Even if the only light in the morning was the burning tip of his cigarette she could tell you what he had been doing. The daily ritual of fingers tapping cigarette against box, hand fumbling in pocket with cigarette tucked behind ear and finally the flare of a lighter (most probably in yesterday’s pants pocket) had become comfortingly familiar. The smell of smoke so early in the morning was not irritating but soothed her just as the smell of lemon detergent on sheets might have a few months ago. Now her sheets smelled like self-conscious adolescent male.

The subtle blend of aftershave and tobacco on the pillow next to hers was welcoming and made her feel safe. It told her she wasn’t the only one who messed up and did stupid things. She liked living like this, sleeping on a mattress instead of a bed, a stand fan instead of a ceiling fan or air conditioner. It felt a little like camping, it helped to think of it that way. A couple of kids having fun. If you didn’t, it was just scary.

The romanticised version of events was that she had fallen in love with the most wonderful man and they had decided to live together. They needed only each other and were wonderfully happy with each other. They were very serious about each other and marriage was not out of the question. They gave each other butterflies in their respective stomachs.

Bare facts however differed. They were both barely eighteen (she not even there yet for another month) and therefore he was still a boy (in more ways than one). It was more out of necessity and the lack of anything else that they needed each other in the desperate and fierce way that they did. And although they thought they were serious and she had foggy ideas of marriage, his commitments wavered depending on who he was in the company of.

Though they never had talks about ‘us’ like they did in the movies (she wanted to though sensed this wouldn’t be a good idea) they agreed on most things unanimously. Like what to eat for dinner and that cabs were a luxury and only to be used at the very last resort. And really those were the only things they really had to worry about. Food and money. She fashionably didn’t need much of the former and they both managed to survive without much of the latter. Things were at the moment working out. Things change, change is like gravity it’s just there.

It was still too early to get out of bed. He had a half-day at work and she had switched shifts with someone so she didn’t have to work till night. They could spend the afternoon together and this prospect was keeping her curled underneath the blanket (pilfered from the stack of childhood linen her mother had set aside) instead of next to him by the somewhat grimy louvered window and discussing their plans.

Their plans. She liked thinking thoughts which had words like their, us and we. It was fuzzily warm and she liked it. She was asking him what time he was going to meet her and she watched smoke rings faintly floating in the almost bright enough light. She liked that he could make smoke rings. It reminded her of bedtime and The Hobbit. It made her think he could be a wizard secretly.

He was telling her that she could use the fifty ringgit that had accumulated since they had started to experiment with cooking on the hot plate they had recently acquired from a friend’s brother. It made her smile that he would let her do that instead of using the money on petrol or something. So they agreed that she would go to the hairdressers and get the green streaks, which were almost gone, (part desire to be different, mostly teenage rebellion) replaced with something that didn’t scream Mars quite so much. He would meet her after he had finished work.

It had been a long time since she had actually been to a proper salon. One where everything was black and white except the stylists hair. She was sipping the (complimentary) tea and flipping through last months Vogue when another girl flounced (there was no other word) in. She looked so polished that she positively gleamed. For some reason the girls coral pink toenails sticking out of new peep toe shoes (so Olsen sisters, so yesterday) made her feel uncomfortable. Maybe it was the way she was decked out in designer everything. Most likely it was that she could have been this girl, that she had been this girl.

She had fled her parents place with only her day-to-day wear and a number of going out things. She thought longingly now of the lined up shoes that were hardly worn and the clothes that she’d bought so recently that they’d only been worn once. Suddenly the scuffing on her high heels seemed more noticeable than they had been this morning. Crossing and uncrossing her legs she tried not to fidget too much for fear of having her bangs cut unevenly.

The girl didn’t size her up. Didn’t look at her to see what she was wearing. She wasn’t important enough to warrant examination. She wanted the girl to know that she had been her; that she had given up the convenience of an allowance and family car for a salary and public transport. She wanted the girl to know that she was doing things that a few months ago would have scared her. All she did was study last months New Arrivals a little more closely. Her eyes burning holes into the leather handbags and metallic shoes.

Time slowed down in that place. Everything seemed to be magnified. The snip-snip-snip of scissors eating away inches of her hair became more pronounced even though there was a television in the room. Wearily she flipped through the magazine, longing for this feeling of insignificance to pass. There really was no reason to feel this way she tried to tell herself, but she did anyway. Then she heard the familiar shuffling, stumbling steps that she heard every evening in the three hours before she left for work.

She saw him coming into the salon in the mirror in front of her. She saw too the barely perceptible change in expression. How his face went blank for only a second before changing back to his usual expression of nonchalance. In he came (was she imagining it?) avoiding the other girl with his eyes planted on the ground. He sat next to her with his back to the other girl. The other girl whose interest seemed to flare. Amazing how fast things happen.

The other girl sat up straighter (aluminium foil in hair did not mar her DKNY princess beauty) and turned to look at him.

“Joe!”

Inside a small part of her died. How the hell did this girl know him? He turned slowly to look at her. He was most evidently uncomfortable.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you in so long. You haven’t called me in weeks!”

Weeks? How many weeks? Two, three? They had been together for months now!

“How’s your mother? Is she still making kuih? I love her kuih.”

She couldn’t help her eyes widening. She couldn’t help the hurricane of complete rage that was bubbling at her temples and threatening to destroy… something! She had never met his mother, had never sampled her kuih. How did this girl know him? Why didn’t he introduce them? What the hell was going on? Questions, questions, questions. Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies. She knew with absolute certainty that he would lie if she asked. This girl would become a distant cousin whom he grew up with. Or she might become a psycho stalker who was madly in love with him and he was avoiding. Yes, she knew what would happen.

When she had paid (their fifty ringgit gone, plus twenty of her own) and he was still talking to that girl she had made up her mind. It occurred to her that if she had gone to a cheaper place this wouldn’t have happened, if he hadn’t asked for a half day so they could go out to dinner on their anniversary this wouldn’t have happened, if she had worked her day shift as per usual this wouldn’t have happened, if only. She left him talking to her and hailed a cab (and paid for it with their emergency money which was all she had anyway).

That night she went home. To her cupboard full of barely worn clothes and shoes, convenience and worried parents. He called but she hung up on him after he didn’t apologise. She knew he would have to go home soon too if he didn’t find a roommate. She knew quite firmly that the other girl would not take her place. Lemon detergent on sheets overpower cigarettes and aftershave, always.