Words by: Open Pores. Photo by: Suanie

There is a body in the light brown coffin. People are watching on from their desks. Black ties and dresses. Grey gowns. White shirts. Squeaky, lucid black shoes on the floor. Muffled sounds when the priest asks the congregation to raise and sit down again. I am standing by the side of my mum, holding her. Never stayed this close, or holding her arm for this long. Shoulders tight, my body is not comfortable in this position. I whisper “I am so sorry” to her. I close my eyes. I open them up again. Someone is peeping at their watch. Someone is talking to someone else. The light comes in from several rose windows above us. The sun is low in the afternoon. Comes in through one of the rose windows. Hits the white gown of the priest, making it even brighter. The body is not going anywhere. The body will not go anywhere.

I am in a cafe, a woman is sitting at a table. She wears a formal dress, to the knee. Black and dark blue, formal office shoes. She has ordered a latte or a cappuccino. It must be a cappuccino, double shot, the drink is darker. Dark brown against the white froth. All around the corporate colours of the branded coffee chain. The waiters have the same colours on their t-shirt. The woman is wearing her hair in a crotch. She types and focuses on her laptop. Her face is very close to the monitor, but I cannot see what she is writing, her back is against the wall. She types in something, then she waits. When the reply comes in, she types something else, then waits some more. The pattern is regular, sometimes she waits a little longer. Or takes longer to write. I close my eyes. Then I open them up again. The lady’s cheeks are getting red, against the soft white complexion of her skin. Her legs are crossed, but have started to move, at first slowly and now quite visibly. Not excessively, but still visibly. Up and down. Stroking. Her green-tipped nails tick on the keyboard, is her breath getting faster? Cycles of write and wait get shorter, until she finally stops, hands away from the laptop. Hands on her belly. Staring at the monitor. Her legs have stopped as well. A second or two, or maybe more. She raises her eyes and watches all around her. No one seems to notice anything from anyone. A guy with a spiky red punk hairdo laughs a fat laugh.

I am watching outside the window of my car. White shirts, black leggings. Grey cars, white and grey buildings. Black shoes. Sport shoes. Sport shoes. More procession. Dark brown leather briefcase, short hair, jacket and a dotted light dark tie. Dark blue cars on the side of the road, grey and white pigeons. A dark green, over-floating dustbin where someone is throwing an old newspaper in. A queue of people in front of the bus stop. I close my eyes. I open them back again. Reds and yellows surface. Yellow, lots of it. Bright blue of a door beside a restaurant. A mum pushes a red pram with a baby in. All the toys dangling from the handle, soft coloured books. The pinks are the ones that hide best. Circle and swirl. Infinite possibilities.

A colleague ordered something to be shipped from Singapore. For that extra bit of safety and security, he made it a registered post.

The item was ordered on 13th August. By all standards, it would take a few days to reach Kuala Lumpur. So he waited.

… and waited, and waited, and waited…

17 days later, he finally called Pos Malaysia to try and find out where the heck was his parcel.

Apparently it arrived at the nearest post office on the 18th August. This is where it turns classic.

The postman for the area had resigned. So there was no one to deliver mail. That was why his parcel was sitting quietly in the post office, waiting for its owner to make the first move to claim it.

Pos Malaysia: 1
Everyone else: 0

In the light of no-so-recent crime wave, it’s natural to be extremely cautious when you’re on the road, especially if you’re a single female driver.

That’s what AhFa’s mother always try to keep in mind. The economy isn’t rocking (despite claims to the contrary), people are out of jobs, desperate folks are looking for easy ways out. Next thing you know, you are just another statistic of smash ‘n grab road crimes.

She should know; earlier this year, she was one of them. While driving home one night, she had to stop at the traffic lights that turned red. Next thing she knew, a motorbike was next to her and the pillion rider smashed her side window, grabbed her bag and rode off. All in just a few seconds.

AhFa’s mother was unharmed but obviously it was a traumatic experience that left her shaken. Since then she was extra wary of her surroundings.

Last week at the same traffic lights, she saw a big motorbike stopping next to her car. Deja vu… She stiffened, sat upright and looked ahead as if preparing to dash off at the earliest possibility. All these seemed too familiar for comfort…

There was movement from the motorbike rider. Oh sheeeettt… she thought, this is it, he’s going to rob me! It was a guy. He seemed to be staring at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw him lifting up his helmet visor. He was gesturing. She knew, she just knew that he was going to force her to roll down the window so he could rob her. Still she tried to keep up a brave front and in her heart, prayed and prayed for the traffic lights to turn green.

A second later, it did. Without waiting, she sped off and head straight home, shaken yet grateful for an incident-free evening. Her daughter AhFa was at home so she told her the entire story while trying to calm down.

***

So KY was on his motorbike on his way home when he saw a familiar car. He stopped by the side of the car and saw a familiar face. He thought to himself, heyyy it’s AhFa’s mom, let me say hi!

He lifted up his helmet visor so she’d recognised him and gave a friendly wave. She ignored him. That was weird.

“I was trying to say hi only…”