I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
It’s another Monday evening. I step into the train, my aviators on like a poseur. I’ve taken to wearing shades indoors just for the fuck of it. The crowd pushes me in and I find myself hipbone to hipbone with a bobbed pixie leaning in the cramped space between the glass separator and the wall. She is all crinkly nosed concentration, scribbling on a piece of paper.
I eye her from behind my dark glasses. She is fair, buttoned-nosed and pink-lipped, her babyish looks amplified by her gamine hair. Her feet, sandaled with toes bared, are crossed at the ankles. Her black shirt is smugly snug across her pretty chest. It gamely winks open at the bottom, pulling a sly prank on its oblivious wearer, revealing a smooth mini-triangle of skin between the edge of her shirt and the beginnings of her pants.
I dip my head to the beat of Jigga’s 22 Twos, drinking the sight of her in sideway sips. Two, three stops pass us, and when the crowd surges in again, I let the sweaty bodies push me closer to her. She looks up at me; I smile and take off my glasses and earphones.
She looks like she can be my type, and I decide to try my luck.
“Is that some form of Sudoku?”
She smiles back at me.
“Yes. Do you play as well?”
“A little. That one looks pretty intense, though.”
She pleasantly surprises me with a little laugh. Oh, she is even cuter when she laughs.
We chat. The bespectacled Chinese lady next to us glances at me, a little curious, a little suspicious. I ignore her.
“Do you Sudoku every time you’re on the LRT?”
“Yes. There’s nothing else to do.”
“I used to read, but then I got tired of that.”
“Oh I know, me too.”
“Now I just chat up cute strangers.”
I lower my voice, and stand with my legs further apart. My body is positioned protectively over her, separating us from the masses. Her smile stays on her lips when I move closer, pretending to look at the numbered squares. That has to be a good sign. Right?
She warms up to my questions – she works in Ampang, and lives in the neighborhood next to mine. I ask which office allows naked toes, and she grins. She looks me up and down, “You look pretty funky yourself.”
“Gotta keep that edge, babe.”
I imagine I drip dykeness.
“Are you sure you’re working? You look like you’re sixteen.”
She laughs again. “I always get that!”
“How old are you then?”
“I’m 21.”
“Ah. Still pretty young to be already working, yeah? Skipped grades?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Smart kid, eh?”
More delightful laughter.
“How old are you?”
“Older.” I extend my hand. “I’m Idaman. You are..?”
She takes it. “Nina.” I shake and squeeze.
Our conversation is comfortable, without lulls. She tells me of her years in Melbourne, and how she misses the city, having recently left it, and I reciprocate by telling her of L.A.
“So where do you get off?”
She tells me.
“Oh, that’s my stop as well. How do you get home?”
Her sister picks her up, she says, smiling. God she is cute. I consider offering her a ride, but then thought better of it. She might think my constant smoking and cussing while driving a huge turn-off.
“Ah, we’re here.”
We are the last ones to shuffle out. I reach into my bag, trying as smoothly as I can to extricate my business cards. As we step downstairs she asks me where exactly I live. I give her directions, scribbling my cell number at the back of the card.
“It was nice meeting you, Idaman.” We shake hands again right before the exit ways. I snap my shades back on, and flash her a Super Grin.
“Likewise. Hey, by the way, here’s my card. Call me if you feel like hanging out.”
She laughs and I laugh, and we wave goodbye.
I don’t look back, and instead of strutting when I know I am under the masculine gaze, I slink; my gait is deliberately feline, feral, konon macho.
