Chapter 132: A Taste of Black Honey
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(AI-generated image of Giulia)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Rome, 2009.
The Piazza Navona was quieter than I remembered.
Perhaps it was late autumn. Or perhaps it was Italy itself, staggering beneath debt, yet strutting in the sunlight like an aging beauty queen who still knew her worth. Northern banks whispered of recession. Southern voices raged against broken promises. Politicians gestured with polished hands, speaking optimism through mouths stained with scandal.
And yet… the espresso was still perfect. Bitterness balanced with pride.
⸻
I was in Rome for a restructuring proposal, auditing the collapsing bones of a telecommunications firm bloated with debt and denial. The Italians I met wore tailored suits and warm smiles that never reached their eyes. Meetings ended in toasts and evasions.
One evening, after a particularly exasperating session, I ducked into a dimly lit
enoteca
tucked behind the Pantheon, a quiet place of polished oak and whispered laughter.
That’s where I met Giulia.
⸻
She was pouring a glass of
amarone
when I walked in, her posture straight, wrist relaxed, movement sensual without pretense. She had olive skin, thick dark curls pinned loosely at her nape, and molasses eyes that scanned me slowly before offering a knowing smile.
“
You look like a man who needs something stronger than truth,
” she said in English, Roman-accented and dry.
“No,” I replied, loosening my tie. “Just something sweeter than numbers.”
She handed me a small crystal glass. “
Passito. Sweet like black honey. Sip slowly.
”
I did.
Her eyes lingered, amused.
⸻
Later, we strolled through
Trastevere
, where cobbled alleys echoed with laughter, scooters, and fading church bells. She told me she was twenty-five. A writer of unfinished stories. A waitress by necessity. The daughter of a laid-off steelworker. Her brother had left for London. She stayed.
“
Not because I’m brave,
” she said. “
Because I’m Roman. We stay even when we shouldn’t. It’s how ruins are made.
”
I asked what she wrote.
“
Desire. And what it does to people.
”
⸻
Her flat was modest but deeply Roman, high ceilings, cracked tiles, shuttered windows, and a wrought iron bed draped in linen.
“
I don’t bring men here,
” she said, locking the door softly.
“But you did tonight.”
She turned and looked at me, something tender, something defiant in her gaze. “
I’m tired of being wise.
”
⸻
She undressed without theatrics. Just peeled off her wine-red top and stepped out of her skirt.
No bra. No panties. Just skin: soft, real, radiant in the lamp-lit room.
Her breasts were full and natural, her hips wide and womanly, her waist the kind artists once painted into legends. A trail of thick black curls between her legs, untouched, unapologetic.
I kissed her slowly, deeply… tasting both the wine and the woman.
Her breath quickened. Her body leaned into mine.
She pushed me onto the bed and climbed over me, lips brushing my neck, then my chest. I reached for my wallet, tore open a foil packet, and rolled the condom on before she settled back down.
She guided me inside her in one slow, wet slide, with her mouth open, her eyes fluttering shut as our bodies met.
⸻
Giulia began to move, slow at first, circling her hips like a dancer, her palms pressed to my chest. Her moans were low, guttural, laced with old Latin vowels.
She leaned down, her breasts brushing my skin, and whispered in Italian:
“
Stanotte, sei mio. (Tonight, you are mine.)
”
Her rhythm built, faster now, wetter, stronger. Each thrust sent tremors through her thighs. Her fingernails raked gently down my torso.
When I flipped her onto her back and entered her again, she gasped in surprise, then wrapped her legs around me.
I held her wrists above her head, thrusting deep, slow, deliberate, and watching her unravel beneath me.
She came with a cry muffled in her pillow “
Madonna… sì…
” her body arched in full surrender.
I lasted only a few more strokes before groaning into her neck, every nerve lit.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay tangled in sweat-damp sheets, catching breath.
Giulia traced my chest and abdomen with one finger.
“
You were present,
” she said simply. “
Most men are not.
”
I asked again about her writing.
“
I start stories but never finish them,
” she said. “
Because the end always kills the magic.
”
“And us?”
“
There was no beginning,
” she replied, “
so there doesn’t need to be an end.
”
⸻
We didn’t exchange numbers. No goodbyes.
But the next morning, when I passed the
enoteca
, a bottle stood on the counter, wrapped in tissue with a handwritten note:
For the one who drinks slowly.
– Giulia
⸻
[End of Chapter 132]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 133: Ash and Amber
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(AI-generated image of Zofia)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Warsaw, 2009.
Poland stood steady while the world buckled.
The only EU nation to dodge recession that year, it did so not by brilliance, but by distrust of speculation, of luxury, of false promises. Warsaw bore that caution in its concrete bones and post-Soviet scaffolding. But cracks had started to flower. The city was learning to feel again.
I was in town consulting on an infrastructure proposal, advising a group that wanted EU funds to widen highways and connect rural provinces to urban hearts. The days were long, the Polish terse, the coffee burnt. But the work was honest.
And then came nightfall. And jazz.
⸻
She was sketching on a napkin at a dimly lit jazz bar near
Śródmieście
. The saxophonist stumbled on a blue note, and her eyes flicked up, sharp, amber, and assessing.
I ordered a drink and stood near her table. She glanced once, then resumed drawing.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Engineer by day. Painter by soul.”
She smiled faintly without looking up. “
Too obvious?
”
“No. Just accurate.”
⸻
Her name was Zofia. Thirty-two. Civil engineer by training. Painter by necessity.
She didn’t flirt; she measured. Her questions were scalpel-sharp, her silences deliberate.
“
I spend all day making concrete flow,
” she said. “
At night I want mess, texture, instinct.
”
“Then you need someone who knows how to be precise and messy.”
I held her gaze.
She let the silence stretch, then folded the napkin and stood.
“
My place is five blocks. But I don’t offer breakfast.
”
“I don’t take sugar anyway.”
⸻
Her flat in
Powiśle
was dim and warm, lit by one standing lamp and the flicker of city lights. Paintings leaned against the unfinished, unapologetic walls. A bottle of
śliwowica
sat uncorked on the table.
She poured two fingers each. No toast.
Then, without preamble, she pulled off her sweater and unzipped her jeans.
Strong thighs. Wide hips. A full, unshaven bush. Freckles down her arms and shoulders. A string of amber beads tattooed along her right ribs.
“
My grandmother’s necklace,
” she said simply.
I stepped closer and kissed the lowest bead.
“You wear history well.”
She took my hand and placed it on her breast.
“
I want to forget it tonight.
”
⸻
I took the lead. Undressed her with reverence and certainty. She watched every movement, testing me.
When I kissed her neck and whispered Polish she’d taught me (
piękna jesteś
), she gasped.
I lifted her, laid her on the bed, kissed slowly down her stomach, then between her legs.
She tasted slightly of vodka, salt, and something wild. Her breath grew ragged, her legs parted wider, her hands clutching the sheets as I licked and sucked her clit, teasing her slit with two fingers.
She came suddenly with a sharp cry, then silence. Just breath. Pulse. Heat.
⸻
I kissed her deeply, then paused. She reached for my wallet, found the condom, tore it open, and rolled it on with practiced care.
“
Now
,” she whispered.
I entered her in one thrust, slow and steady, and she exhaled into my neck.
Her body was strong and generous. She moved with rhythm, her hips rocking into mine, the tempo rising. She gripped my shoulders, then pushed me down and climbed atop.
She rode me with a fierceness that came not from need, but from choice.
She came again, leaning forward, her breasts swaying, her eyes locked on mine.
I followed, groaning low, her name falling from my lips like prayer.
⸻
Afterward, we lay in silence.
Zofia traced the amber tattoo on her ribs absently.
“
I was married once,
” she said. “
Briefly. To a sculptor. He carved marble. I carved time.
”
“And now?”
“
I build bridges. But tonight… I burned one.
”
She turned to face me.
“
I won’t ask for your number.
”
“I won’t offer it.”
We understood each other.
No false future. No clinging.
⸻
I left before sunrise.
Her door didn’t creak when it closed.
And that, somehow, made it feel more final.
⸻
[End of Chapter 133]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 134: Bosphorus in Sepia
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(AI-generated image of Leyla)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Istanbul, 2009.
The city sounded like brass, with ferry horns and mosque loudspeakers, tram bells and the faint clatter of tea glasses against saucers. On İstiklal Avenue, the old red tram hummed through a river of people in skinny jeans and leather jackets, white earbuds leaking Turkish pop from iPods and Nokias. Film posters curled on damp stone. Payphones still lingered but stood mostly ignored, coughing coin returns like relics of another decade.
I had come for a water-utility site visit on the Asian side… peeping at meters, poring over maps, and peering at men in quilted jackets arguing softly over cigarette smoke. But after work I rode the ferry back to Karaköy and let the Bosphorus unwind the knots that reports never could.
That’s when I noticed her.
⸻
She stood at the rail in a denim jacket too big for her frame, a black slip dress grazing her knees, and boots that had kissed more cobblestones than catwalks. Her hair was mid-length, dyed once and now sun-faded to copper at the tips, whipped across her jaw. The wind widened her already-large eyes, giving them that luminous, typical Bosphorus clarity that makes truth feel near.
A tattoo wrapped her left arm: a sea god rendered in ink and line, trident tilted like a question. When she turned, two small dolphins surfaced in blue-gray on her back, just under the dress strap, as if following her spine toward home.
“Cold?” I asked, offering the scarf from my coat pocket.
She considered me. “
Wind is honest. Let it speak.
” Her English was clear, brushed with Istanbul.
“
Leyla, is my name.
” she said finally, taking the scarf anyway. “
My mother would approve of your manners.
”
⸻
We disembarked into the evening rush, the smell of roasted chestnuts and diesel softening into rain. She walked like the old city: narrow, quick, right angles softened by grace.
We ducked into a meyhane down a side street in Galata, with bare bulbs humming and smoke curling, and small flatscreen in the corner tuned to football highlights while a radio coughing
Sezen Aksu
through static. The waiter set down white plates:
haydari, ezme,
grilled eggplant shimmering like bruised silk.
Rakı
clouded to milk when diluted and tasted of anise and old stories.
“
Earth still moves sometimes,
” she said, voice low. The memory of several earthquakes lived in her eyes for a heartbeat. “
My aunt, who survived the 1999 one, still sleeps by the door, with her shoes on.
”
We let the silence sit between us, the kind that honors more than it hides.
“What do you do, Leyla?”
“
I sketch the sea,
” she said, smiling. “
And tourists for lira near the tower.
” She tilted her arm. “
Poseidon is for my father. The dolphins are for me.
”
“You love the water.”
“
More that it loves me back.
”
⸻
Later, we climbed to Galata Tower. A student busker plucked a
saz
and sang something half-sad, half-bright. The city glittered in amber: headlights threading the Atatürk Bridge, minarets edged in faint light like calligraphy strokes.
Leyla’s hair smelled of drugstore ocean-fresh shampoo, the kind that tried to bottle the Bosphorus itself… briny, clean, a trace of salt clinging to the copper tips. When she leaned against the parapet, the copper tips brushed my cheekbone. I reached to tuck a loose strand behind her ear. She didn’t move away.
“
You touch like you learned slowly,
” she said.
“There’s no other way worth learning.”
She laughed softly. “
Then we agree.
”
⸻
Her apartment sat up four flights in
Cihangir
, one that had no lift, but cracked tiles, and a shoebox balcony tuned to the Bosphorus like an antenna. A digital camera lay beside rolls of still-loved Kodak film, as if she wasn’t ready to abandon either. On the wall, charcoal sketches of ferries and backs of necks.
A small stereo clicked when she pressed play; a pirated CD whirred, then spilled a love song that came from everywhere and nowhere.
She hung her denim jacket by the door. The slip dress held to her like a note sustained. Slim, delicate shoulders; a chest that made a virtue of understatement; collarbones like parentheses waiting for words. She rubbed her arms, not from cold, but from the weight of being seen.
“Lights?” I asked.
“
Leave one,
” she said, keeping the room in sepia.
I stepped closer, slowly enough to be translated. The backs of my knuckles grazed the inside of her forearm, where the inked trident pointed upward. Her skin rose under the lightest path of my touch, a shiver traveling like a small fish beneath the surface.
“
Sensitive
,” she murmured, almost a warning, almost an invitation.
I kissed the crest of her shoulder. She tilted her head, granting access the way the Golden Horn grants the sea. My lips traced the strap of her dress, the line of each dolphin, a pilgrimage along ink and skin. Leyla’s breath changed to something shallower, warmer, and the vowels of her name softening in my mouth.
Her nipples, shy at first beneath thin fabric, answered to warmth and breath, gathering and lifting as if waking, as if remembering a word they loved. She exhaled a quiet “
tamam
” when my palm held her through silk… signifying her consent, her promise, and not a script.
“
Slow
,” she said.
“I only know slow.”
⸻
We moved like people who had watched the sea enough to learn its grammar: approach, retreat, return. As the dress slipped over her hips, the room took on a low tide hush. Her skin, so creamy, gentle light brown, the color of milk tea left in sun, held a soft, even sheen, as if the Bosphorus had kept a little of its light for her alone. Under my palms she felt warm and finely grained; every slow pass of my hand drew up a constellation of goosebumps that rose and fell with her breath.
I mapped the pages of her body as though I might have to cite them later: the small hollow at the base of her throat; the firm, delicate slope of her chest; the clean lines of her ribs; the gentle scaffold of her hips. When my mouth found her collarbone, she inhaled sharply… then let it out on a laugh that sounded like a cork easing free. “
Tamam
,” she murmured again, not as permission given once, but renewed.
“
Protection
,” she whispered, a practical note in a tender song. I nodded, reached, and we took a beat to be careful on purpose, the kind of pause that makes the next measure sweeter. No choreography, no performance. Just presence. The world outside kept its clatter; inside, we let the metronome be breath and the measure be kindness.
Her hands were sure and curious, reading the tension in my shoulders as though it were printed, smoothing it out with patient circles. I answered in the same language: the lightest strokes along the inside of her forearm where the inked trident pointed upward; the slow curve across her back where the dolphins swam toward her spine; the respectful weight of a palm at her waist, inviting rather than asking. Heat gathered between us without hurry. When sensation crested for her, it did so cleanly, head tipped back, eyes closed, a sound caught between a sigh and a prayer, then softened into a grin she tried and failed to hide.
We didn’t outrun the moment; we returned to it, again and again, as if to the same familiar shoreline. If there was a secret, it was that we left nothing behind us we wouldn’t gladly find again: the sea breeze trace in her hair, the salt-sweet taste of skin, the way her great eyes opened at the exact instant of orgasm and stayed there. When at last we stilled, the cassette clicked to its end, and a loose thread of city light lay across her shoulder like a ribbon. I kissed the sea god on her arm and the small, playful dolphins on her back; she smiled into my neck and, without words, thanked the water for lending us its rhythm.
⸻
We made tea in thin glasses without handles, fingertips tolerating heat the way Istanbul tolerates everything: briefly, beautifully.
I spotted a postcard wedged in the mirror:
Büyükada
in winter, horse-drawn phaetons and a pale sea.
“You’ve never left?” I asked.
“
I leave every day on a ferry,
” she said. “
And arrive every day as someone else. It’s enough.
”
She tilted her head at me, those great eyes taking a final inventory. “
You’re passing through.
”
“Yes.”
“
Then pass with care.
”
⸻
At the door, she looped my scarf around my neck, a sailor’s knot against the dawn chill. The sky was turning that thin, forgiving blue that cities wear after a hard night.
“Keep it,” I offered.
“
Bring it back,
” she countered, smiling like the Bosphorus in fair weather.
On İstiklal, a kiosk rattled open; newspapers thudded onto wood. A man thumbed his Nokia, another checked headlines on a netbook, while a pay phone waited, mostly forgotten, humming an old dial tone to no one. When the ferry horn sounded, I looked up to see two gulls chase a wake that knew exactly where it was going.
I walked toward the water, scarf warm at my throat, inked dolphins still salt-sweet against my lips.
⸻
[End of Chapter 134]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 135: Across All Borders
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(AI-generated image of Elya 2)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, 2009.
The air shimmered with the thick breath of the tropics.
Outside, cicadas buzzed beneath wilting frangipani.
Inside, my condo hummed with quiet, air conditioning low, lights dimmed, and the scent of lemongrass lingering from dinner.
Elya sat cross-legged on the couch in my oversized shirt, the one she always claimed was hers, sipping genmaicha, the steam fogging her glasses.
“
Let me guess,
” she said, tilting her head. “
The Spanish one rode you like a bullfight. The German came with a silent gasp at exactly minute seven. And the Polish girl left marks you pretended not to notice in the boardroom.
”
I smirked. “You’ve been in my journal again.”
“
No need. You wear your adventures like tan lines. Obvious in the light, fading slowly.
”
—
Her name was Elya.
Bidayuh. From the highlands of Kalimantan.
Fair-skinned. Raven-haired. Strong-willed, soft-voiced.
She came to Singapore for work. Stayed for reasons even she didn’t always admit.
We’d met several years before.
We weren’t lovers by accident.
We were practice, then ritual, then something resembling permanence, though never exclusive.
Open, we called it.
But beneath the freedom lived something taut and wordless.
A pact without chains. A wound without blood.
—
She leaned against my chest, her hair damp from a late shower.
“
So
,” she murmured, “
what’s the difference? European women versus Asian?
”
“Beyond temperature?”
She gave me a look. The kind that could undress or destroy, depending on how I answered.
—
I told her.
About Lucia in Barcelona, who moaned like she was singing in a language older than Spain.
About Inês, the phoenix-tattooed Portuguese med student, who dissected anatomy by day and rode me methodically by night, her back arching with textbook precision.
About Annalena in Berlin, who came like a quietly-kept appointment: efficient, beautiful, and nearly silent.
“Giulia,” I said, “was Roman chaos and poetry and Catholic guilt. She whispered prayers while she clawed down my back.”
Then there was Zofia from Warsaw, who built bridges by day and demolished them at night, her body freckled like a map, her amber tattoo a story of survival.
“And Leyla,” I added after a pause. “The Turkish girl in Istanbul. Slim, quiet, but with eyes that could drown a man if he stared too long. With her, the Bosphorus felt like it flowed through the room itself.”
Elya listened.
Not blinking. Not smiling. “
You remember even the color of her skin, don’t you?
”
“Creamy light brown,” I admitted. “Like the first pour of strong Turkish tea before the sugar dissolves.” And added lamely, “I forget almost everything else.”
—
She climbed onto my lap, slow and certain. Her thighs rested on mine, her palms framing my jaw.
“
And Asian girls?
”
“You move like memory,” I said. “Like I’m being allowed in, just barely, and even then, only because you’ve already imagined me leaving.”
Her breath hitched. “
That’s cruel.
”
“It’s true.”
“
You think you know us?
”
“No. But I try harder.”
—
We kissed.
Her lips were soft but pressed with urgency, as if she needed to prove something.
She undid the buttons of the shirt she wore, let it slide down her back. Her skin glowed under the low light, gold against shadows.
I cupped her breasts, kissed the line of her collarbone, nuzzled into the soft hollow at her neck.
She gasped when I slid between her thighs, parting her with fingers that already knew the terrain. She was wet, not just with want, but something deeper.
She pulled me on top of her.
“
I want to be the one you remember last,
” she whispered.
“I want to remember you forever,” I replied.
—
I put on protection, always, then entered her slowly, deliberately.
She tightened around me like memory, like longing finally touched.
We moved together, not urgently, but with familiarity. Like dancers rehearsing a piece choreographed by shared history.
She came quietly, her moans muffled in my neck, her fingers digging into my back like she didn’t want to let go.
We rested, then moved again, this time with more hunger.
When I came, it was with a groan buried in her shoulder, every muscle trembling from restraint.
—
After, we lay tangled, breath shallow, skin flushed.
She traced small circles over my chest, same as always.
“
What did they teach you?
” she asked softly.
“That there’s no best,” I said. “Only the ones who arrive fully.”
“
And me?
”
I kissed her forehead. “You taught me that not all homecomings are safe.”
—
She looked at me for a long time.
Then, without breaking eye contact, she stood, pulled on my shirt, and wandered into the kitchen. I heard the soft clink of teacups. The kettle boiling again.
She returned with two mugs. Sat beside me. Curled into my side.
“
I don’t think I can do this forever,
” she said, voice steady. “
But I still want to do this now.
”
I didn’t answer right away.
Instead, I wrapped my arm around her and kissed the crown of her head.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly in the east, a storm still far off, but coming.
For tonight, we were still whole.
But some part of me, the part that remembered every departure, already knew:
Some borders, once crossed, can’t be uncrossed.
—
[End of Chapter 135]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 136: The Last Song Before Silence
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(AI-generated image of Celine)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, 2010.
I first heard her before I saw her.
Every Thursday evening, Celine played piano in a lounge bar tucked beneath an unmarked boutique hotel off Craig Road. She didn’t play requests or pander to the crowd. She played what moved her: minor-key ballads, impressionist études, and sometimes haunting Chinese folk melodies that stilled the room. Even the clinking of glasses seemed to soften when she played.
She was slender, with long, tapered arms, a swanlike neck, and a face that turned heads slowly, not from loud makeup or short skirts, but from the quiet dignity she carried. She wore plain clothes: a sleeveless navy blouse, black slacks, low heels. No jewellery. Just her.
I asked around. Learned her name was Celine.
Thirty years old. Taught piano part-time. Lived alone in Tiong Bahru with a rescue cat named Boon. Never married.
Over the next few Thursdays, I made it a habit to linger after her sets, striking up conversation under the guise of complimenting her technique.
“You play like someone trying to remember a love they never had,” I said once.
She smirked. “
Or forget one they did.
”
⸻
Celine didn’t open up easily. She didn’t flirt. She deflected compliments, kept her stories clipped.
But that night, over dinner, after her third glass of wine, something shifted.
She told me about her ex, a balding, overweight finance director nearly two decades older.
“
He made me feel like I should be grateful he picked me,
” she said. “
I was twenty-five and thought approval was love.
”
He didn’t appreciate her music. Said classical pieces were for people with too much time and not enough ambition. Called her gigs “
hobby performances.
”
“
Looking back,
” she said with a brittle laugh, “
I think he resented anything that made me feel beautiful on my own.
”
She stirred her glass.
“
I’ve only had a few close friends since. Women mostly. From my music circles. I think I forgot how to let a man in.
”
“You haven’t forgotten,” I said gently. “You’ve just been guarding the door.”
⸻
After dinner, I offered to walk her home. She lived just two streets away from where I once rented a narrow walk-up in Tiong Bahru, back when I was still doing my master’s, still close to broke, still chasing dreams with more hunger than clarity.
As we passed that old block, I gestured at it. “That was my place. The windows leaked. The fridge hummed like a lawnmower. But the nights were full of possibility.”
“
I like the old flats,
” she said. “
They sound hollow. Like they’re listening.
”
⸻
Her flat was a time capsule of quiet elegance. Cream curtains. Books stacked beside the bed. A black upright Yamaha piano beside a window cracked open to let in the night air.
She poured us oolong tea, then sat at the piano.
“
What would you like to hear?
”
“Whatever you play when no one’s listening.”
She paused. Then began the opening notes of
Liang Zhu
(the Butterfly Lovers’) Violin Concerto, rearranged for piano.
It was tender, grieving and unapologetically emotional.
When she finished, I didn’t speak. I just crossed the room and kissed her.
⸻
She responded slowly, not shyly, but with a measured yielding.
Her lips parted. Her hands rested on my chest as I unbuttoned her blouse, revealing pale, smooth skin and a sheer black bra. I kissed the line of her collarbone, the soft dip between her breasts.
She reached down and undid my belt, fingers trembling slightly, not with fear, but anticipation.
We moved to her bed, still warm from afternoon sun and folded laundry.
She stripped off her slacks and panties. Her body was as elegant as her music, slender, toned, sculpted from years of posture and practice. Her nipples darkened as I kissed my way down her stomach.
I lingered between her thighs, tasting her slowly, coaxing pleasure with patience.
Her moans were soft, controlled, like she was trying not to let the world in.
But her body surrendered in waves. She clutched the sheets, hips arching as I brought her to climax.
She pulled me up, kissed me hard, and whispered, “
Now
.”
I reached for a condom. She guided me in gently.
⸻
We made love as if orchestrating a nocturne.
She was quiet, but expressive, her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, hands exploring every inch of me. Her legs locked behind me, drawing me deeper. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically, coaxing pleasure with deliberate grace.
She rolled over, straddled me, moved with slow control, hips rocking like the pendulum of a metronome, not counting time, but stretching it.
I held her waist as she leaned forward, her breasts brushing my chest, her mouth at my ear.
“
Don’t stop,
” she breathed.
I didn’t.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay tangled in silence.
Her head on my shoulder. My hand on her hip.
Outside, a passing MRT rumbled like a distant memory.
She gently stroked my chest.
“
I didn’t expect this.
”
“Neither did I.”
“
Don’t expect anything more.
”
“Of course not.”
But I already knew she would linger in memory, not as a conquest, but as a coda.
The last song before silence.
⸻
[End of Chapter 136]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 137: Rhythms of Fire
https://freeimage.host/i/fTVtGSI
(AI-generated image of Farah)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, 2010.
I wasn’t supposed to stay for the wellness segment.
It was a client’s lunchtime event at a mid-sized consultancy in Tanjong Pagar. I’d finished my slide deck on workforce efficiency and was collecting my things when the HR manager chirped, “
Stick around lah, free Zumba demo. Very fun one!
”
And then Farah walked in.
Petite. Toned. A red tank top hugging her compact torso, black tights emphasizing legs that seemed built to pulse with music. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and her eyes danced brighter than the pop playlist she queued on her phone.
She clapped her hands, cheerful. “
Alright people, I’m Farah, your mid-day dance fix. No judgment, only movement!
”
Her hips swayed in rhythm even before the beat dropped. She caught me watching, and winked.
I stayed.
⸻
Afterward, I lingered by the cooler, dabbing my forehead with the hand towel they provided. Farah bounced up, flushed but glowing.
“
You didn’t move much,
” she teased.
“I was… observing.”
She tilted her head. “
Consultant, right? You always sit back and ‘observe’ until a slide tells you what to do?
”
I grinned. “Not always. Sometimes I wait for an instructor who knows how to lead.”
She laughed, light and confident. “
Careful. Some instructors bite.
”
⸻
We had kopi the next evening at Tiong Bahru Plaza, which made her nostalgic, as her HDB flat was just a ten-minute walk away. Coincidentally, it was near where I used to rent a room years ago, during leaner days.
“So, Farah,” I said as we sat, “Zumba instructor by day…?”
“
And mother by night,
” she replied, casually stirring her teh. “
Seven-year-old boy. Smart mouth like mine. But don’t worry, he’s with my parents most evenings.
”
She glanced at me with playful mischief.
“
Don’t look so shocked. Malay single mums can flirt too.
”
⸻
We didn’t plan it. But by the end of that week, I found myself outside her flat, heart racing.
Inside, it was modest. Warm tones. Photographs. A folded laundry basket. A Qur’an on the shelf next to a stack of Shape magazines. Her bedroom had a queen-sized bed and a standing fan that creaked slightly when it rotated.
She dimmed the lights. Then turned on music, Latin rhythm, pulsing low. Her body moved with it, fluid and teasing, until she stepped close and pressed her hips into mine.
“
I’m the one seducing you tonight,
” she whispered.
⸻
We kissed.
It started playful. Then she tugged my shirt off, nails skimming my chest, and climbed onto me like she was leading a dance.
“
Wait
,” she said, pulling a condom from her drawer. “
Don’t get ahead of yourself, consultant.
”
She rolled it on sexily with her mouth. Full eye contact.
Then mounted me, slow, deliberate.
Her hips rotated with the same syncopation as Zumba, sensual, unpredictable. She rode me facing forward, then turned around, arching her back, guiding my hands to her breasts as her moans grew louder, less controlled.
I flipped her over. Bent her over the bed’s edge. Thrust into her while gripping her hips. Her cries echoed off the walls, half-laughter, half-ecstasy.
Later, I kissed her thighs, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh. “
No one ever does that.
”
“Then they’re fools.”
⸻
We had sex three more times that weekend.
On her living room couch, with her riding me, still in her sports bra.
In the shower, against the tiles, water cascading down her back.
And then on her bed again, this time slower, deeper. She looked into my eyes the entire time, saying nothing.
⸻
The next week, I texted her.
She replied with a meme of a Zumba move and a single word:
Busy
.
I didn’t press. She didn’t ghost. She just faded with grace.
Weeks later, she messaged:
You’re dangerous in bed. I’m dangerous in real life. Let’s not make this messy.
I’ll always remember your eyes between my thighs. Stay golden, consultant boy.
And just like that, she danced out of my life.
⸻
[End of Chapter 137]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 138: Red Envelopes, Red Lips
https://freeimage.host/i/fuxCghg
(AI-generated image of Mindy)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, Chinese New Year 2010.
⸻
It was the third day of Chinese New Year, and the city had emptied. Orchard Road was quieter than usual, its storefronts shut behind iron grilles. The malls flickered with half-hearted decorations, faded red lanterns, looping instrumental versions of
Gong Xi Gong Xi
.
I met her at a private gathering hosted by a client of my consultancy firm. A penthouse, soft jazz, nothing under six figures on the wrist or wine list. She was standing by the balcony, hair pinned into an elegant chignon, cheongsam slit to the hip. Her eyes caught mine: large, feline, framed by lashes too perfect to be anything but real.
She looked like Vivian Hsu. Not the bubblegum singer, but the mature actress, the kind who knew how to play innocence and danger in the same glance.
Her name, she said, was Mindy.
She was polite, guarded, sharp. Spoke in clipped Mandarin-accented English with a Northern lilt that softened only when she laughed. We talked about nothing, then everything: wine, loneliness, the absurdity of wealth. She said the man who brought her here was in London for the week, as his wife was having their third child.
“
I’m his Singapore arrangement,
” she said flatly. “
Three years now. Rent, car, black Amex. But not love.
”
⸻
Her apartment in Sentosa Cove felt too curated. Like someone else’s dream she’d been asked to live in.
Mindy poured tea, not wine. Served me pineapple tarts on Limoges china.
“
I used to sell cellphones near Lucky Plaza,
” she said, crouching beside the sofa barefoot. “
Was the top salesgirl for three months straight. Then one day, he walked in needing a charger. Left with my number.
”
“And your dignity?” I asked, half-joking.
She smirked. “
No. That came later. In pieces.
”
There was something in her tone… not bitterness, but resignation. She had traded certainty for security. Her eyes roamed the room like it was a gilded cage.
“You’re lonely,” I said quietly.
“
So are you,
” she replied, and reached for my hand.
⸻
We made love in the master bedroom, in a space too vast, too cold.
She undressed me slowly, fingers grazing my skin like memory. I peeled off her cheongsam, careful not to tear the silk. Her breasts were perfect, her waist impossibly narrow. She pulled a condom from her drawer and slid it on me with silent grace.
Then she straddled me, took me in slowly, deeply… and didn’t look away.
She moved with control and hunger. Her hips grinding in lazy circles, tightening just before release. She leaned in, bit my earlobe lightly, moaned into my mouth.
“
You feel real,
” she whispered. “
More real than anything I own.
”
I flipped her onto her back, thrusting harder, faster, with her legs wrapped around me, her nails tracing fire down my spine.
She came once, then twice, the second time trembling, lips parted, hands clutching my arms like they were the only things keeping her grounded.
After, we lay in silence. She lit a cigarette and offered me one. I declined.
“You miss her?” she asked.
“
Who?
”
“The woman you live with. The one you don’t talk about.”
I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
By now, Elya was starting to become a ghost in our own home… present, polite, but unreachable. And each time I slept with someone else, I thought I was escaping. But really, I was building my own solitude.
Mindy leaned her head against my shoulder.
“
I’m just another red envelope for you,
” she said. “
Pretty. Sealed. Disposable.
”
I wanted to deny it. But I couldn’t.
⸻
When I left, she handed me a literal red packet.
“
Inside
,” she said, “
is a slip of paper. Not money. Just a truth.
”
I opened it in the cab.
It read:
You can only feel empty if you were once full.
[End of Chapter 138]
⸻
Mirror Site:
Chapter 139: Between Semesters
https://freeimage.host/i/fuVno0u
(AI-generated image of Seraphine)
https://freeimage.host/i/fuVxAMP
(AI-generated image of Kiwi)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, 2010
They were two very different girls, separated by campuses and seasons, but forever grouped in my memory like twin petals pressed between the same page.
⸻
The First: Seraphine
I met her in early January, on a still, breathless day when the glassy towers along Orchard shimmered like mirages. She was waitressing part-time at a rooftop lounge, dressed in a tight bodycon dress that accentuated every lithe line of her frame. She walked like she’d long grown used to being watched, the rhythm of her heels sharp but unhurried.
Her name was Seraphine.
Long obsidian hair framed a face with small, feline eyes and delicate cheekbones. A rose tattoo bloomed just above her left collarbone… its petals always half-revealed by her low neckline. When she turned, a small black cross rested at the top of her spine, barely visible beneath her cascade of hair. It felt like stumbling upon someone else’s prayer.
“
I’m twenty-two
,” she said over the clink of ice and lime, her eyes steady. “
Sociology major. SMU.
”
She knew what I was: older, composed, and quietly observant. And she wasn’t naïve. She was simply curious.
Two nights later, we met again. This time, she wore a loose off-shoulder blouse that slid easily with a tug. We shared drinks at a bar that smelled faintly of citrus and wood varnish. Her fingers found my thigh mid-conversation, with a confident, exploratory touch.
Her flat in Bukit Merah was a controlled chaos of perfume bottles, throw cushions, and exam notes. Her parents were overseas that week. The air was humid with something more than just the weather. When she peeled off her dress, her breasts, surgically augmented, round and full, bounced gently into view. She saw me staring.
“
Don’t worry,
” she teased, crawling toward me on her knees. “
They’re fully certified.
”
She straddled me with the teasing cadence of someone learning the thrill of dominance. Her movements were playful but bold, hips circling, fingers gripping my shoulders as she dipped lower, letting out small, rhythmic sighs. Her back arched when she came, nails digging into my chest, before collapsing into laughter.
“You’re dangerous,” I whispered.
She grinned and whispered back, “
Don’t fall for me, Uncle.
”
I didn’t.
But sometimes, when I saw a girl with a rose tattoo, I remembered the way her skin tasted of cherry lip balm and the faintest trace of vodka.
⸻
The Second: Kiwi
Kiwi wasn’t her real name, but that’s what she told me to call her, as she was small, bright, sweet, and unexpectedly potent.
We met at a youth entrepreneurship networking event in October. She wasn’t supposed to be there. Tagged along with a friend from NUS, more curious than committed.
She looked like a teenage idol from a K-pop girl band in a short bob, round glasses, and the flushed cheeks of someone always slightly out of breath. Barely 1.5 meters tall, 42kg, dressed in oversized denim and a Hello Kitty tote bag slung across one shoulder.
“
People think I’m sixteen,
” she said, half-exasperated, half-proud. “
Even the bubble tea auntie asks for ID.
”
She was twenty-one. And yes, I asked.
We exchanged texts over weeks. She sent me memes. I corrected her spelling. She called me a “
grammar uncle
” and once dared me to eat sour Skittles over video call.
One rainy night, she invited me to her hall room for “
Maggi mee and Mandopop.
” Her bed was narrow, barely enough for two. Her body was soft in unexpected places. Her skin was warm, hair damp from a shower, and the scent of green apple shampoo lingered on her pillow.
Her kisses began tentative, lips brushing mine like a question. But when she grew bolder, her need erupted with quiet urgency. She pulled me closer, wrapping her legs around me, breath trembling as we found rhythm.
She gasped my name in a whisper… a sound of innocent craving, like a forbidden prayer.
Afterward, we lay curled together, her cheek against my chest, tracing my arm with her fingers.
“
I want to write for a lifestyle magazine,
” she said. “
Move to Japan one day.
”
“You’ll forget me.”
“
I might,
” she said with a teasing smile. “
But tonight, I won’t.
”
⸻
Two girls, ten months apart. One wore desire like perfume; the other carried it hidden like a secret diary.
And though neither was in love with me, nor I with them, they reminded me of something I was starting to forget: what it felt like to be adored, in the moment, for no reason but presence alone.
In their arms, I wasn’t becoming middle-aged or jaded. I was just… wanted.
And sometimes, that was enough.
[End of Chapter 139]
⸻
Mirror Site:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/68...ters/197054981
Chapter 140: The Unattainable
https://freeimage.host/i/fugkn3B
(AI-generated image of Julienne)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, 2010
By the time I met Julienne, I had begun to feel old, though I wasn’t. I had grown wealthier, yes. My expensive suits fit better. My wine vocabulary had expanded. But my laughter had shortened. And my silences had lengthened.
And Elya, once the radiant centre of my evenings, now came over less frequently. There were no fights, only slow, lengthening absences. We still held each other, but not as tightly. Not as often.
And Julienne… was the kind of woman even other women watched.
I first saw her at an art auction at the Fullerton, standing alone before a million-dollar Basquiat, her presence quiet but impossible to ignore. She wore no logos. Her heels were matte. Her hair, straight and black, was cut just below the chin. Her face was delicately round, framed by sleek black hair, with large, luminous eyes that gave her the serene elegance of a porcelain doll. Her lips were bare. She didn’t need enhancements… she was the enhancement.
We exchanged no words that night. Just glances.
A week later, we met again, this time through mutual acquaintances at a private salon opening. She approached me.
“
I liked your silence,
” she said, unprompted. “
Most men speak too quickly when they feel small.
”
I smiled. “Most women avoid men like me unless they’re bored.”
“
I’m frequently bored,
” she replied, giving me a sidelong glance.
⸻
Julienne was the daughter of a property tycoon, the kind whose name appeared on building plaques. Her mother lived mostly in Milan, returning only for fundraisers. She had grown up in Swiss boarding schools and spoke with a strange, placeless accent.
We met at the St. Regis.
“
I don’t host,
” she said plainly. “
Too many maids, too much marble. It ruins things.
”
She arrived in a pale grey wrap dress and pearls. No handbag, only a slim clutch and a bottle of Louis XIII.
“
It’s older than both of us,
” she said. “
Let’s not waste it on small talk.
”
We drank in silence, seated at the edge of the bed. When she began undressing, it was neither rushed nor seductive, just precise. A study in economy.
Her skin was porcelain. Her breasts were full, natural. Her hips curved like sculpture. She wore no perfume, just the clean, sharp scent of expensive soap.
When we made love, it was slow and exacting. She rode me with poise, her body expertly calibrated to arouse. She clenched, adjusted, angled, every motion studied.
But her eyes never closed. Her expression barely changed. Even when her thighs trembled, it felt rehearsed. Not cold… just… practiced.
When I came, she tightened slightly and exhaled, as though completing a ritual.
She leaned forward and kissed me once. A cool kiss. Like a signature.
⸻
After, she sat at the writing desk, scrolling through her phone.
“
I hope that was adequate,
” she said.
“More than.”
We both knew it wasn’t.
There was no cuddle. No chat. Just the rustle of silk as she slipped into new lingerie. She didn’t ask if I’d stay the night, and I didn’t offer.
⸻
We met once more, for brunch at Dempsey. She wore oversized sunglasses and spoke of moving to Hong Kong. I nodded, pretended to care, and paid.
And that was that.
She didn’t ghost me. She faded, gracefully, like steam from a glass.
⸻
Later that night, I lay in bed alone, texting Elya a simple “
You coming home?
”
No reply.
I stared at the screen for a long time before turning it over.
The room was silent. But the silence felt different now… deafening, not peaceful.
Now I had everything people wanted: money, access, even charm.
But I was starting to wonder if I had lost the only thing I once had without asking.
Connection.
Elya was drifting. I could feel it. But I wasn’t sure how to pull her back.
Julienne had been exquisite.
But all I felt… was empty.
[End of Chapter 140]
⸻
Mirror Site:
Chapter 141: The Widow and the Watch
https://freeimage.host/i/fAXS7HX
(AI-generated image of Anh Tuyet)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Singapore, 2010
By the time I met her, I had come to understand that some women wore grief like others wore perfume: layered, lingering, impossible to ignore even when faint.
Her name was Anh Tuyet.
A Vietnamese-Chinese widow, thirty-six years old. Her shophouse in Katong bore a lacquered sign that read
TT - Thanh Thời
(Elegant Time). Inside, the air smelled of tea leaves and watch oil. The space was dim, elegant, patient, pretty much like her.
She was buxom, her breasts full and softly pendulous, pressing gently against the fabric of her qipao blouse. Time had drawn faint lines along her collarbones and hips, but it hadn’t taken her grace. She moved like someone who had once danced often, and now only in her memories.
Her smile, when it came, was hesitant, as if it required permission. But when it did appear, it changed her completely. Warmth bloomed in her wide cheeks. Her large eyes, usually still and reflective, sparkled momentarily like the polished crystals in her display case.
We began with talk of watches. But what we were really discussing, we both knew, was time… and what it left behind.
⸻
Her Singaporean Chinese husband had died three years earlier, leaving her alone with no children. Cancer, of an aggressive sort. He was a collector of vintage timepieces, obsessive about mechanical beauty. She kept his photo upstairs, beside the altar.
“
He wore a different watch every Sunday,
” she said quietly. “
It gave him the illusion of progress.
”
She offered tea. I stayed longer than I planned.
⸻
One night, she invited me upstairs.
There was no seduction. Only quiet momentum of two people edging toward something inevitable. Her home above the shop was spare, filled with half-spoken absence: a man’s cufflink on a dresser, a long-unused pair of reading glasses folded neatly on a shelf.
She unbuttoned her blouse slowly, with fingers that did not tremble, but were far from indifferent. Her bra slid down her arms in silence, releasing the weight of her breasts which were soft, pale, and veined faintly at the sides. She folded her clothes with care and laid them on a rattan stool.
I kissed her shoulder, then her neck. She didn’t resist… but she didn’t melt either. Her hands moved across my back with method, tracing lines like she was remembering something, or someone.
On her bed, the sheets were cool. She lay back, one knee rising. Her thighs parted slightly, then fully, as I lowered myself onto her.
Inside her, the warmth was intense, not tight, but enveloping, almost maternal. I moved slowly, reverently, hips rotating with a tenderness I didn’t know I had left in me. She gasped softly when I pushed deeper, her lips parted in a silent ache.
I kissed her collarbone, the soft fold beneath her breast, the inside of her wrist. Her body responded in measured waves, wet and yielding, but something stayed locked behind her eyes. Her breathing quickened, but never spilled over.
Her nails grazed my shoulders. Her pelvis rolled upward against mine. I adjusted, slowed, tried again, this time deeper, slower, patient. I whispered her name. She touched my face.
Still… no release.
Instead, she shuddered gently, eyes wide open, exhaling a single syllable that wasn’t a moan; it was a name.
I didn’t ask whose… I didn’t need to.
I pulled out of her and looked deeply into her eyes with concern. Shortly afterward, she turned and rested on her side, her back to me. I held her, my hand resting on the gentle curve of her waist, skin to skin. She didn’t speak. Her fingers occasionally rubbed her wedding band, which she hadn’t removed.
⸻
“
I’m sorry,
” she whispered eventually. It was obvious that she was weeping.
“For what?”
“
For not giving you more.
”
I kissed her shoulder.
“You gave me exactly what you could.”
⸻
I left just before midnight. She walked me down the narrow staircase barefoot, holding a candle like it was still 1950.
At the door, she pressed something into my palm, a 1963 Tissot in a velvet pouch.
“
It’s not rare,
” she said. “
But it’s honest.
”
I looked at her, standing in the amber light of her doorway, hair slightly mussed, her dress rumpled at the hem, the faint scent of tea and womanhood lingering between us.
⸻
That night, I lay awake, the Tissot ticking softly on the table beside me. Unlike most nights, I hadn’t come for the climax. And for once, I didn’t leave with conquest.
I left with silence. The kind that didn’t demand attention, just acknowledgment.
Loss, I was learning, didn’t always shout. Sometimes it touched. Sometimes it opened its legs and refused to come, because coming meant letting go. And she wasn’t ready.
Neither, was I.
[End of Chapter 141]
⸻
Mirror Site:
