| distractions a la mode |

Friday was a haze, a windwhirl of hours―minutes were squashed into instances of business necessity; a phone-call, an email, a quick lunch, a meeting, a fax. It was a day powered by function and coffee. I left nothing to emotion or thought, and by the time 7 p.m. rolled around, I was exhausted. It's been two years and I'm an unabashed corporate whore by now, a white-collared robot programmed to work. And even then there's a clear difference between the good exhaustion―where you're fulfilled and satisfied, the mental fatigue a sign of your accomplishment, and the bad exhaustion―where you're just tired. You're so completely fucked. You can't think. You ache for a drink, a fag, a pill to throw your conscious mind into chaotic oblivion. 'The pest control guys are here,' some kind soul hollered on his way out. I shut down my laptop, throw my things in my bag and left for Holland Village.

***

Holland Village. I have a peculiar liking for that place. It's near to my childhood home, and although I've never been a Westie, Holland V just feels like, well, home. It pulsates with a curious energy that is both raw and docile. Teenagers and families and chic singles and happy couples and blonde expats are jumbled onto the streets; the smells of pizza and Mexican food tangle with the strains of pop tunes and live Spanish music. And it was a Friday night, in itself an encyclopedia of careless charm. I sat at one of the stone chairs, waiting for A; my peace was disturbed with the sudden rush of memories of the old us, holding hands, strolling down these very streets. Oh, the pang. I was glad when A came and we plunged straight into dinner. My peace. I needed to preserve it.

He's got stories―vivid and funny, a colourful canvas of experience. A is, after all, an artist. The whole straight-laced art teacher thing―it doesn't conceal his artistic temperment. We talked and sang stupid songs. It was a nice break―and it was nice not to care what people think. Two crazy fuckers humming Broadway tunes at Starbucks.

But, said The Voice. Nice is an useless word.

***

I chopped off my hair. 8 years. (Ah, deja-vu, anyone?)

***

Another distraction. J and I took a break from all that running around―logistics management is a long, tension-fraught nightmare, I can't wait for my event to be over―and found ourselves seated, cross-legged at a Lebanese restaurant, smoking water-pipes. We ordered a round of sinful food, darkly rich with Arabic spice, and took a moment away from the hectic rush of work.

***

It's not too bad. But oh, the pang.