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Writing this on a napkin at a cafe, where I'm hiding from the man who proposed to me in the poetry aisle of the bookstore, just now.
He was the voice behind me who said, "You like poetry?" and before I even turned around, the alarm bells were tolling. What makes me shudder now is that in his head, they probably sounded like wedding bells.
It was a man of uncertain age; black. Generous lips. Eager, and an accent that sounded like it was straining out through layers of translation. From Senegal, I found out later. Aptly, we exchanged niceties at the current Malaysian Ringgit/Africaine Franc exchange rate - that is, 1 for, approximately, every 140 or so.
The bells tolled even harder when he suddenly piped up, "Do you believe in love at first sight?" I said I was generally skeptical of the notion, but his quizzical look prompted elucidation - "Um, I don't really believe in it, no."
"Shame," he beamed. "A beautiful girl like yourself should." And upon discovering I was a capricorn: "Ah! I am a Scorpio. November 16th, I was born. Scorpio and Capricorn, not so very far apart. Almost the same!"
no.
This is just before he professes to be in love with me, and how beautiful and nice (exact words) I am, and that he has been scouring the world for a woman to settle down with, and voila, the 19-year-old nobody at the poetry shelves, Czeslaw Milosz dangling from her incredulous hands.
He doesn't even read poetry.
I know this because I said that I was reading Richard Evans, and he smiled brightly and said, "Yes he is a poet no? I have heard of his poems. I love poetry!"
Evans. Is. A. Historian.
And the reason I am hiding in this cafe is because the only way I managed to escape his genial, sincere clutches was to -- I shit you not -- get in a taxi and get the driver to drop me off at the other side of the building. And that is how I got here, head lowered behind the menu in a discreet corner, while the waiter who brought my coffee glowers disapprovingly at the scribbles on this napkin.