'Sorry'

On Sunday, as I unplugged an earphone to ready myself for a call home at the usual public phone booth on the way home, a yelp greeted me from behind. It was a stray pup, snowy brown if my color perception palette is accurate (which is not often: I would either mistakenly see it, or describe it). I made the call to my mum first, telling her the time at which I arrived on the mainland and that I already had dinner. Half a minute later, still with the earphone hanging across my shirt, I turned back, laid my bag by the side and made all sorts of sounds I wouldn't be caught dead doing, had it not been a pup (we were alone, late in the evening by the side of the road under some trees where crows were gathered in numbers too numerous to be counted).

I recall vaguely listening to / seeing / reading information pertaining to my act that night (which prompted me to exercise it in the first place): the more excited you seem, the more pups will be drawn to you - you've switched on the pup beacon, or so I believed. It only came a few steps forward, gradually lost interest, and retreated to the comfort of sniffing out a black garbage bag which was strewn nearby; probably something it did before I came by, I gather.

Then I took out my handphone (crummy though its built-in camera may be), and took a shot of the pup. I ruined a potentially good shot when I stalled too long, and the standby mode kicked in. But nevertheless, due to me wanting to get back to my apartment, a hesitant (and eventually, poor) shot was taken, viewed, and scrutinized for a millisecond before I pocketed my phone back.

I walked up to where I left my bag after that, turned around for one last look at the playful pup tearing away at the rubbish with its tail wagging excitedly, and returned to my drowning out of the world with my choice poison; passing graves and ochre street lights on the way home.

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That night, I dreamt of moving in and out of my late grand uncle's house. It was deserted, empty and uncared for; just like it is, in reality. I met him there that night, and he was absurdly well built. It was his will, and working out that gave him that frame eventually, he told me in Cantonese (he passed a few years ago; the cause somewhat related to his old age). He ordered me to find a way to exterminate the termites which were nesting in gigantic mounds on both sides of the compound. I soon discovered that there were also a few hidden within the clammy interiors of various rooms; they extended from below ground - the heart of these infestations located directly under the house. It was a very cluttered dream; with too many things disconnected from memory. And it ended to me as soon as I was searching for a solution..

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On Monday night it was clearer: I had dreamt of being in my car and it was raining. I was waiting for someone, or perhaps I wasn't; I wanted to drop off a package from my car - it was a box wrapped with brown paper and tied all around with twine or lace, on the seat beside me. There was a light source from above, illuminating the choreography of rain. I was alone, in my car - it seemed that it broke down in the middle of nowhere; everywhere else was dark. I couldn't remember why I got down from the car to take the package from the front passenger door when I could have done it from inside, then leave from my side of the car along with the parcel. But that I did, though I didn't want to get myself drenched. And that happened too - I was fumbling, or the package decided that it did not want to be outside with me and was caught in the rain for what seemed like ten minutes. I was waiting for someone, I realized in the end, but tightly clutching the box as I stood nowhere in the rain, everything drifted into a sea of obscurity, lost forever to the waking world.

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My heart broke when I was walking to dinner on Tuesday.

Still it lay, by the sidewalk; an ugly contrast to everything else which was around: traffic setting to a peak hour crawl; students walking by with their posses loud and carefree; our arteries and veins swelling and pumping as a collective; our lives in movement. It was the snowy brown puppy. I just could not turn back this time.

I'm not sure if I want to keep its picture.

( _")