A Normie's Guide To Mind-Reading | ONC 2023

One ∆ Consent Is Important

The person who deems punctuality a virtue must be the least virtuous creature in the world and must redeem himself. If, upon arriving at his destination earlier than the stipulated time, one coincides with an accident or comes face to face with disaster, there can be no one to blame but the punctual man himself.

It's been an hour and a half of waiting and writhing to the aroma of coffee beans and powdered tea interspersed with a Taylor Swift playlist, courtesy of Starbucks. Siti is still not here.

"Brian!"

I peel my eyes from the window stained with rain and mist. The café, situated on the first floor of Tampines Mall, overflows with chatter, but the baristas are the loud ones. One of them appeals for Brian again as the other three descend into a conversation about travel plans to Macau or Hokkaido. Most of the patrons are comfortably seated, leaving a handful standing around as they watch the baristas, all hawkish. No one responds.

"One Grande Iced Soy Hojicha Latte for Brian!"

A man typing away at his laptop perks up and rises. He yawns, does some light stretching and sits. Not him.

"Brian! Anyone?"

I reach for my scrunched-up receipt on the table, just beside my brown sling-bag. Sometimes a café feels like an auction where the patrons will be pronounced sold. What does it mean to be sold anyway?

The name on the receipt reads Brian. I suppose the barista didn't pick up my correction earlier. Either I was mumbling again or my name's just too difficult to pronounce. Monosyllabic names suck. People just hate loners.

With a groan, I nod at the barista and grab my drink. That's the first disaster in a while. When no one gets your name right, it's like they don't even know you. They think they can slap on any label they like-I've been called Bly instead of Bryce countless times-or make rhymes out of me as if I'm the sum of all things similar to me but not me.

One hour, thirty-two minutes, twenty-four seconds. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. This is why I hate digital watches. Time spells itself out sluggishly.

The person who deems X as Y needs to be axed without asking why. It's a good thing to play with thoughts when one has nothing better to do. Now that the 'A' Levels are over, I can watch cars zip by on roads sandwiched by lines of sundry trees and HDB flats; I can rest easy in my restive state waiting for Siti to arrive, knowing she is probably caught in the light rain, which is why she hasn't texted or called me, because she has to hold an umbrella in one hand and god-knows-what in the other. The streetlights flicker on at seven as usual when the sky is half-rosy, half-indigo. A baguette. A tote bag with only a bottle of boiled water inside. Genshin on her tablet. Intertwined Fate. The sky reminds me of a piece of Intertwined Fate. She must be playing Genshin then.

If only I knew what she's doing, where she is, if she has left her home in Pasir Ris which is one MRT stop away on the East-West Line, only that she resides in a columbarium some distance away. No, a condominium. I always get those two mixed up.

A bell dings gently. In walks a Chinese girl waving her Starbucks gift card. Not Siti. She goes up the circular stairs and her red heels vanish from sight, the clacks resonant for a while, phantom-like.

Wouldn't it be great to know why the man beside me donned in typical UNIQLO from top to bottom (we share a long wooden table with wooden bar stools) sips his Americano on reading every three pages of his copy of Murakami's Killing Commendatore? Or why the girl from earlier hasn't gone down the stairs when it's been ten minutes? She gave the impression that she was going to order something. How about the barista who's telling everyone (might as well, right?) about a colleague: "Nobody tell me. She just keep quiet about her Johor trip. Then why nobody tell me. Everybody like excited, ask her buy thing. What about me?"