Stamp of Class

The men are affluent. There can be little doubt. Almost certainly they do not live in the surrounding HDB's. A day or two ago the truth of the matter was brought out by the visit of one of the wives. This presence put the matter beyond doubt. With her attendance it seemed her husband too dressed up for the occasion. Previously the big dressy ring with the large jade stone had not been evident. His colourful polo too was something extra. The colours were quite outside of the range established by this men's group these weeks past now. Bright blue and red bands amongst some lesser hues, over a white base. It had been picked out for him by his wife. Every other day he had dressed like the others in the muted tones. Never before in a polo either. All the men wore the same bland shirts and trousers.
No doubt it was the wife who was responsible for the schism on that day too. Someone among the others at the far, larger table was persona non grata for some reason. Some offense had been given. Still, there was a fair group at this secondary table, and over the hour quite a few had been poached from the other. They ate more at this table. A large plastic bag sat on the middle of the table, seemingly not the shop fare either. Each man who came over was earnestly invited by the wife to take a piece of pastry. All did so.
A fine woman sat there. A reddish brown hue colored her perm, nicely held in place. The hairdresser was visited regularly. Bright pomegranate red on hands and toes. The blouse was chosen for the predominant red, a shade of crimson in this case White slacks, cream sandals. The tracery of the blouse of a kind of twig or creeper pattern was over white. Faultless. Money that might have been of a serious level. Perhaps of all the men this one might have been picked as the success story. Fine little touches. A particular kind of indulgent smile. Dentistry. The position of the arm at a slight angle resting on the table top. (Mahogany immediately suggested.) Nothing so strong as to give an instant impression, but following the entry of the wife, it fitted.
Stylish and accomplished her hostessing over the pastries. Two or three times she called on each new member as he came up to join them, pointing jerkingly at the open plastic bag each time. They had entertained constantly at home over the years. The practice was evident.
Perhaps a good number of the men were loaded in fact. Discrete money. The wives spent it. Children and in-laws with all the latest gadgets at home.
More: the chief versifier from a few days ago, the one with the poets and sages at his fingertips, separated from the main table to join the other half-way through. Nothing resembling poetry from him today. Banal kind of conversation in its place. Indeed the chap little resembled himself today in fact. Well, resemblance was clear enough; nothing could mask that moush. But, odd and troubling to report, today the top layer of this man had been given a rich, dark coating. Did he by some chance know Mrs. Such-and-such would be putting in an appearance? Was that it? The dye or rinse was deepest, darkest jet, coal black. Black as the ace of spades. Deepest, darkest night. Black as the hair on these young Indian labourers cycling up and down Geylang Road by Tasvee as we speak.
Did he have some kind of wife at home? Was the poetry for the lads out of house? What was going on here?
....And this other among the men must be on the cusp of ninety, if not tipped over already. On earlier occasions he had not been seen out of his chair. When he was helped with his dressing before going out his trouser belt had gathered the waistband in a little bunch of fabric. Very slow on his feet. With the aid of his walking stick covers the ground. One leg gone on him, no more than a peg. By all appearance undiminished faculties.