Sarong Party Girls by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan Page B

don’t even know what cock job he has, this situation—­aiyoh, it’s not good, man. Really not good. Confirm will end up wasting time. By the time I got back home, I already got a nice text from him. This one—­is really susah.
    â€œGuniang, your kopi so cold already—­come, I buy you new one,” Seng suddenly said. I had forgotten he was even there. Actually, I even forgot that I was there.
    Just the other day, my mum actually said to me: “Please lah—­why don’t you just go out with a nice boy like Seng? You know, last week he brought me and your dad breakfast—­I think he came looking for you, but in the end he just gave it to us and watched us eat. This kind of good heart—­I can tell you, a white-­skin man definitely don’t have.”
    Seng? My god. Of course in my mum’s mind this is the kind of dream husband for me—­Goh Kwok Seng, major Ah Beng to the extreme! But my mum mainly loves him because even though outside the house these days, he is one of those kwailan assholes who likes to go to Marina Square and stare at other Ah Bengs and ask them “You staring at what?” before throwing down his cigarette and whacking them one time, at home, Seng is very sweet to his mum. Only son, after all. And after his dad died a few years ago, if Seng doesn’t pamper her, who will? Plus his mum and my mum used to be old kakis, so Seng is very “auntie-­auntie” around her, always finding all sorts of ways to carry her water.
    But expecting Jazzy to marry this kind of guy? Talk cock lah!
    I don’t even know what Seng’s job is—­one time he told me he was applying for some fuck job at a shipping company and I zoned out. Please—­I know shipping is a big business in Singapore, but ­people (especially those at Seng’s level) who are in it are basically nothing better than the coolies that our grandfathers were, working at the docks. And no matter how many TAG Heuers he buys for himself or Prada shoes he wears, at the end of the day, a coolie is a coolie.
    So even though guniang here wouldn’t have minded a free kopi from Seng, better not say yes. Don’t give him any funny ideas.
    â€œNo need lah,” I said. “I better go home already. Must help my mum clean the house.” This one—­I know is lies. Seng also knows is lies. But whatever lah. As if he cares.
    After I started walking away toward my block, I looked back and saw him lighting another ciggie and slowly checking his phone. He wasn’t even looking up at me. Since that first time that I met him at the bus stop way back in primary school, he always super act-­cool one. Fucker doesn’t need anybody.
    I didn’t want to go home though—­with my luck my mum would actually be cleaning the flat that day and guniang here will have no choice but to help. Imo didn’t live far away from me though—­two bus stops—­so I started walking to the bus stop. Normally, of course I don’t take the bus—­come on, no matter how good the air-­con or seat cushions are, you are still sharing that nice air-­con and seat cushions with all the types of ­people who have no money to buy a car or take a taxi. But Imo’s house, two bus stops? Can endure a bit lah.
    Imo had already warned me that she was helping her mum clear the storage room so if I come by, I’d better help out. This one, I don’t really mind—­of all the aunties out there, I actually liked Imo’s mum the best. It’s true that now she is damn boring—­looks like an auntie, acts like an auntie; whole life long doesn’t do much except cook, watch TV serials and crochet at home when Imo is not there. But her life before Imo and Uncle—­from some things she says now and then about going to this club or that party, we all imagined that she probably was damn happening!
    Before we found