By Tong Kit Han

Back to Geylang

There was, indeed, no time left to regret. She'd known this the instant she checked in, alone, to find his bergamot-and-pepper presence absent from the scanty room. Tired of fruitless pacing, she plopped onto the side of a sunken mattress, edges dark from wear and odd stains best left ignored. Outside, the muffled hum of drunken KTV singers drifted through Geylang, in discreet harmony with the hotel's buzzing green-and-white neon sign – standout soloist of the neon-clad district. The automated fragrance spray puffs yet again, futile. It never masked the cloying air of musk and mildew, anyway. She turns the radio on, longing for a break from the too-still air, from the suffocation of awaiting his return from some other woman. Again.  A soulful voice bursts forward, crooning, "With his same old safe bet…My odds are stacked," as her fists clenched, nails digging deeper into shaking palms. "I died a hundred times/You go back to her/And I go back to—" With a heavy slam she killed the offending device, returning the air to musk and neon buzz. She didn't need satire. On the bed her phone buzzes, but she leaves it so, face down like a taboo. It can buzz till daylight if it likes. Retreating to the foot of the bed, she busies herself with the minibar, as if Coca-Cola cans could drown the repulsive ringtone. She'd rather not entertain the sunken feeling in her chest, a nauseous pull in her core – the one that started just last night when reality as she knew collapsed under a single photo from an unknown number. The photo of a happily-married couple. The husband, a too-familiar smile. The offending radio finds its way from the countertop to her side again, the same soulful voice crooning on the floor. All is still. Cool wisps brushed her toes, minifridge door ajar. The cans sat still. She stared them back, still as any of them. Beside, the voice croons, "He walks away, the sun goes down /He takes the day, but I'm grown… my tears dry on their own…."

Cycles

It's expected that Changi Airport hardly gets any quieter than this – even at 3am, the wearied shuffle of travellers and crew continues, luggage wheels roving across the glossy, world-acclaimed tiles in a persistent hum. Muffled announcements come and go, fleeting as the airplanes they serve, as takeoffs and landings loop in an endless cycle just beyond the spotless glass panels; mechanical samsara on display. Even the famed water vortex persists, gushing torrents cascading only to rise again. Such was his position – never really here nor there, never really satiated nor truthful; never really contented nor committed. He's been over it a thousand times by now, how it all started. Simple gestures, small white lies. Greater desires, bigger lies. More work trips away from home; a well-hidden ring. But what of the tonic soups he'd find on his study – clockwork-punctual on his desk every morning after his long nights; still warm to the touch by the time he got there, simply because It's bad to stay up late, you must finish them.

No, the airport is never silent. And the watery turmoil is never at rest. Even his still reflection in the glass will find no peace, as blinking planes take off within the shape of his face. His phone buzzes with an incoming text, "I'm still waiting here… as always." He reads off the top. Another chat lights up, with a new text: "Honey, I've booked the restaurant for tomorrow 8pm…Can't wait to celebrate our 5th anni already:)" He closes both chats without replying, switching off his phone. Fifth year already. He fishes for the hidden ring from his inner pocket, toying it within his fidgeting fingers. More planes take off and land again within his reflection.

The Sweet-Wife Show

Three martinis rest on the lacquered tabletop, as the evening's blaze dims over the prestigious city skyline. Towering facades come to life, both cast and show lights at once, by the beck of night. And the mise-en-scène – glamorous as ever, as glasses clink over plush velvet seats. The hushed hum of soft laughter – theatrically restrained and rehearsed, is interjected by the occasional splash from the famed pool; gentle waves caressing limitless borders at 57 floors high. Girls' Night at Marina Bay Sands' Cé La Vi was always a good time, especially with those who knew. Sipping from her glass, she smirks at the last voice note from her mother-in-law. "Keep the family together, that's your job. Not to air the dirty laundry –" She silences the voice with an idle swipe without letting it finish. Her friends share unamused expressions. "So what are you planning to do now?" one asked. She doesn't answer. Setting her glass down, she toggles to a tab with two empty folders, dragging two files named 'Evidence' and 'Tabloid Distraction' to their respective destinations – folders named 'If he lies again' and 'If he is honest.' The women watch as her finger hovers over the 'Evidence' file. Just a tap, and she could remove the file, if she so wished. There were pictures of his covert hotel visits with another. Videos of them. Jewellery store receipts, for gifts never received. Air tickets for two, for trips she'd never taken. Her phone starts to buzz with incoming texts. The press is getting impatient. "Editor Lee here. I see the files. It will run tonight 12.05am. Confirm ASAP. Drop or not?" Familiar footsteps approach behind her, and her friends rise to leave. She turns around with a wide hug and saccharine smile – the sweetest she could muster, exclaiming, "Oh dear, you're early! How sweet to come all the way." The show is on. "I'd hate to get in the way of your… work," she remarks warmly, smoothing out his shirt from the embrace, fingers lingering deliberately on the faint pink stain where she'd scrubbed another's makeup off just weeks ago, still barely visible. Editor Lee continues to buzz in her pocket.

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