Chapter 52: Four Nights of Fizz
https://freeimage.host/i/KnuqSyB
(AI-generated image of Cheryl)
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.
She smelled faintly of lemongrass oil and printer ink.
Her name was Cheryl, and she was a children’s book illustrator, freelance, humble, precise.
We met at a friend’s gathering in a Holland Village walk-up, while I was halfway through a drink, and she was folding origami cranes on a coaster.
Petite, just at five feet.
A neat fringe, oval glasses. Her T-shirt read:
Yes, I draw for a living.
She laughed softly, and only when something was truly funny.
She hugged her mug with both hands like it was a heat source.
There was something quiet about her that calmed my edges.
⸻
We messaged each other using SMS first, then shifted to ICQ when it got late.
She used punctuation.
Even in text, she was gentle.
“You seem like the kind of guy who runs hot,” she once wrote.
“I’m curious how that feels.”
⸻
Night 1: The Spark
She came over to my flat at Tiong Bahru after dinner.
We sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to
The Corrs Unplugged
on my Philips CD player.
The kiss was shy at first, more curiosity than hunger.
But when her hands slid up my chest, something shifted.
We moved to the mattress, clothes shedding between giggles.
Her body was light, almost weightless.
Small breasts, soft curves, faint tan lines along her hips.
She sighed as I kissed down her belly, her thighs spreading naturally, a surprised gasp escaping when I touched her with my tongue.
“You don’t have to be careful,” she whispered. “But don’t rush.”
She was wetter than expected.
She pulled me in with her legs, her ankles hooking around my lower back as I slid inside.
We rocked gently, hips finding rhythm, her breath catching in sync with mine.
When she came, it was a slow exhale, her forehead against mine.
Afterwards, we lay tangled in a warm mess of limbs and cotton.
She looked at me and said,
“So… that’s how you run.”
⸻
Night 2: The Crescendo
This time, she wore a dress.
No bra.
She said it made her feel free.
We didn’t bother with music.
We didn’t need it.
I bent her over the side of the bed, kissed her back as I slid inside from behind.
She moaned louder that night, and encouraged me to go deeper, faster.
Her fingers gripped the mattress, her cheek against the pillow, sweat glistening along her spine.
We then tried a new position, with her on top, leaning forward, hair falling across my face.
She rode me slow, then fast, then slow again, giggling when I lost rhythm.
“I didn’t think I’d like it this much,” she said, breathless, as we collapsed.
We slept naked, bodies pressed together, skin still sticky from heat and motion.
⸻
Night 3: The Shift
It started the same, with kisses, warm hands, gentle anticipation.
But the urgency was gone.
We took longer to undress.
She was quieter.
My kisses were softer.
We tried again, same rhythm, same movement, but it didn’t peak.
We paused halfway.
“It’s okay,” she said, stroking my chest.
“Maybe we already found what we came for.”
We still made love, slow, tender, like two people reading a familiar story.
She came, but quietly.
I followed, but more out of respect than hunger.
Afterwards, she lay beside me and stared at the ceiling fan.
“We’re nice,” she said. “But maybe we’re not fire.”
⸻
Night 4: The Fade
She came over with char siew pau and a bag of oranges.
We ate on the floor.
Talked about her latest book project, something about a turtle who didn’t want to come out of its shell.
We kissed out of habit.
Clothes came off again.
But halfway through foreplay, she stopped and smiled.
“You don’t need to finish.”
“I want to.”
“But do you… still want to?”
I paused.
And that was the answer.
We still had sex.
But it was like the last scene of a play, the actors going through the motions for closure, not applause.
Her body moved beneath me, accepting, warm.
But my heart wasn’t racing.
Her hands weren’t clinging.
We both knew.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay side by side.
No tension.
No sadness.
Just understanding.
“I think we were more curious than anything,” she said.
“We wanted to know what it was. And now we do.”
I nodded.
We didn’t ghost.
Still said hi when we walked past each other.
She gave me a signed copy of her book when it was published:
The Turtle Who Learned to Swim.
I still have it.
⸻
Cheryl taught me that
not every passion is meant to burn
.
Some just fizz, beautifully, briefly.
Enough to warm the room.
But not enough to last through the night.
⸻
[End of Chapter 52]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 53: The One I Chose Not to Chase
https://freeimage.host/i/KnZcKLQ
(AI-generated image of Anqi)
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.
She didn’t arrive.
She entered.
Tall, straight-backed, chin raised like someone used to cold wind and long roads.
Her name was Anqi. Manchurian.
Born in Harbin, raised in Shenyang, and in Singapore on a postgraduate scholarship.
We met in a China studies elective.
I misquoted a northern idiom in class.
She smirked, beautiful slit eyes lined in kohl, lips pressed into that knowing half-smile I would come to crave.
“You sound like a Cantonese uncle trying to pass for a Beijing cabbie,” she teased after lecture.
“It’s almost charming.”
She was built like no woman I’d ever dated so far: broad shoulders, long limbs, powerful calves, hair always tied tight into a bun like she might break into a martial arts pose at any moment.
But when she moved, it was quiet. Almost feline.
She didn’t flirt.
She didn’t lean in when she laughed or brush her fingers against my arm.
She simply observed, offered sharp replies, and let her presence do the work.
And it worked.
⸻
Anqi carried with her more than just the weight of her own choices… she carried echoes of a culture shaped by the northern plains, by winter winds that demanded resilience, and by histories where women were not always silent figures in the background, but leaders, riders, hunters, mothers of empires.
The Manchu people, from whom she descended, had once ruled the Qing Dynasty, the last imperial dynasty of China. Their women were known for their distinctive upright posture and the famed
qitou
headwear that signaled dignity and presence. Unlike Han Chinese women who had endured the practice of foot-binding for centuries, Manchu women’s feet remained unbound, thus they were able to walk, to ride horses, to work the land, to fight if needed. Independence was written into their very steps.
Anqi seemed to embody this legacy without ever needing to declare it. Her straight-backed walk, her refusal to soften her edges for male comfort, her quiet but unyielding self-possession… it all spoke of a lineage where women were expected to hold their own space in the world.
To her, femininity was not submission but presence. It was not about delicate gestures or veiled hints, but about clarity, control, and the ability to meet another’s gaze without flinching. She didn’t play the coquette; she stood as though her ancestors had ridden beside emperors and generals, and she knew the difference between choosing and being chosen.
With Anqi, intimacy never felt like conquest. It felt like entering into a space she allowed, measured and deliberate, where equality mattered more than seduction. She was not trying to win me, nor did she need me to win her. She simply was, and that was more powerful than any performance.
⸻
The Night
It had rained earlier.
The kind of evening where the roads glistened and the air turned soft.
We met at a small gallery opening in Telok Ayer, talked about politics and poetry over ice-cold Tiger beer, and found ourselves standing too close beneath a shared umbrella outside the MRT.
She leaned in, just slightly, and kissed me.
Firm lips. No hesitation.
⸻
Her flat was in a walk-up in Balestier, sparsely furnished, a single rattan armchair, books stacked on the floor, a rack of drying lingerie near the window.
She poured hot water into a teapot without asking.
We drank in silence.
Then we touched.
⸻
Lovemaking with Anqi was
deliberate
.
She undressed slowly, not shy, but purposeful.
First the blouse, revealing a long torso and modest but full breasts, then the skirt that slipped to her ankles in a quiet sigh of fabric.
There was a composure in her movements that felt older than her… straight-backed, steady and unbending. She undressed not to please, but as if she were asserting that this body was hers before it was mine to touch.
She stood before me in a black cotton bra and underwear, no lace, no frills… just clean lines and quiet confidence.
I reached out. She let me.
Her skin was cool at first, then warm under my palms.
She kissed with pressure, not pace, with lips pressed, parted, held.
I could feel her breath sync with mine, the pulse in her neck steady, calm.
She pulled me onto her bed, onto firm mattress, over plain sheets.
We lay side by side, eyes locked, legs brushing.
When she rolled over to straddle me, her long limbs framed me like a sculpture. There was something unmistakably
regal
in the way she moved… so deliberate and unhurried, as though she had learned from ancestors who believed women should stand equal to men, not hidden behind them.
She reached behind, unclipped her bra, and let it fall.
I sat up, mouth at her chest, feeling her body shift as her breath deepened.
Her nipples responded quickly to touch, not overly sensitive, but alert.
She guided me inside her slowly, her hips circling as she exhaled.
The depth was different, not just physical but emotional.
She never moaned loudly, never rushed.
She moved with control, eyes never leaving mine.
Her fingers dug into my shoulders.
Her rhythm was steady, pulsing, unwavering.
She clenched, held, relaxed, like someone playing an instrument she knew well but hadn’t touched in years.
It felt less like surrender, more like ritual… two people holding a moment as equals.
We climaxed almost together… she first, with a quiet gasp and a soft, whispered “来了…”, and then me, drawn out by the rhythm and the stillness.
⸻
Afterwards, we lay under the ceiling fan, her leg draped over mine.
She kissed my collarbone once, then tucked her head under my chin.
“You’re better than I expected,” she said.
“But not the one I’ll end up with.”
There was no sadness in her voice.
Just
clarity
.
And I realised…
she was right
.
⸻
We saw each other twice more.
Once over noodles at Whampoa.
Once in class, sitting at different ends of the seminar room.
There was no drama.
No ghosting.
Just the quiet drift of two people who had shared something, and understood that it had already reached its shape.
⸻
Anqi taught me that not every fire needs to be fed.
Some flames are meant to warm you for a night, then return to ash.
That even when the body says yes, the heart might say:
“
This was enough.
”
With Anqi, I came to understand that intimacy was never just about two bodies.
It was about history living quietly in posture, in silence, in the way a woman could carry centuries of survival without needing to explain a word of it. I wasn’t only with her; I was brushing against that lineage, that unbroken thread of dignity.
And in choosing not to chase her, I learned that some lessons don’t stay in books or lectures.
They come embodied, for one brief season, to remind you that presence can be
enough
.
⸻
[End of Chapter 53]
Mirror Site:
Author’s Note on the Portrayal of Women and Culture
As I share these chapters, I want to pause for a moment and acknowledge something important. Each story I write is not just about bodies meeting in the night, but about people… each woman with her own history, culture, and inner world that shaped how she loved, how she held herself, and how she left an imprint on me.
In particular, I hope readers understand that my intention is always to portray the women in these chapters with respect and depth. Each encounter carried meaning beyond flesh upon flesh; it was also about presence, resilience, clarity, and the subtle ways culture lives on in posture, in silence, in gestures.
I am mindful that when I write about someone’s heritage… whether Manchurian, Vietnamese, Malay, or European, I am touching on stories far larger than my own. My aim is not to stereotype, but to reflect the lived experience of meeting another person as a whole being, carrying with them echoes of their lineage and identity.
If there is passion in these pages, there is also reflection. If there is intimacy, there is also learning. Every woman I have written about gave me more than a moment; she gave me perspective. And in writing, I hope to honor that.