AFTER she told the story, I almost couldn’t help myself for having hastened to grab myself a sheet of paper. This could be another big thing in the novel industry. Maybe I could turn her miserable love story into a comedy every mainstream audience will watch over and over again until they feel dead bored, but when I read people got shot dead in Paris for making a satire humiliating my faith, I made up my mind. I won’t do it. Leave her alone.
“Thou shall not leak it,” she gave us the lamest commandment. Writers’ mouth are shut. That’s true. But their fingers move and leak it all. Even if you cut our fingers, amputate our arms, we still manage to type or scribe with our legs. If you even finally cut our legs too, we’ll try somehow to write things on anything using our mouth. I can imagine myself writing with a piece of chalk in my mouth. And at some point in my writing session, my lips turn dry and chapped and I start to whine,”Can someone get me a lip balm?!!” An unpaid assistant cum slave comes over and patiently smears it on my naturally big lips.
She ranted again,”Dude, I’m sad. Terribly sad.” Who isn’t? Her crush, a Chinese 32-year-old man, left him for a temple somewhere. Were I her, I felt absurdly insulted. It’s a blatant statement of “you ain’t sexier than a lifetime full of meditation and devotion to Buddha”. Of course, she is not that sexy. At least compared to Sophia Latjuba, her idol and benchmark of weight loss and total in-and-out beauty.
That’s life, I said to her. A lousy consolation remark I intend more to mock. Yes, I’m that evil sometimes. But perhaps if doing evil things to her can make her lose weight, she might not mind at all. She may even encourage me to do so more and more till I’m drained all over completely.
She didn’t shed any tears while telling us the tragic story. She knew it’s too cheesy, even for a girl as tough as her. She cut her hair short and let it shine dully, dove to the ocean bed with hunky expatriates, had also had an expatriate man wanting her to be his spouse, roamed an exotic place in eastern Indonesia where things are sold more expensive 100% than any places in the archipelago, and still she is subject to a tragic love story. That’s a tragedy of and in itself.
“He deactivated his Facebook account and changed phone number, and name, too,” she murmured again, wanting our symphatetic response. But we just blinked as if our hearts are hardened by the curse of Greek gods and goddesses. Maybe she needed ears that can listen and mouths to provide sincere comforting words. She went to the wrong people. She wouldn’t get any of it here. With us.
And then came the “what-if” session. There are always different scenarios popping out in her mind, what if things went different ways and that sort of thing. At this point, I knew she needed a waste of time to scour her fresh wounds of romance. I wanted to yawn, but managed to hold my mouth shut. Dramas are good on television screens but in real life they bore you to death.
A few days after that, I told my writer buddy that story. Someone was left forlorn by a man, I said. This male author has been known for his fascination of Chinese men. I have no idea. To him, Chinese males are objects of adoration. His brain is wired differently so when everything Chinese snaps through his mind, he writes like crazy.
(Image credit: Wikimedia)