Chapter 24

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It has been four, close to five, years since anyone has ever made the decision to leave me. And I have spent the past four years being unbreakable, untouchable and invincible. I had carved a legend out of my own name, so much so that I have gained a hallowed name: The Flower Heart, they called me. I have, over the past four years, made girls wet their panties and tremble on their knees as I swept them off their feet and made their eyes roll up so far they could have sworn they saw heaven.

But now I am sitting on my bed, feeling angry and maudlin. I am angry at the fact that that fucking dickhead of Damia’s ex-fiancee decided to show himself and disrupt my relationship with her. I am angry at the fact that Damia refuses to see that I am a changed (?) man and that I would give it all to be with her. I am furious that for the first time ever, I feel I am not in control of events, and I am not dictating how my life is flowing.

Sitting alone at home wasn’t helping. I put on a white button down shirt and a pair of jeans, whipped out my helmet and went down to my parking lot. There, gleaming in an angry yellow and looking like a robotic wasp, was my Ducati Streetfighter. I had bought the bike two years ago, almost on impulse. Many sexy asses had graced it’s pillion seat, and I have ravaged them all. I mounted the bike, fired up the engine, and went to my old hunting grounds.

***

 

But not to hunt. Rather, for a drink. And maybe a smoke. I’m not usually the smoking type, but somehow this… predicament, I suppose, warrants it. When I had pulled up in front of Casa del Loco, one of my most frequented clubs, a dozen eyes looked my way. I saw some familiar faces, not that I knew them, but familiar enough for me to acknowledge. The bouncer, Victor, a tall, slim but tough Chinese dude who had the Muay Thai skills to clout your ass backwards, greeted me warmly, noting that it’s been awhile since I’ve been around.

“Busy, Vic.”

“I thought you got married or something,” Victor said, laughing as he let me in. I left my helmet with him and walked straight to the bar, where I ordered a whisky and a pack of Dunhills. I lit a fag and sipped my whisky. Already I felt calmer. Angry, still, but calmer. I wanted to gather my thoughts, in a place where the silence wouldn’t be so loud and agonizing. Behind me, the dance floor was packed and the music loud. I swirled the fiery liquid in my glass, thinking about Damia.

Why me, Dhani? What’s so special about me? Said a ghost voice, ringing in my ears (or so I thought). You could have anyone you want, Dhani. Why do you want me?

“I don’t know,” I said out loud, loud enough that the bartender came to me and asked if I called for her. She was a pretty Pinoy girl, who went by the name of Marcella. We’ve flirted, before, but I’ve never actually went in for the kill with her. Mostly because this was a place I came often, and I never liked bumping into playthings. So Marcella and I were just casual, flirty customer and server. I asked her for another whisky and she put out two glasses.

“One is on the house, D,” she said and I thanked her for it. Something must be showing on my face. Whatever.

The ghost voice spoke again: You can have better than me. Why me, Dhani?

I closed my eyes, took a shot of the whisky and let it burn down my throat. I followed this with two long drags on the cigarette, and I blew smoke in a steady stream into the air. I kept my eyes closed and I thought of Damia. My lovely Damia. I saw the curves of her body and the sparkle in her grey eyes, and at once I felt her hands in mine and heard that husky laugh.  I could relive the conversations we’ve had, and the things we talked about.

I heard her ghost voice saying I love you, Dhani, like she always says when she wishes me goodnight, and how everytime she says it, my heart gets warm and my cock stiffens, not out of lust, but out of a strange sense of arousing pride and love and gratitude.

“And I love you,” I said, out loud but this time not so loud that people would hear. And I did; I do, I love her with all my heart, more than I’ve ever loved anyone before, more than I’ve loved the last girl that broke my heart and turned me into the monster I had become before Damia came along. I loved Damia with a  passion I can’t explain.

Why me, Dhani?

“I can’t explain, Damia,” I said, again, just under my breath. The drinks were making their effect known. Already I felt relaxed, less angry.

I thought of a moment I had with Damia, a few weeks, perhaps a month ago.

*** 

We had been sitting on a grassy knoll one weekend, at Taman Tasik Titiwangsa. My nieces were with us, and they were playing with newly bought toys, which Damia had bought for them, much to my annoyance, a few meters away. The toys had already taken over their attention, and though both Damia and I were keeping a watchful eye on them, Yasmine and Jasmine, had, seemingly, forgotten we even existed.

Damia was sat close to me, her shoulder in mine, and she was sketching the skyline of Kuala Lumpur, which, on that clear sunny day, had been as visible and picturesque. I watched her slim, urchin fingers caress the pencil on the sketch-book, moving in deft strokes and graceful wisps. Once in a while she’d put her eraser to work, and then she’d softly blow away the debris. Damia, too, seemed to be lost in her own world. I let her, because sitting there, just watching her, was heavenly enough. She was in a pastel yellow hijab, pinned artfully to her white cotton blouse, and a mustard yellow long skirt with floral motifs. I could just make out the outline of the pink bra she had on beneath her blouse.

Damia glanced at the twins. “They seem happy,” she said, without turning to me, eyes fixated instead on Kuala Lumpur’s skyscrapers and towers.

“Of course. You shouldn’t buy them toys, next time. They’ll get used to it, then manja.”

Damia laughed. “It’s okay. It’s not often, and besides, they weren’t expensive toys anyway. I don’t mind. What do you think?”

She showed me the sketch of Kuala Lumpur. It was remarkably detailed, if a bit rough-handed. I had been suitably impressed.

“Why aren’t you an architect?” I asked, inciting laughter from Damia.

“Because I hate drawing technically and numbers, that’s why,” she said.

“Have you drawn me?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because,” she shifted and faced me more fully. “Because I don’t have to draw pictures of you on paper. You,” she put a finger on my lips, then put the finger to her head. “You are already here,” she said, then brought her finger down to her chest and pointed to her heart. “And here.” Damia smiled at me, her nose crinkling a bit. I had looked at her and never felt so convinced that I wanted to spend all my life with her.

“Am I now?” I said, acting unimpressed. Then she did the sweetest thing; she brought her face to my cheek and gently rubbed her nose against it. A ‘kiss’ that wasn’t quite a kiss, and certainly not the kisses I’m used to getting. But it was a sweeter gesture, a more loving act.

“I know you love it, mister. I love you, Dhani,” she said. Just then the twins came running back and crashed into me. They begin to tickle my body and I was laughing like crazy. In between, Yasmine and Jasmine were screaming with laughter and Damia only looked at us, also laughing, and taking pictures on her phone. The twins begin asking for ice cream, which I didn’t want to, and that made them start asking Damia, who agreed, but only if they gathered their toys and promised to behave. Incredibly, they did, and walked with utter obedience between us; they held each others hands, and I had Yasmine’s hand in mine, and Damia held on to Jasmine’s.

“They never listen to me, you know,” I said to Damia.

“That means they love me more already,” she said. We stopped by an ice cream stall and Damia bought ice creams for the twins.

Just then an elderly Caucasian couple, expats most likely, who were out on an evening stroll, passed us by. The couple looked at each other, then, as they passed us, the kind looking lady of the duo said to us, “What an adorable family you’ve got there, love.”

“Why, thank you,” I said, in reflex. The elderly couple smiled at us and walked along, and I turned to Damia, who was smiling, blushing, but refusing to meet my eyes. Then we had walked back to our car, in a comfortable, lovely silence. The twins fell asleep with sticky lips and cheeks almost as soon as the car got moving.

“They thought Yas and Jas were our kids,” Damia said, suddenly. Then she turned to me. “Do we already look like parents?”

I laughed. “Well. We’re certainly old enough.”

Damia didn’t laugh. Instead she said, “Maybe they were hinting at something, Sayang.”

I looked at her. She just smiled, and looked away. Then she put her hand in mine.

***

 

“Can I get you another one, D?” came Marcella’s  the bartender’s voice, and that broke me out of my thoughts. I shook my head.

“No, thank you, Marcella. I think I should be going now.”

“You take care yah,” she said. I left the bar, and thought I noticed (how could I not) some girls checking me out, and one of them even calling me out (“Hey awak, tak nak menari dengan I?”), I ignored them. Outside, I tipped Victor RM100 and rode back home.

As the Ducati roared down an empty Jalan Kuching, I made my decision.

Come hell or high-water, I will get Damia to take me back. I love her, and nothing in this world, nothing, will stop me from being with her again.

You mark my words.

*