Thunder and lightning, rain pouring like a waterfall from the whole sky.
We walked clutching our bags and food from funan.
The water beat down on our little umbrella and all around us, chilling the bone.
So cold.

On we walked past the registry.
Damn I was getting wet.
And cold.

Then she turns to me. Will we get married by muslim marriage or civil marriage baby?
My mind flashed back to everything she said that night in the car.
Relief. Confusion. Elation. Happiness. Everything.

Any way we want baby.
I said.
I kissed her.

The rain kept beating down.
But inside I was warm and toasty.

---------------

The weather was cool after the heavens had poured out its load.

Sitting in the middle of seemingly familiar surroundings with a seemingly-unfamiliar group of people, it was subtle how the differences were.

The area evoked memories of football games on slopes, runs around the taxing brick loop and mischievous giggles at the people in white. The buildings were all the same yet so unrecognizable as their new owners made their mark. It was like coming back to your roots yet being different you wonder whether it might not be.

The group was a lively cacophony of laughter, exclamations and curses. Yet for all the parties partaken, theirs was a conversation that had more than its fair share of the lingua franca of my roots. A language that repulsed me and drove me away instantly for all the intertwined issues, judgments and stereotypes that came with it. So despite my love for english wit, high-brow mumbo jumbo and bourgeoisie debates, there I was sitting contentedly with the cute wise-cracks and unfamiliar lingo.

She was sitting there. Not understanding but nodding and smiling. Happy with my roots. And I sat contentedly too.

She comes over and plonks her cute ass beside mine.

Happy sial.