STEPHANIE WONG

21 January 2007, Sunday, 10am, at Tampines MRT Station.

I’m standing at the west-bound platform of Tampines MRT station waiting to go to church. Feeling bored, I raise my head to look at the flat-screen display which shows information about the train’s arrival time. Just then, a girl steps away from the escalator and walks up to stand beside me.

I dart my eyes to the left, then to my right. From what I see, there are plenty of empty spaces along the platform. But why does she have to stand right beside me, among so many spots? Well, never mind. I guess it’s just a coincidence. Looking through the glass panel, I guess she’s probably in her early twenties. I notice her hair is rather short for a typical woman, slightly brown and wavy. She has a slender waist and a petite body frame, but her face is round and chubby. Quite an unconventional match, I must say. She’s dressed in a pretty white floral halter, its hem is less than knee-length, making her look taller than she actually is. Oh what the heck, why am I surveying her anyway? The way I see it, she doesn’t even come close to the standards our women in Korea boast. Well, in Seoul, at least.

This girl is half a head shorter than me, so I could smell the fresh fragrance of shampoo in her hair. Lavender… Hmm, not bad…

“You know, someone died on the tracks yesterday,” the girl suddenly turns to me and says.

“Y-yeh?” I raise my eyebrows, surprised she’s talking to me.

“The train’s average cruising speed is forty-five kilometres per hour and when it slows down upon arriving at the platform, it’ll still manage at about twenty-five kilometres per hour.”

“Y-yeh?” I roll my eyes, wondering what she’s trying to drive at. “S-so?”

“So,” she continues, “if I were to jump down the track at that very instant, what kind of death do you think I will experience?”

I don’t have an answer to that question. But neither do I have the time to reply, as the train happens to be arriving now.

The girl and I manage to find a pair of empty seats, so we get seated next to each other. Then she plugs a pair of earphones into her ears. Morbidly, she starts to flip though a copy of medical textbook that shows the various anatomies of dogs and human. Fortunately, I haven’t had my breakfast yet. Otherwise, I guess I’d be puking all over.

Her earphones is blasting out a rather loud sort of rock music, I think, even the passenger sitting on the other side is visibly annoyed.

Trying to avoid those grotesque-looking biological illustrations, I turn my head around and look at other passengers in the carriage. Almost everyone is wrapped up in his or her own life; some are simply staring ahead, others appear to be busy - keeping their minds occupied, not wanting to think about their lives.

As the train enters the tunnel, everyone’s reflection is now visibly clear in the window. Feeling bored, I take a glance at the girl through the reflection, letting my gaze meander along her narrow shoulders, slim arms, her trim midriff, and the understated curves of her small breasts before settling on her face. Her face, tsk. The girl looks up and seems to notice I’m surveying her features. I have to pretend to be looking at the route map above the window to avoid being caught voyeuring. This girl isn’t that great-looking. Yet, there’s something about her - some indefinable nuance in her nature – that got to me.

“%@#$&%$#@?” she’s speaking in Mandarin I guess, but I can’t understand at all.

“Sorry,” I reply. “I’m not Chinese.”

“Oh!” she covers her mouth, and shows a mock expression of surprise. “I was just asking if the music is disturbing you.”

“Yes. Ah, no,” I say, trying to be polite. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Where are you from?”

“Korea.”

“Oh!” Her eyes glitter, and her smile widens. Why is that so, I don't know. “Annyung haseyo.” She tries to impress me with a basic Korean greeting.

“Yeh, annyung haseyo.” I nod my head politely in the usual Korean fashion.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Hello, my name is Stephanie Wong,” she introduces, and offers her hand with a kind of initiative I’d hardly seen in Korean girls where I grew up in Seoul.

An exchange of biography follows. Stephanie tells me she’s a medicine student in the National University of Singapore, and that it has been her childhood ambition to become a doctor and save lives.

“So, what do you do for a living?” she asks.

“Me? Erm… Me… I’m junior oil trader in local branch office of Korean company.”

“Oil trader? Sounds like fun.”

“Yeh.” I nod gingerly.

“Sorry, but why do you keep saying yeh, yeh, yeh?”

“Because… my English not so good, that’s why.”

“Oh? I think your English is alright.” Stephanie assures me. “At least, I understand what you’ve been saying so far.”

“Thank you.” I smile, slightly flattered. The conversation meanders until the train is reaching City Hall station, where I have to get off.

“Er, Taewoo, right?” she says. “Do you have a name card of something?”

“Yeh,” I say, handing out my business card to her. She takes the card and studies it closely.

“Chilsung Petroleum Private Limited. Assistant Trading Manager. Wow.”

“Yeh, I have to go, see you next time. Annyunghee kyeseyo.”

“You mean, there’s a chance for a next time?” she raises her eyes. “I’ll give you a call sometime. Take care, bye!”