It's 10 a.m.; I find myself at the kopitiam I used to go to a long time ago whenever I needed to feel more than think. Some people look familiar, but I can't tell for sure. Three whole roasted chickens hang listlessly from hooks.
I order the same breakfast- why change something that works? Still, I wouldn't know what I haven't tasted.
The man in the corner in his Sunday finest eats his nasi lemak, washing it down with his jumbo stout bottle. His bright orange shirt seem to rebel against the overcast morning.
An old couple sit opposite each other, convincingly in love even after all these years. There are a lot of old people here; perhaps the young like to sleep in on Sundays, or perhaps the older you get, the less sleep you need. I guess I'll find out when it's time.
Three tires of a free shuttle bus go over a blue mask on the road, next to the roadkill rat. Not too far away, there is a pop-up gelato booth. The guy selling it talks excitedly, but l doubt After Eight tastes differently at seven.