Neighbors

There is a man-boy who lives on the sixth floor of my HDB flat. We took the same lift up and I suppose that is the most we will see of each other. He wore a black tank top with black Bermudas and a black cap.

I don’t think he exercises. His exposed back and arms had not one hint of muscle and the skin is stretched taught across his flaccid limbs.

The lift slowed, then stopped. The doors opened and he stepped out, head hanging as if his phone had chained his wrists and neck together. He took a swig from the yellow bottle of either chrysanthemum or lemon tea in his right hand.

Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop.

I think his feet were prisoners to the ground and that pair of bright yellow rubber slippers dragged on noisily, one flop at a time.

In the back of my mind, I prayed that my brother will never be like that. I hated those slippers. I hated the chaffing they make. I hated his wearied shuffling. I hated even that yellow bottle of either chrysanthemum or lemon tea. I hope my brother never takes a swig out of the same brand of drink ever again.