Foreign Talent

 

SEX

LOVE

Infatuation 

Chap with a hulking, crab-like gait going into one of the printers on ground at Bras Basah Complex, sheaf of papers tucked underarm.

The last on the cover sheet may have been all caps too; first was bludgeoning more than flaming fire engine red.

Bright blue biz shirt. Tie. Shoes. 

Sizeable bundle. 

Conventional churchy white foreign talent of some particular kind. (The designation remained here, though the government was always hard pressed explaining the necessity to the wider public.) 

Car accident, if not congenital deformity. 

One could safely assume the man would be advocating for the golden mean, the healthy, sanctioned form. And warning bells & whistles given against all the dangerously deceptive others creeping in the dark. There was little doubt.

Couple hours earlier when Yan, the eight-year widow, had been pressed again whether she liked this or that, fast or slow, one thing or the other, the poor dear could only get out her replies in faintest whispers. 

Feathery thin. Choking gasps that in a court of law would prompt the judge to ask for stronger voice so that all members of the jury could hear.

There was no doubt about Yan’s stance, of course; none whatever. But, you know, the Devil’s party does admire frank and fearless avowal. It always helped.

Shortly the blue shirt & tie would be presenting the counter case to his students, or parishioners more likely. Pure, committed devotion that reflected the higher awaiting upstairs in the radiant light.

There was no point arguing the toss if it came to it. Live & let live only.