When Grange Road becomes Napier and then Holland is when one can say they’ve travelled at least a little away from the city center. The milestone is the vast botanic gardens, the sun kisses from wider angles, and the urge to roll down the window. On that note, passing the narrowed branched lanes of Minden and Harding, cars seem as with urgency and intent to lower their windows to let know their passengers the insulation is no longer needed. As one feels when it’s been minutes since the rainy sky has cleared up yet a pedestrian you happen to trail continues to cling on to her umbrella. Withdrawn the screech, the honks, the vrooms.
Follow the leisurely loose turns of this lane. Afford yourself the luxury of paying no attention to the grandeur of the rain trees to your right. They will be forgiving. Keep your eyes on the road, but just over the mound lies the place we are visiting today. It’s on your left, down seven steps, a one-story, in bricks painted white.
Where you will enter is maybe the four fifths point to the south end of this venue. It is where welcome staff are located. Your glance will be drawn to the left. If you see floor to ceiling windows, dark wooden floors, and find yourself removing your sunglasses by the dimness, you are at the right place. What most people miss is the area on the right side of the entrance. That is, unless they have to make a trip to the restroom. In this recessed zone too lies some seating area. On this particular morning, Sarah solely occupies an outside table of this south-end area.
SARAH: I’ll take a Caesar salad. No ranch. In fact, no balsamic, no olive oil. No dressing at all.
WAITOR: Of course. Would you like anything to drink this afternoon?
SARAH: I’m okay – actually, I’ll think about it after I had my salad.
WAITOR: Certainly.
Sarah let out a soft sigh, almost indistinguishable from a regular breath. She caught herself. She almost gave out a much deeper sigh. It was to be a sigh that would have depleted all air inside her lungs making it void, dark, full of nothingness, similar to the bottomless despair she could not escape not too long ago. She will not be reminded of it, most certainly not by her own deed.
SARAH: Buy 1 get 50% off second drink – from two to five on weekdays. (Chuckles) Look at yourself Sarah, you’re out at a brunch cafe on a Monday. Do you even know what month it is? Things happened, but you have no fault, entirely. Good thing you’re eating again. Just a salad with no dressing? You could do better than that. But it’s better than nothing. Hunger is a good sign. It means you’re facing yourself. Soon you’ll get back to tending other bits and pieces you let go after that “incident”. (Her stomach lets out a growl) Yeah I guess, I guess I could eat.
The sign detailing the happy hour promotion is encased in acrylic. Its translucency had faded, with scratches shallow and deep, from unnamed days of the past which were counted by no one. Staring blankly into this table tent her focus shifts away from the printing of two playfully placed illustrations of cocktail glasses on diagonal corners to the reflection that bounce off the acrylic encasing. Trees that lost color. People that lost color. Her. She tilts the table tent away and blanks out again.
WAITOR: Here’s your Caesar salad.
SARAH: Thank you. By the way, I’ll have a long black thank you.
WAITOR: Of course.
Sarah crunches through romaine lettuce, bite after bite after bite after bite. She relentlessly forks up the next portion even before she finishes her previous one, placating her hunger.
A scene from a brunch cafe in Singapore – shot by Meston Ecoa
Written from scratch by Meston Ecoa
No assistance was received from any form of Artificial Intelligence.
