I’m so fucking sexcited I’m on www.singaporeair.com checking out flight tickets now. The last I checked in early January (yes, I obsess psychotically about the near future) it was $900+. It has since dropped to $868. If I’m not wrong, it should be Spring now. When it hits the dead of winter in say, around May or June, prices will plummet.
Rachael will then crawl to work despite incapacity/infirmity/injury to stock up on leave. She will mysteriously disappear at (most likely) Terminal 3 one day. Upon stepping through departure gates she will no doubt be bombarded with SMSes or even calls (those desperate idiots) to acquire Duty Free cancer sticks. 10-15 days later, she will reappear in Singapore, distraught and dazed, loaded with alcohol from DFS (probably bought from her mother or mother’s colleagues), smuggled Australian wine, cheese, alot of Supré clothes (there’s no running away from this Roro) and a shit load of paraphernalia attesting to love and all its many splendoured cynosures. And as many items that can trap a person’s scent as humanly possible.
(I have somehow come to believe that as long as the scent can last me until I next see him, I will not wither and die. I think it’s the same way a child believes if she can make it across a floor without stepping on the cracks, she might get a pony for her birthday.)
And swiftly transported home by either a very openly concerned mother or a pretending not to be so concerned (but actually fretting more than Mom) father – if mom is on duty at airport – both who’re always afraid these trips do her more harm than good. And oh-so-weary and resigned to my melodrama-crazy-escape-to-another-continent-to-meet-someone-I-barely-know nonsense. But now they know his face, his name, and have seen him almost naked on many occasions, so Grace isn’t going to go on and on in Hokkien (which she only does when she’s agitated) about how I could be kidnapped, how she cannot believe I am flying over there for someone I only met twice, for someone who may not even show up at the airport, Oh-my-God-I-thought-he-was-your-secondary-school-classmate, no-Ma-you’ve-seen-all-my-secondary-school-friends-I-don’t-know-where-you-drew-that-assumption-from and other such trains of thought/speech/panic attacks.
If both parents are unavailable, she will hop into the nearest cab, take herself home and straight to bed and curl up there with some article of clothing seething with the very scent she so complained about months ago and nasally devour it until it lulls her to a fitful sleep.
One week period of uncontactable silence will commence, whereby one-line blog posts will come fast and furious, all attached with the “devastated” tag, written by an inebriated author who can find no more in herself than to languish in bed, the Baileys never too far away, and Photoshop away like a maniac.
Then the massive amounts of photos will start popping up on FB. Photos that will uncharacteristically not feature her. In almost every picture you will see a black DC cap on a head upon which it has taken root and grown symbiotic with. A black DC cap which has never been laundered since date of purchase. (Eee.)
I can’t wait.
