'Condensed Milk After, Not Before'

The restaurant which I normally have dinner at is closed. They've stripped away all the sinks, kitchens and various supporting structures; the sides are suddenly all space now: dark and haunting; the walls ugly from years of moss growing, the accumulation no longer hidden.

What I would usually do after dinner there (if there was a good movie or programme on), is to stay on for the whole duration of the said 'post-work recreation' (well, why not? - it's free!) and leave when it ends. Less television now won't hurt I guess.

And so, I walked a few blocks down (towards my apartment) since there's a new stall set up there since Sunday (it could have been earlier). It's an establishment of the newest sort; reason being: the waiter/waitress there would show you to your seat, give you the menu with utmost verbal clarity, hand you your cutlery with both hands, and well, you're the only one who's the customer (or non-acquaintance), out of the five (or six) people there.

Because I was early (even after finishing two packets of nasi lemak: one with anchovies and egg, the second with fish), I had to wait alongside the two waiters there for the water to boil, for my teh tarik. Waiting for water to boil is long, especially if it's for the drink that was meant to accompany your dinner. But I didn't rush them for anything; I understood that these things took time (they explained it to me a few times too).

While I was waiting, I looked at the sky, then at the road, then at the school - where I used to teach at. It's been three years now, and my ex-students will be sitting for their SPM examinations this year. Then, feeling a bit spent being nostalgic over something I did (only) for five months, I went back to staring at the flames, as each wild red tongue licked the pot containing the water, black.

And then I learned how to make teh tarik.

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