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

Nine ∆ Relax

Mai's not answering her phone. I've called her seven times just to be sure she's in unspeakable danger. If I could read minds, I wouldn't have to resort to such boring tactics.

"Concern is never boring," says Caleb as he puts a tissue packet on a round table. "Okay, we choped our table. Now, shoo. Go buy your lunch."

Fifteen minutes later, Caleb is shoving spoonfuls of Hainanese chicken rice into his mouth, grains of rice leak out occasionally, and a lonely grain gets acquainted with Siti's plate of nasi lemak, which she does not realise or simply ignores, focusing instead on her crispy chicken wing, the crunch so distracting that Li Zhi has to steal some of her ikan bilis and sliced cucumbers to draw her attention momentarily. Like the blissful trio, no one seems to be bothered by my presence, or I have become one with the sweaty and noisy atmosphere of the hawker centre, spatulas lashing at pans, the incessant chatter of myriad tongues, ice cubes slinking into tall cups, spoons clinking against glasses of kopi and teh, orders hollered across tables, across the air... When I ordered my plate of Hokkien mee, the stall owner offered to give me a larger portion without charging extra. The man behind me offered to pay for my food, which I humbly declined, a gesture he overwrote with his crisp $50 note and a "keep the change, Bryce." Is this compensation for my recent sufferings? Is my pain worth $46? Perhaps more?

So, after nonchalantly squeezing the lime over my Hokkien mee, I invite the fried noodles into my stomach the way I invite the change into my wallet, with an ounce of hesitance and doubt. But I can taste no poison. The prawns are fresh. Lots of sotong. The sambal belacan has the perfect combination of sweet and spicy from the blend of chili peppers, shrimp paste, garlic, shallot, scallion, palm sugar and lime juice, homemade with love, a love that had become so foreign these days yet suddenly thrust back into familiarity.

Then the warmth of the hawker centre can't be attributed to the ceiling fans chipping away at the air or the warm food we consume or Li Zhi intentionally kicking my legs or Jacob whose wish to stay at home has given me space to recover from my sneezes. Meanwhile the sky is blue like an Acquiant Fate. Mai is alright and in co-op with her students, probably in Chinju Forest.

"She's teaching at the moment," says Li Zhi as he eats his last fried fish, leaving behind a bowl of milky soup. "Does your mother actually play Genshin?"

"Can't adults game?" Siti cocks her head sideways.

I wipe my lips. "Li Zhi, you said you conditioned yourself not to read minds."

"You looked like you could die of apprehension."

Caleb clears his throat, pockets his tissue packet and stands. His eyes move rightward. It's time to go.

As usual, he doesn't let slip the destination, Li Zhi and I conclude as we hop in. Siti rides shotgun.

"For an urban legend, it's the same as the average taxi," she comments and he nods grimly.

"Same same but different," says Caleb.

We leave the hawker centre, then Pasir Ris town. Singapore today is humid and less suffocating, as if I've sprung out of the blender and now wait with freshly-peeled eyes the passing of moments, of scenes. A flock of mynahs cutting through the sky in a haphazard V-shape formation brings me as much comfort as the taxi sliding to a halt at traffic junctions; an expressway peppered with red taillights almost convinces me this is not my life at all, because I am, in truth, too accustomed to taking the MRT and the only tunnels I know are the underground tunnels where soft clanks are audible and light comes through at each station or the end of the tunnel.

"It's always a surprise for us, huh?" Siti scans our surroundings. One moment we're in a cluster of buildings, the next moment we're environed by greenery. It loops.