Ankles – Sarah Speckled

The first time I glanced over my shoulder as I heard someone settle, I took in his smoothness. He had a 1950s coolness with slicked back hair and a boyishly soft face. He was wearing pants that ended 5cm from his shoes and a cream linen shirt that smelt of tobacco and musty cloves. In my most coquettish interpretation of a female pinup, I tried pushing out my chest and pouting my chapped lips whispering “fake it until you make it” and leaned forward on the barstool, silently cursing myself that I wasn’t wearing a shorter skirt or brighter lipstick or generally inhabiting a more voluptuous female body. Cliches pounding through my veins, I ordered two martinis with my last $5 note, the only money left in my purse, and half of which was my taxi fare home.

I was momentarily distracted when I noticed a tea-light melting slowly; I wondered if it would eventually start a fire on the oilcloth ‘Native’ print pink flowery tablecloth? The heady smell of citronella and the warm evening made me slow and his silky presence was lulling me into a memory not of my dog, but of Connie. A gorgeous Irish setter with a red coat and an attitude of superiority over all other beasts. Ironically, she weighed only 18 kilos and has no real substance to her bark, let-alone her bite. Maybe this man was the same, all sleek coat and dark pools of eyes?

And then I managed to slip off the bar stool in a clumsy lump; there is no way he failed to notice. Luckily I was wearing a long enough dress to cover my bottom as I tentatively stepped on my ankle, sore with my uneven distribution of weight. I softly blew out the candle, and with this sensible gesture reality started to kick in. The note began to crumple in my hand as I started to regret spending my only means of getting back to my balconied room on a good-smelling bloke. KL is full of people pretending to be something they are not; expats on two year journeys of self discovery and an inevitable swagger and backstory to pull at the heartstrings. Until finally my own reasons for escaping on a sabbatical resurfaced, and I smiled to the barman as he handed over the drinks, softly turning towards the sockless one…