Number Twenty

He was the poster boy of the Average Singaporean Man, our Foong, ‘average’ being the keyword. Furred with little vices as even the best of us are, like a tendency to stare at cleavage despite his hardest efforts not to, and a finger that often strayed up nostrils (his) when he thought others weren’t looking (they almost always were). But surely Nothing to be Alarmed With. For he was also nice, our Foong, good—if a little milquetoast. He was a blood donor (especially when he was trying to lose weight). He had a creed: work hard; no drugs; be kind to humans and animals. No cargo pants on weekdays, especially white ones. Or skintight bike shorts on public transportation.

- Lauren Ho

Call Ma—in Balik Pulau, Penang—once every week; pay for Pa’s nursing care even though he left them for a total bitch three decades ago but was now the dumpee, and the Alzheimer-ed. Life! Also, respect women. Only plain vanilla consensual adult human-on-human porn. He’d never even downloaded anything illegally, which, considering he was a late Gen-Xer and had been around when Napster and Pirate Bay were considered ways to give the establishment the middle finger, was almost sweet.

You could say our Foong was an ordinary Joe, not one to rock anyone’s boat, just like you and me.

Not a creep.

In spite of himself he followed her off the MRT. She caught his eye for several reasons: first of all, she was unmasked—something he noted once his brain processed the riot of signals her particoloured geometric print wrap dress and black velveteen kitten heels sent his way—or rather her transparent face mask made her look like she wasn’t wearing one at all. It was only after he’d inched closer to where she stood in the almost-empty carriage that he saw the glint of curved plastic of her mask. Ah. Then she caught his eye, held it, and—this was the clincher—she winked. No one, especially women who looked like her, had ever, in the history of humankind, ever voluntarily winked at men like him. Her plump lips, parted, were Ribena red.