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On the top deck of a ferry liner, presumably on its way to Brittany on a cold autumn noon, Junie stood straight, leaving behind the nearly invisible Dieppe harbour. The grizzly wind swept her hair across her face, hiding the emphatic tears that were rolling down her cheeks.

Her mind was racing back to what she had said to Nemours a day earlier; the fact that human love will eventually fade and that the only person who had loved her all his life was Otto. A naïveté, Otto took his own life upon knowing the brewing of emotions between Junie and the adulterous Nemours.

Nemours was dumbfounded when he learned that Junie had left Paris. He thought that he would be crazy without the presence of Junie by his side. But eventually, just as Junie had predicted, Nemours’ love for her will fade. Pretty soon Nemours would find another belle personne to suit his emotional eccentricities.

At what cost? An innocent boy who was madly in love had died. A girl had to leave everything all behind to start anew. Les vraies belles personnes.

On why I once refused to collaborate in writing a book on heartaches, I just remembered an Operation Ivy song;

Give me artificial, give me superficial,
Give me a commercial life that can’t be bought.
This I say to you, what I say is true:
Emotions aren’t a product to sell or be consumed.

(“Artificial Life”, Energy – 1989)

A book on heartaches? Hahaha.

I remember sharing the elevator with a cute middle aged gay couple on New Year’s Eve approximately one year ago (picture Sir Ian McKellen and Ismail Merchant; picture also the former as a Caucasian butch on dialysis). We had a nice conversation up to the 7th floor at one of Sunway Sutera’s apartment blocks. The conversation ended with the Indian referring me as a nice young man.

Earlier that evening, Sailam called me at work, inviting me to have dinner with his wife in his new apartment. “Nini’s preparing spaghetti bolognaise”, he said.

We had dinner and later watched Layer Cake before planning to watch the fireworks from the balcony. Just before the stroke of midnight, the gay Indian from earlier knocked on Sailam’s unit and invited us to watch the fireworks from his apartment’s balcony for better view. I think I noticed a large, pink dildo in his living room on my way to his balcony. Or maybe it was just a weird looking flashlight?


Two days ago, I was at the office when everybody else had taken the day off. Not much work to be done that day and I was most of the time napping. It was at about 5pm when my phone rang, Azam was on the line.

“Come over to my place for dinner. Aifa’s preparing spaghetti bolognaise”, he said.

We had dinner in Azam’s new apartment in Shah Alam and later watched 2012 before watching the fireworks from the balcony.

This time, my mind had the pleasure of not having to picture any kinky gay related stuff during New Year’s Eve.

And what is it with spaghetti bolognaise and new apartments during New Year’s Eve?

Maybe it’s just me.