginning was the Word, and the Word became God-

Clever. Too clever to come here regularly. So why are you here?

I don’t think I follow.

It’s simple, really. I’m out here because my bitch of a boss won’t let me smoke in the bathroom. That guy's looking for a peaceful place to puke, and that girl's about to add another notch to her bedpost. Why are you out here?

How can you be so sure that that's not her boyfriend?

Because I heard her talking to him on the phone as she dragged that guy outside. You still haven't answered my question.

You clearly spend too much time out here.

And you are clearly avoiding the question. You don’t seem to be the dark, brooding type.

You never know, I could totally be a dark, brooding person who wanted to have a quiet smoke.

Anyone who hacks their lungs out like that can hardly call their smokes quiet.

What, no comment on my non-ironic use of the word ‘totally’?

You’re a big boy, you’re old enough to realise when you’re fighting a losing battle.

I don’t know.

Do we ever?

As in, I. Don’t. Know.

Ah, having a bit of a pre-life crisis, are we?

You always this sarcastic? Helpful.

(To be continued? I don't even know, guys. I just wanted to prove that I'm not dead - Michelle B.)

High Heels and Gasoline

When they fight, it's with the familiarity of a practiced dance, screaming and stamping through every room. She throws things, and he tries to remember not to yell that he loves her after telling her how much he's regretted meeting her. In the morning, she will leave and stay elsewhere, and he will live as though he was the only person in the apartment the whole time.

That night, they don't sleep in the bed. She curls up on the sofa and he stretches out as comfortably as he can on the floor. In the morning, she wakes up first, and covers him with a blanket before stepping into the shower. Her bag's already packed, clothes randomly thrown into one of her largest handbags in between curses, and when he steps into the shower a few minutes after her she lets him wash her hair and closes her eyes at his whispered prompt, letting the suds wash down her face.

She can smell the familiar scent of his shampoo as his fingers gently massage it into her scalp, deliberately packs his toothpaste into her bag so that he has no choice but to use hers while she's gone.

She's standing by the door when he comes out, bag lying at her feet while she fiddles with the deadbolt. Sometimes she would ask him to carry her bag for her, he would oblige. Today, she leaves without a word.

While she's gone, he spends a lot of time with his friend. They watch sports and go out for drinks and he doesn't have time to think about her. He does, however, have time to remember that his heart is beating, and that he wasn't as aware of it as when he was with her.

When they fight, their movements are in time, even on opposite ends of town. It's a series of complex steps held in smoky bars and dark alleyways while the dust from their crumbled hearts and wills settles around them. They think it's to rub it in the other's face, to show that they're above the other, even though they are so close that they could touch, in the exact same position, even though they can't see it.

He buys a girl a drink, she lights a cigarette. The lighter is engraved with initials that aren't hers. Three hours, two drinks and a phone number later, they leave with swollen lips, napkins in pockets ready to be thrown away in the morning. It's about pain. It's about domination. They aren't sure whose, though. She knows that she could break him, he revels in the fact that he could make her come back anytime he wanted.
When she stumbles into her sister's house, the woman takes one look at her. Places two aspirin next to a glass of water on the nightstand. She doesn't say anything. There's nothing to be said.

She calls him first thing in the morning, reminds him to take his vitamins. She doesn't say hello or goodbye. Just reminds him to stay healthy. Her phone rings later that night, the sound of familiar breathing making its way down the line before a whispered Goodnight.

When they fight, it's violent, each letting the other fall, catching them at the last minute, holding them up only to let them go again and turning away so that they don't hear the inevitable splat made when a body hits the cold ground.

She comes back a week later. She cooks his favorite dish for dinner, adds chilli so that he can't eat it. He does the laundry in the morning, rips her favorite T-shirt after taking it out of the dryer.
They're watching a movie; she says you smell like smoke, then lights a cigarette. He replies you look like a man, whispers I would go gay for you.

It's another week before she starts to sleep in the bed again. He joins her the next night, pulls her close to him, tries to wrap his arms around her. She kicks him away, then quickly rolls over to cling to him. He rolls her over so that she lies on top of him, but soon after that they slide to opposite sides of the bed. Their heads are on the other's pillows. It's the best sleep they've had in weeks.
The next night, he wakes up to the bed dipping next to him, but when he tries to touch her, she pulls away. She tells him to fuck off, he responds by wishing he didn't have a girlfriend who was so cold. Later on when her breathing evens out, he leans over, whispers I've always loved winter better than summer, returns to his side of the bed, and waits for sleep to come again.

It's hot the next day. She says she hates the heat. He says he hates her.
They fight again, this time to the beat of their sobs and breaking hearts. I'm not sorry, he mutters. He neglects to mention that he can't even remember why they were fighting in the first place, so why should he be sorry? She can't remember either, but she does remember how much of an asshole he was, how he could fill her heart and break it in one move. It doesn't matter that she's done the same. I'm not sorry either, she grits out.

There are so many out there better than you, she screams. (I would have chosen you over them every time, she thinks to herself)

I wish we had never met, he shouts. (Only so that I could find you again, he adds silently)

She throws him out of the apartment that night. Instead of going to a friend's place, he decides to sit on the cold sidewalk, a cigarette in his hand burning down to the filter. He only realizes that he had fallen asleep when she sits next to him, arranging a blanket over their legs before laying her head on his shoulder.

When they fight, they're synchronized in their heartache. She knows that he makes her feel things never felt before, pain and sorrow included. He's fully aware that she has him wrapped around her finger, even though the string may be a bit loose at times.

I don't forgive you, she says as she sips her coffee over the sink. She turns around, tries to touch his arm. He moves away. I don't forgive you too.
She sets her mug down, starts to leave the room, but he turns and pulls her into his arms. They say nothing, they just hold each other in the stillness of the kitchen.

It's beautiful. It's fucked-up. It's what they are, and that is how they always will be, never forgiving, never regretting. But then again, when no-one apologises, what is there to forgive? They just continue to dance their dance, holding the other up, breaking them down, and pushing them away before returning to their side. When the music stops, all that is left is silence, the calm after the storm. This time is no different.




Inspired by this dance: