Chapter 7

Saturday Morning

When the alarm buzzed at exactly 0600hrs on Saturday morning, I woke up, squeezed the gum out of my eyes and went to do my usual morning rituals. By 0645 I stepped out fresh and ready to face another weekend. But first, breakfast. I went down and cycled (yes, cycled) to a nearby roadside stall selling nasi lemak. I bought a packet, with some kuih, and cycled back home. I had the nasi lemak with a lovely, rejuvenating cup of coffee.

On Saturdays the cleaners would come in by 0900hrs, and by then I’d usually be out. First, I’d take my car or bike for a wash. While that went on I’ll read a novel (thrillers, mostly) or catch up with whatever news has been deemed important enough to warrant pages in the local dailies. After the car wash, I’ll drive by to either Pasar Taman Tun or Bangsar to shop for groceries; meats, seafood and vegetables, and on to the supermarket for other sundry goods. Then I’d go home, cook-freeze my groceries for easy consumption throughout the week, and do laundry and sort out my wardrobe. Afterwards I’ll watch some television or play a few computer games (not that much, alas, nowadays). By 1600hrs, I’ll take another shower, and hit the streets of Kuala Lumpur once again. This time, you’d find me window shopping or really, shopping in and around the various malls throughout our city. Pavillion and KLCC is much loved, of course, both for the quality of shopping and the potential trophies I could bring home.

But this morning, there was something odd. Something that hasn’t happened to my Saturday mornings for quite awhile. As I finished my coffee, I looked around my condo unit. It was a modern, cleanly designed piece, with leather settees, glass tables and minimalist décor. I liked it this way. Girls liked it this way, although there’s always this sense of unease that I detect in them when they set foot in my apartment. Perhaps they think it’s too clean for a, as the Malays say, a bujang like me. Or too sterile. Perhaps, too, I intentionally keep it that way as to not make them feel too comfortable. Maybe.

Everything was as per usual… except, why I’m all alone this morning aren’t I? When I had woken up, there was no one sleeping beside me. Bedsheets instead of nude skin. No spent condoms in the bedside wastebin, no casually thrown clothes on the floor… no girl.

What happened last night?

Oh right.

The Friday Night Before

At 2030hrs I was standing in front of Ben’s KLCC. I had put on black jeans, tan loafers and a white shirt with the top two buttons loosened. A few minutes ago I received a text from Damia, telling me that she’ll be a few minutes late because she’s having trouble finding a parking spot. That was okay, I told her.

At about a quarter to nine, I spotted her walking from a distance. She smiled when she saw me (or smirked; I still couldn’t really tell). She came dressed in a maroon cardigan top over a white t-shirt (MNG, I could see the logo) with matching hijab, a pair of white Levi’s, and killer heels that added about 3 inches to her height.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Damia said.

“It’s alright.”

“Are we having dinner here?” she motioned to Ben’s restaurant.

“If it’s okay with you?” I said.

“Sure,” she said. I beckoned my arm, inviting her. The hostess led us to a quieter section of the restaurant that was still pretty noisy. Friday night, what’d I expect? We took our seats and the hostess laid down napkins on our laps and handed us the menus. Damia and I looked at each other and smiled. For a moment there was a silence. Not quite awkward, but silence, all the same.

“Ready to order?” I asked, and she said yes. We placed our orders.

And again, silence. We looked at each other again, and this time both of us broke into small laughter.

“Well, this is awkward?” she said.

“It doesn’t have to be,” I said. “Let me be frank, Miss Damia,” but then she interrupted me.

“Damia,” she said, smiling. A lovely smile. “Just Damia, you’ll embarrass me if you call me ‘miss’.”

“Sorry, eheh. Well, Damia, to be honest, I wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when I asked you out.”

She looked at me curiously. “And why is that?”

“To tell you the truth, I overheard Khairul and Hadi talking about you.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Nice things, of course,” I said. “Apparently, Khairul asked you out.”

“He did,” she said with a look of amusement. That smirk again. “I said no.”

“Why?”

“My brother once told me, don’t eat where you shit.” She grinned mischievously. “Sorry.”

“Haha. So why yes when I asked you out?”

The curious look again, like she was wondering if I was asking a serious question, or just being flirty. Our drinks arrived, then she said, “Different department.”

We sipped our drinks in silence; I took the time to really gauge her looks. She really was beautiful; easily one of the top ten, nay, three, top three of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. Maybe even the most beautiful. And there was something more than that. I couldn’t quite grasp it, or say it in words, but there was something beneath the beauty that seemed to demand more attention. Maybe I’ll figure it out in time, but I’m guessing it won’t be this night.

“So Damia,” I said.

“Yes?”

“How did you end up at our much esteemed firm?”

She bit the end of her straw in a gesture I found adorably juvenile. “Well, I was with a law firm before. Actually, one of your colleagues recommended my name to the firm. You know Zarina?”

My mind quickly scanned the faces I knew from work; yes, Zarina, short, slightly chubby girl with curly hair and a penchant for weird, hipster glasses that made her look totally dorky.

“Yes,” was all I said.

“Okay, so it was Zarina that brought me in. About time, too. I was tired of being overworked at the old place, so I…” she begin to speak, and I was only paying half attention. I was getting lost in those grey eyes of hers.

“So how long have you been working for, you know?” she asked.

“Four years, and counting,” I said, a little proudly. The fact was that I was proud of my job and employment at our firm. They paid me well for performing well. WE talked about work, mostly just to ease the awkwardness of getting to know each other. She was a fluid speaker, very articulate. She spoke with a grace not commonly seen in Malaysian women; it was in the way she chose her words, and there was this slight ‘twang’ to her accent that I found very exotic. Her looks were getting to me. The more I looked at her, the more I noticed details. For instance, despite wearing a cardigan over her white MNG t-shirt, I could see the lines of the white t-shirt bra she had put on. The gentle bulge of her ample, but not grotesquely large bosoms stretched out the button up cardigan nicely in front, forming three creases across her breasts. I pictured taking that shirt off and unhooking the bra underneath. I’d be lying if I didn’t feel a slight rush of blood to my loins.

We talked some more as our dinner arrived. She had the mushroom and truffle oil pasta, while I had the burger. She ate heartily, which I found to be so wonderful. I’ve met too many girls that order a dish, have one or two forkfuls and a swig of water and then go, “I’m full.” Bullshit. But Damia, she dug into her meal with gusto. She must have noticed I was watching her a bit too intently.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “I’m really hungry. You must think I’m awful.”

“Au contraire,” I said. “It’s refreshing to see a girl eat the way we should eat.” She smiled gratefully and went on with her pasta. She asked me a few things too; where I stayed, family. I told her, freely. She told me some details about her too. I know now she is the eldest daughter amongst five siblings: three girls and two boys. I know now that her father is an architect with his own firm, and doing pretty good for his family, and that the mother is a doctor attached to Prince Court Medical Center. I know that she has a law degree from UIA, too. I glanced at her fingers. No ring.

“Are you seeing anyone, Damia?” I asked, a bit too suddenly.

She blushed, deeply. “Not at the moment,” she said.

“I’m sorry, I was just curious.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Well, I asked you out to dinner, and I wouldn’t want to offend a significant other by your being here, with me, having dinner.”

She shook her head. “It’s okay. Don’t worry.” We laughed. Then she excused herself to go to the ladies room, and I looked at her as she left. Her white jeans clung to her buttocks snugly without being too tight. And though her hips swayed slightly when she walked, her buttocks did not do what I call the left and right saggy tango; the left buttcheek did not sag when she took a right-footed step, and vice versa. Firm, rounded buttocks. A lovely ass. In my head I was shoving my hands down her jeans, caressing her. When she came walking back, it was her legs I was looking at. Slightly skinny in the thighs, but well shaped and toned by the look of it.

“Would you like dessert?” I asked as she took her seat. I saw she had put on fresh eyeliner. That was killer; her grey eyes sparkled, highlighted by the dark lines around them.

“Maybe we can share one?” she suggested, and I agreed. We shared an order of red velvet cake. “My favorite,” she proclaimed.

After dinner and dessert, I called for and paid the bill. We talked some more, about everything: politics, entertainment, science, medicine, business. She was impressively knowledgeable, and witty too. Our conversation was dotted with laughter. Later, we decided to stroll the park for awhile. As usual, the park was crowded with people. Tourists from everywhere in the world, Banglas, Indos, and those ridiculous rempit-ish kids who, to me, have no business doing anything in this part of the city. I decided to look at the Twins instead; how they shone! I swear that there is no building in Malaysia or the world that is as beautiful as the Petronas Towers. I always feel awestruck by it.

“You like it, do you?” she asked. She must have noticed me gawping at the Twins.

“Very much, indeed,” I said. “It’s beautiful. A beacon.”

“Beacon?”

“Yes. Of hopes. Dreams. Oh the dreams these lights promise,” I said, half-laughing and half-serious.

“It’s good to have dreams. It gives you something to strive for.”

I looked at her. “What are your dreams, Damia?”

She thought for a moment before speaking. “You know what, Dhani? I’m not too sure. I’ll let you know when I find out, though. If you’re still interested by that time.”

“I might well be,” I said. We walked a few minutes more, just breathing in the atmosphere. I seemed calm on the outside; my usual, smooth self. But in my head I was beginning to think I should pull some of my moves on her. The more I walked with her the more I wanted to bring her home. I wanted to bring her home and take off her clothes and fuck the living daylights out of her. And I want to be looking into those grey eyes and make her scream with pleasure.

But instead, I just kept quiet. There was something wrong with that scene playing in my head.

“I think I better get home. Despite my being an adult and all, Dad gets really naggy if I’m home too late. Especially when I’m out with a boy,” she said.

“You told your dad you’re out with a boy?” I said, amused.

She laughed. “Officemate. A friend, a friend who is a boy.”

“Fair enough. I’ll walk you to your car.”

“You don’t have to, I valet parked because I couldn’t find one earlier.”

“It’s fine. I’ll walk you there. Common courtesy, right?”

She relented. When we got to the valet parking, she passed her ticket to the jockey and was fishing for notes from her purse. But I was quicker and settled her RM30 valet fee. Small change, anyways.

“You didn’t have to, let me pay you back,” she said when she realized I had paid for her.

“It’s alright, it’s on me. I was the one who asked you out. And I assume it’s been a good night?” I said as I opened the door to her yellow Myvi SE. She stepped in and strapped her seatbelt on.

“It was a good night,” she said. “Thank you, Dhani.”

“You’re most welcome, Damia.” I closed her door and she rolled down the window.

“See you…” I said, leaning down her window.

“When I see you,” she finished. She rolled her window back up, and left.

Saturday morning

I finished the last drops of my coffee.

So no, I did not sleep with Damiawati last night. We had had a good dinner, a good chat, and we had left knowing each other a little better. Strangely enough, I don’t remember much about what happened after that. All I remember is driving home, Lithuania HQ on the car stereo, taking a hot shower then going to bed. And waking up in today feeling slightly odd. Because for the first time in a long while, I didn’t bring back a girl on a Friday night. I didn’t even go to the clubs or the bars or the places I usually haunt.

It really was just a dinner with her, with Damia. Even when my thoughts had been straying into explicit territory, even when my fantasies were painting a very dirty picture in my head and oh the things I could have done with her… it was just a dinner. Better that way, anyway. She even shared my little rule: Don’t eat where you shit.

Oh well. I can still go hunting tonight. IN fact, I intend to.

But for the record, I could totally have turned my game on and scored with Damia last night. I have no doubts about my ability to pull. Damia could have been another notch on my bedpost, I just chose not to. Come on; did you think for one second that I didn’t have the guts to hit on her? Please. I didn’t earn the name ‘flower heart’ for nothing. Right?

Right.

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