By Sarah Tan-Lim

The last time Zoe was at this wet market, she was a child with her family helper buying groceries for the night's dinner. She stood between fruit stalls, waiting for Bima to find her. This was the same spot where she burst into tears, thinking she had been left behind. If her parents had been there, would they have noticed her absence before Bima did? She already knew the answer before her helper's angular face swam into view. She rushed into Bima's oversized shirt, staining it with tears. "Just now say you want to wait yourself right? You think Aunty will forget you? See what I buy," Bima stroked her hair, before pressing Great Monster sweets into her hands, the ones that turned her tongue blue.

Zoe's eyes flutter open. She is dressed in the same colour as the candy. The crinkle of the material against her skin makes her jerk upright. She grabs her throat, and begins hyperventilating. Why does it hurt so bad? Something is stuck to her face, fogging up her cheeks. Panicked, Zoe tries to prise it off, but a stinging sensation shoots through the left side of her face. Where is she? She looks around for her husband, her parents, anyone at all.

Pondering between two stalls, Zoe thinks about Bima, who had long returned to Indonesia. Zoe can't find her even though Facebook has taken the Internet world by storm. She can't just send her a quick message to ask about groceries or cooking. No one else on the web trawled this market like Bima used to. It was always her helper bartering with fishmongers, and Zoe can't remember who sold fresher fish. Her fingers hover over her mother-in-law's contact number. But she can't call.

The words, "Why our son? Why?", pierced her ears as William's parents prostrated themselves on the cold, unyielding floor. Zoe does not remember much of William's childhood home. There are no pictures in her phone, no fading photographs for her to dig out. She can't bring herself to return for her mother-in-law's homecooked food even if she is invited. How the house looks is fading in Zoe's mind, and she often finds herself scrambling for memories of it.

Throngs of patrons, most with wispy curls on their heads, brush past Zoe in the narrow lane, leaving 'tsks' in their wake. The younger of the fishmongers keeps glancing at her. His hair is neatly parted, and his muscular physique shows even through his waterproof apron. Zoe gasps at the shape of his lips. They are too full for a man, the way her husband's lips had looked.

When Zoe looks up, the younger fishmonger raises his eyebrows at her. The older fishmonger mumbles under his breath as he serves someone else, a language that nudges something in Zoe. They are words she should know, words she once knew but had forgotten. 'He say you stand there so long for what? Don't want buy don't block people,' the younger fishmonger offers. Zoe can't seem to move. Her eyes bore into the older fishmonger, addressed as 'Ah Hua' by the middle-aged ladies swarming his stall.

Ah Hua wears a faded short-sleeved buttoned shirt with black sweatpants hanging loosely around his waist. His yellowing, large teeth make Zoe shudder. But his warm exchange with his customers draws her in, the way William used to converse lightly and easily with others. Ah Hua's balding spot reflects the light off the rotating CDs hanging down from the top posts of his open stainless-steel counter, which houses a variety of fish resting on ice. The reflection of the discs keeps flies away, which she appreciates. Ah Hua looks Zoe from top-to-toe, confusion in his eyes as she approaches him. 'You want fish?' he grunts. His apron is stained with fish guts and blood, forcing her to take an involuntary step back.

Holding her breath, Zoe says, "Yes, for steaming." She points to torpedo-shaped fish by a lonely corner, slender with forked tails.

"Mackerel? Cannot la! That one steam not nice!" Ah Hua gestures to a silver fish, its bluish-grey body glinting under the harsh light. "Take this. Nicer." His fingers glide over the dusky stripe running along the length of the fish's silvery belly to its tail.

"Silver perch? I also have!" the younger fishmonger barks. "Mine cheaper!"

Ah Hua looks up at Zoe. "His one really cheaper. Up to you," he says, before busying himself in his little space.

"Lai lai lai, pretty girl," the younger fishmonger beckons. Zoe stiffens, touching the fringe covering the left side of her face. She is back on the floor of her home, and the last thing she sees is a pair of legs covered in a reflective neon yellow material. Flinching at her raised skin with a fibrous texture, she lets out a sharp breath.

"No, I will just take the mackerel. Only cooking for one person…" her voice trails off as she thinks about her empty rental apartment.

Ah Hua looks at Zoe, his face softening. His smile wraps around her heart. He picks one of the silver perches and places it into a flimsy red plastic bag before handing it to her. "For your dinner. Steam ten minutes enough."

"Ah Hua! Ask you lend me 10 dollars yesterday you think so long, today you give out free fish? Doing charity is it? Like that make me look bad leh!" the younger fishmonger says, his nostrils flaring.

"Take. Don't care him," Ah Hua passes the plastic bag to Zoe. She stares at him, speechless. She can easily afford 10 of those fish. Is she taking advantage of him if she accepts it? It is the safety of Ah Hua's nonchalance towards the other fishmonger that reassures Zoe. She takes the plastic bag and is careful not to flinch when its slimy wet handles settle into her hands. Mumbling a quick "thank you," she walks off, unsure of the knots forming in the pit of her stomach.

The meditative act of cooking provides Zoe some respite, but it soon gives way to indignation when the fish turns out rubbery and bland. Ah Hua seemed so nice. How could he have given her something bad? She scoffs, poking at the fish, "Blaming me too for your death?" Its eye, coated with a yellowish film, stares right into her. Zoe stabs it with a fork, and viscous liquid oozes over the large plate. The emptiness around her swells. "Scented candle, unattended, found by the bed," a voice echoes. She runs straight into the toilet, heaving her dinner into the toilet bowl.

Later that night, Zoe wakes up breathing hard, with one hand wrapped around her neck. Thick fumes seem to choke her, but there is no smoke around. Her husband's face and neck melt like burning candle wax in her dreams.

When scatters of first light slide into Zoe's room, she gets dressed and walks to Ah Hua's shop, ready to pay for what she wants. "Mackerel, please," she says. Ah Hua looks up at her, raising his eyebrows.

"You want to fry ah?"

"No. Steam."

"Tell you already. Mackerel steam not nice."

"The silver perch tasted rubbery even when I steamed it!"

"How you do? Steam how long?"

"I… I… just give me the mackerel. Or I'll get it from him instead," she says, eyeing the younger fishmonger.

Ah Hua bags the mackerel, collecting a crisp five-dollar note. Before he fishes out change from his pocket, Zoe turns to stalk off, leaving him sullen and irritated. "Siao zha bor. Don't know how to cook don't cook la," he mutters.

"Crazy but pretty hor?" the younger fishmonger says. His eyes follow Zoe's waist as she rounds the corner.

Back home, Zoe heaps her hair in a claw clip, and stray strands flutter over her face. She rubs her wet eyelashes roughly, drying them with her free hands. Why can't she cook a simple thing? What's so difficult about steamed fish? Is she doomed to eat her weight in Styrofoam packets of takeaway food? How did William make it look so easy? Zoe dumps the dry mackerel, unable to stomach the look of its skin, parched, the way William's had been.    Zoe tries not to slip on the wet fawn-coloured tiles. From a distance, she sees a greying Good Morning towel hanging around Ah Hua's neck. The ends of the towel are frayed, sticking in clumps around his neck. Sweat pours from his face as customers swarm him, haggling over prices.

"Ah Hua. Thank you leh. After seeing your demo, my husband finish the fish I cook last night," a woman says, gesturing animatedly. There is something about the generosity of Ah Hua's smile when he hears her comment. It is a winning, sincere smile; Zoe can't tear her eyes away even when he flashes his stained teeth. When it is her turn, he looks up, nonplussed.

"Fish not nice again?"

"Huh? Oh… yup."

"Then go try his fish la!" Ah Hua points at the younger fishmonger, irritation dripping from him.

"No queue, unlike yours."

"Sing-pore people…," he shakes his head. "Want me write down instructions for you not?"

"Actually, can you teach me yourself?" The question slips out of Zoe. She claps a hand over her mouth, wondering if she wants his guidance.

How do people move on? What warrants a call for help? Since the incident, Zoe pores over books, looking everywhere for instruction. Always, her breath turns ragged because she knows William would have been laughing at her, trying to read her way out of grief.

Ah Hua nods with an air of nonchalance, leaving Zoe wondering about the rose undertone against his tanned skin before she leaves the stall empty-handed.

Zoe makes sure not to lean her arms against the coffee shop table's peeling paint. She has never been to this coffee shop in Ang Mo Kio, and for good reason. She tries to keep a straight face while examining leftover bits of rice and sauce stains on the table, the cleanest one she could find. 

From the corner of her vision, something swishes and glides. Two lonely tanks are temporary holding spaces for fish in transition. The fish swim in tight, constricted spaces, in the same waters, not knowing what their futures hold.

"Thanks Ah Hua!"

Ah Hua waves off a man holding packets of food. How had she not guessed? He is the chef at this modest stall, 01-314 Lucky Fish. No wonder he asked to meet her here. He waves Zoe over, walking with a strange gait, his portly stomach stretching at his short-sleeved shirt. Before his mind is willing to, his body is hurtling towards old age. Zoe is not used to seeing him without his green rubber boots.

He doesn't greet her. The first words that leave his mouth are, "Steam or fry?"

"Steam."

"Come."

Ah Hua walks over to the two tanks. Before she can ask, his bare hands swoop in and wrap themselves firmly around the body of a silver fish. It wriggles and thrashes as the pair walk towards the sink in his stall. Ah Hua's sure hands hold fast to it. The fish sails through the air as he releases it over the sink. Its teardrop-shaped body slams against metal, and the soft thud awakens something in Zoe. The fish writhes violently for a few seconds before flopping feebly from side to side. Her eyes start to swim with tears as she runs a finger along the fish's taut muscles and slimy body. Its mouth opens and closes, taking one last breath before its life is renewed, reimagined.

She must have looked like this, days after the fire. Nose blocked from the sobbing, her mouth was constantly slack open, and she cried herself to sleep. She breathed in short spurts through her mouth, alive but wishing she wasn't.

The fish is dead. Its sheen reflects under the light, and Zoe looks at its resigned eyes. For a moment, she has the urge to douse it with water, jolt its dying heart awake. Ah Hua reaches for the fish and places it on the cold metal counter. Holding the fish with one hand, he scrapes the fish gently with a small knife.

"Pomfret scales small. Just scrape, scrape, scrape. Like this."

"Isn't this a sea perch?"

Ah Hua smiles. "You every time come market so late. Pomfret cheap and good all the aunty buy very fast. You only left with sea perch that time." Zoe stays quiet. It has been some time since she bought the sea perch from him. "Now we wash. You try."

  Zoe picks the fish up and drenches it under running water. She hopes it will start thrashing again, gasping for breath, breathe. It stays unmoving in her hands. She scrubs the length of its broad head that tapers back to its silvery tail with her knuckles.

"Not like this! Aiyoh! Give me give me." Ah Hua massages the fish in circular motions. "Some things cannot rush one." Once he pats the fish dry with kitchen towels, he makes even gashes along the fish's body before transferring it onto a metal plate. He shows Zoe how to cradle the pomfret's head with one hand before packing the fish with freshly sliced ginger and sprinkling garlic over its body. Ah Hua then soaks the fish in a broth of chicken stock, soy sauce, and a dash of sugar. Each swift action of Ah Hua's — a muscle memory from years of cooking. Ribbons of smoke begin to rise from a steamer pot, and he places the fish into the pot.

"Eight minutes only. Zhun zhun."

"What if you take it out early? Or late?"

"Become rubber or powder taste like yours lor," Ah Hua laughs. "Come, I show you how to cook mackerel."

He pours oil into a wok thrice the size of her face. Once the oil crackles, he picks up the body of the silver-blue fish and lets it slide into the oil with a loud sizzle, sounding like tyres screeching to a halt over asphalt. Zoe jumps back from the billowing smoke, and the sound of her husband coughing and retching is in her ears. Pain shoots through her lungs as she gasps for air, reaching out to him. But it is Ah Hua's hand she touches.

"Eh, sorry, sorry. The oil splash you ah?"

Zoe shakes her head and turns away, tears leaking from her eyes. A woman in a plastic frame stares back at her. She isn't much of a looker, doughy around her middle with a nose that looks squashed. She has eyebrows like her mother-in-law, embroidered with a high arch and colour that has faded to greenish brown. But her eyes — they are gleaming with kindness. Zoe takes a step forward. Around the woman's waist is Ah Hua's firm grip. He gazes at her with his winning smile even as she looks straight into the camera.

"My lao po. Pretty?" Ah Hua places the cooked mackerel and pomfret on the counter, steam wafting silently between them.

"She… she's not angry you're not home? At this hour?"

Ah Hua's face is stoic. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes as he whispers, "Died. Cancer."

Zoe scrambles for words of comfort, but Ah Hua has already picked up the dishes and set them on the coffee shop table nearest his stall. Sprigs of coriander bloom brightly on the fish's bellies. Ah Hua spoons two servings of warm rice into yellow melamine bowls before gesturing for her to sit.

"She like this stall. Cause of the number."

"One three one four?"

"Ya. You can read Chinese?"

Zoe's cheeks turn warm.

"Yi san yi si. Sound like yi sheng yi shi." Ah Hua pauses. "We stay level three. Door number three four four. Three three four four." He takes a deep breath. "She say is like sheng sheng shi shi."

"What does all of it mean?"

"Love. Forever."

Zoe misses a few beats before saying, "The fish. It's delicious."

Ah Hua's face splits into a wide grin. "Thank you. My lao po favourite."

For the rest of the meal, they eat in silence, wiping tears from their own faces, putting themselves into a semblance of order. 

Ah Hua's fish stall is closed. It is never closed. The younger fishmonger smirks as he hawks his fish. He winks at Zoe, asking if she wants some fish while looking at her breasts.

"Where is Ah Hua?" Zoe demands.

The younger fishmonger's face morphs into one of irritation. "Ah Hua, Ah Hua. Why everybody keep asking me where Ah Hua. My fish also fresh what. See?" He squeezes a fish's body and jabs its face an inch away from hers. She backs off, a palm raised to her nose.

"I don't know la! Old uncle already. He still work so hard for what? Siao! You don't want to buy don't block the way. Siam!" he waves Zoe off, clearing the walkway for potential customers.

Zoe's pulse throbs in her ears. She races past streets, ground floor shops that spill into public walking areas. She ignores the slapping sound of her slippers, pushes away the fact that she hasn't washed her hair that day. Finally, she is streaking into the coffee shop, eyes blazing, looking for him.

Ah Hua's shop is teeming with people. Zoe shoulders through the tangled queue until she sees his face. He stares into her eyes, and for the first time, she is sweatier than he is. "Eh Zoe! Why? My boss here. Later then we talk." She is blinking back confusion, uncertain of her next words.

"Oi! Queue up leh!" a voice behind her booms. Zoe forgets to say bye as she turns to go. Then something warm circles her arms, and she stops short. "I cook for you tonight. WhatsApp me your address." Heat rises through her body when the words tumble out of him. "Your hair up like this nicer." Zoe stiffens against his warm touch, but his hand is gone in the next second, and he is walking back to the stall. She lets her hair down, covering the scars on her face once more.

Ah Hua's hands are full with his vast wok and a portable wok burner. He looks uncomfortable entering Zoe's rental apartment. His face turns red, and he keeps wiping his feet on the doormat as if afraid to dirty the place. Ah Hua takes everything in for the first time. Dove grey walls, outlined with accents of dark wood. Through the circular archway, they walk slowly. The house is empty even with Ah Hua's presence, but since the day Zoe woke up in the hospital, there isn't a part of her life that emptiness has not grazed.

In the kitchen, Ah Hua places his portable gas stove beside the induction hob. He stands in the space between two stoves, thrust between two different worlds, looking displaced.

"Sorry ah, I don't know how to cook without big fire. Need my wok also." His uneasiness matches Zoe's. She cracks open two beers and offers one to him. Tonight, he creates a ginger paste to go with the seabass. Once the fish is cleaned, Ah Hua teaches her to peel ginger with nothing but a teaspoon. She fumbles, and his deft hand catches the ginger slipping from her palm. He angles her hand, runs the concave side of the spoon down the knob of the ginger, scraping off its skin. "Bit by bit. Like this." Ah Hua blends ginger, shallot, spring onion, and bird's eye chilli. Zoe can't help noticing the film of sweat over his upper lip, the way William used to sweat whenever he cooked for her. Ah Hua's body and her husband's face merge, and she wonders what's real and what's not.

The scent of stir-fried garlic urges Zoe back to her kitchen. "Where did you learn to cook?"

"Malaysia. Last time I stay kampung. Every day cook for so many people." Ah Hua begins preparing his famous longevity noodles. "When I met my wife, she already living in Sing-pore. Once I know her, I want to marry her. So I leave my hometown. Come here work." He pummels through the dough, turning it pliant with his touch. Her stomach growls. Ah Hua hastens to stretch the bands of dough, weaving it into yellow ribbons.

The noodles are dropped into the wok, crackling with hot oil. Ah Hua splashes rice wine over them, and the fire leaps, licking the base of the wok with its golden flames. William is screaming for help. If only she had held her breath longer, not succumbed to the smoke. If only she had ducked, reached out that much further to grab his hand. The fire swirls before Zoe, its embers engulfing her and the room.

A hand is pulling her fringe back, uncovering her scars. Ah Hua's fingers trace them lightly. "Don't need cover," he says while setting the table with food. Each dish a declaration: I am here for you. You make things better. Stay.

Time dilates when Ah Hua is around. He insists on washing the dishes and mopping the kitchen after dinner. Zoe leans over the counters while cleaning them, and Ah Hua is suddenly standing behind her. It is just past midnight, and the beer has untied them. Zoe holds still and lets him press into her, a warmth she's not felt in a long while.

The day Zoe woke up in the hospital alone, she mourned over how quickly a person can turn into a home and how suddenly a home can be destroyed. In its wake lies a whisper, its shaky foundations in her heart. She holds back her tears when she turns and faces Ah Hua. He meets her gaze with a comforting light; so tender it makes her heart shatter. How does one hold onto memories, and yet move on?

Zoe's breath gets caught in her lungs. She wants Ah Hua to bang her hard, extinguish all her guilt. But there isn't a dark thread in him like her husband had. She leads him into her room, and the flames start to creep into her. Zoe hungers for intensity, something to smother her pain. But Ah Hua is a flicker of light filtering through the gloom on a rainy morning.

Blush envelops his face when he cups her bare breasts, and she feels a hardness filling the space between her legs. She removes his ratty shirt, then his worn-out white singlet. The room smells like fish blood and apprehension, and the scent coats the walls. Zoe takes deep breaths of Ah Hua, inhales the powdery scent of his body odour mixed with sweat.

When his lips touch her, it's right. It's wrong. Her hands are stabbing into the unknown in her burning flat. Back in the morgue. Keeping it together, so tightly wound that she doesn't even shed a tear when she reaches her husband's charred body, skin bubbled and split open. She holds her index finger towards William's leathery face. The skin on his cheeks splits and curls, giving way to tendons the colour of death.

Ah Hua's sure hands are on Zoe's cheeks, guiding her back to the present. He is brushing away her tears. Sometimes grief feels like she's drowning, but she's finally coming up for fresh air tonight. She's afraid to move, to show her pink, scarred skin. She closes her eyes, tries to reason away her guilt, tries not to let shame catch up to her.

She's on a car ride home with William, the sunroof down, one of his hands on her lap as he drives. She is holding the birthday cards he wrote her, tracing the sweep of his slanting handwriting. His deep laughter spreads around this room he's never been in. The walls are shrinking. She hears the stream into the toilet bowl as he pees, and her heart splices into more pieces. She will miss him endlessly until the day she is laid down to rest beside him.

Zoe takes deep breaths when she kisses Ah Hua because she can't breathe. Ah Hua's stomach sags into her as he strains himself. He is nothing like William, but she breathes through him as they kiss, in and out, till her breath steadies. When Ah Hua finishes, she feels his warm breath on her scalp. The air is charged with familiarity and doubt. Their bodies are slotted together, his moulding gently with hers, and she wants time to stop flitting through her eyes. Her shoulder, where Ah Hua's face is, turns wet. They're each battling their own fires, wondering how to go back to grieving their spouses, how to shed this guilt.

Zoe's face turns puffy and mottled with patches of red. The two of them untangle and lie torpedo-shaped, bodies glistening with sweat. Ah Hua is drawing heavy breaths between quiet sobs. Their grief shimmers, puncturing the air. Soon the time will come to pour into each other, to extinguish one another's grief. The time will come, to cook another fish.

_____