by | | FlashFiction, Prose
I asked a Raffles Girl
If she was looking for a boyfriend
She asked, “Does he have power?”
I replied, “No, but he has money.”
“Find me one with power and I will consider”
She replied, while feverishly working on her assignment, looking down at her laptop.
“Thank you for the coffee.” She hummed, as she flew off to the next appointment.
I asked a Singapore Chinese Girl
If she was looking for a partner
She asked, “Does he have money?”
I replied, “No, he does not have money, but he has character.”
“It’s ok, I have money. If he is interesting, I will keep him.”
She grinned while sipping her coffee with her legs crossed suggestively.
She prodded a cupcake with her finger, before licking it up like gold.
I asked a Margaret’s Girl.
If she was looking for a mate
She asked, “Is he husband material?”
I replied, “He works 9 – 8pm, wears a white collar and sharp shoes.”
“That is stable, I will consider.” She looked soulfully at the foam on top of her coffee.
She held the cup up to her eye level, “It is in the shape of a leaf! Amazing!”
She sipped a little, foam covered the top of her lips like a little mustache.
With a quick swipe with a tissue to remove the foam from her lips, she quipped daintily,
“So, when can you arrange a date for us?”
I asked a St Nicholas Girl
If she was looking for a man
She asked, “Is he athletic and well groomed?”
I replied, “He is tall, dark and handsome, with money, and power.”
She searched my expression for clues, if I was lying, ignoring her coffee.
“Show me one with substance, and I will consider.” She looked at her mobile phone
and continued to whatsapp her girlfriends.
I asked a Neighbourhood School Girl,
If she was looking for someone to spend her life with
She asked, “Is he handsome? Is he able to sing? Is he strong?”
I replied, “He is simple, decent looking, I am not sure about singing… but he is solid.”
She considered my response, and fidgeted a little in her tiny chair, trying to find a sweet spot of comfort. “Does he have a stable job?” She asked while stirring her coffee constantly. “Yes he does, he has been working for five years.” I replied, noticing she has laid down her spoon. Her hands moved towards her chin length fringe, and she put a lock back behind her ears. She bent over and whispered nervously in mandarin, “Lets go out together in a trio, and see what happens.”
by | | Prose
Listening to my Dad’s advice to date 100 different men before I settle for a boyfriend, I have categorised them into several patterns, based on the school they studied in, in true Singapore fashion.
A few lads from Anglo Chinese School
They were arrogant, yet charming
They spoke of conquering the world
And a woman who will give them a challenge of a lifetime
When I showed them what a real woman is about,
they backed down and cried.
A couple from Victoria School
They wrote poetry, sang love songs, and strummed the guitar
They were hopeless romantics, eloquent in Shakespeare and Monet
He wanted my heart, but I could not answer.
Is there a future in literature, I asked.
He assured me, “I will be a teacher, to spread the art of words.”
Bewildered, and lost, I ran away to the next.
A drip from Maris Stella
They fought with valour, with courage
They showed me what a man must be
strong and tough, a hardened shell, with no weakness
He wanted my hand, and my trust,
but he did not hold his promises.
I caught him sleeping with another girl the next day.
A number from St Andrews
They had old money, and spoke of aristocratic roots
Of businesses, politics and dominating the society
He asked me to be his socialite, to be his trophy wife
I told him, thank you for the offer
But I have a mind of my own.
And it is not for yours to keep.
A stalker from a Neighbourhood School
He followed me home everyday, from school to the bus stop
He gave me chocolates, flowers and all the sweet temptations of the world
He asked for my kisses, which I gave innocently
He asked to be his stead, which I did not understand,
Did he meant for me to be his horse?
I gently declined, after kissing him one more time.
….
PS:
On the side note, my Dad is from Victoria School, who won my Mum’s heart with his poetry. He taught me how to write when I was a child. This post is dedicated to my lovely Dad, who worries that I will not find the right man, but I am sure, I am the right woman when that right man comes.
by | | Prose
Dare your lover to be buried in concrete with you in the name of “eternal love”.
Dabble in medical and law school, and tell your relatives you have decided to write poetry…
Decide to write a erotica novel under a man’s name, only to reveal herself as the true author after 40 years.
Outrageously beautiful… falling in love beside the French Rivera, dreaming in Parisian cafes, walking in castles and museums … mazes of gardens…. making out on top of a car in the eyes of the public and falling asleep to the smell of strawberry fields.
