{"id":9357,"date":"2011-11-07T13:37:21","date_gmt":"2011-11-07T05:37:21","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/maddruid.com\/?p=9357"},"modified":"2011-12-18T11:25:32","modified_gmt":"2011-12-18T03:25:32","slug":"2457-a-necessary-lie","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/?p=9357","title":{"rendered":"[2457] A necessary lie"},"content":{"rendered":"

He remembers all too clearly what happened six months ago on the other side of the world as he stands among strangers under a statue of St Michel, waiting for an old dear friend to emerge from the Metro.<\/p>\n

\u201dDon\u2019t bite your nails.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201dYou\u2019re starting to sound like my mother,\u201d\u009d she replied to him sarcastically as both of them sat by the table, feeling a little bit nervous by each other\u2019s presence. This was six months ago.<\/p>\n

\u201dOkay, but you should listen to your mother,\u201d\u009d he said.<\/p>\n

She gave a curt but a cute \u201dpfft\u201d\u009d. Her reply made him smile, but he regretted saying what he said almost immediately. He didn\u2019t want to annoy her unnecessarily, although such teasing was exactly the thing that brought them together in the first place. Life is so full of paradoxes.<\/p>\n

\u201dWhy do you like to bite your fingernails, anyway?\u201d\u009d He was genuinely curious.<\/p>\n

\u201dWell, that\u2019s how I clip my nails.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

He wasn\u2019t quite sure if she was either joking or being serious. The cultural gap between them was wide enough that one makes an assumption on one\u2019s own peril. But he risked it anyway. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to see the expression on her face.<\/p>\n

\u201dReally? You expect me to believe that?\u201d\u009d he incredulously asked.<\/p>\n

She smiled, perhaps realizing the outrageousness of her statement. But it was true. She bit her nails to keep them tidy. Almost.<\/p>\n

\u201dOkay. Sometimes.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201dI don\u2019t believe it. Give me your hands.\u201d\u009d He grabbed both of her hands and inspected her fingernails, which were surprisingly neat.<\/p>\n

\u201dWow\u201d\u009d was all he could muster.<\/p>\n

\u201dI told you so,\u201d\u009d she said almost mockingly as her smile became wider. She loved being right.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t quite think much of it at first. He had innocently taken her hands, but it soon struck him that they were holding hands for the first time. And in this cold weather, her hands were soothingly warm. They felt so comfortably soft. Holding them felt like a sinful sensual pleasure.<\/p>\n

He felt guilty. He liked her but he also respected her. He didn\u2019t want to turn her into a sensual object, a being that existed just to present this private moment to him.<\/p>\n

Most importantly, he didn\u2019t know how she felt towards him despite having gone out with her and having simple fun together several times already. Movies, dinners, kayaking, theatres, funfairs. He knew he liked her, but a relationship such as this must always be mutual. He was still unsure, but he couldn\u2019t ask her. One cannot be too explicit with these things.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t want to be presumptuous about whatever happening between them. It could be that they enjoyed each other\u2019s company as friends and nothing more. If that was the case, then he didn\u2019t want to ruin it. He could live with being close friends, but he couldn\u2019t imagine losing her completely.<\/p>\n

He decided to loosen his grip, even if reluctantly. The conflicting emotions were tearing him apart. No longer smiling, she must have realized whatever he felt. His hands were slipping away slowly but surely.<\/p>\n

But she wouldn\u2019t let that happen. She quickly took his hands and held them tightly. And she smiled at him, hoping to assure him of something.<\/p>\n

\u201dMerci, mademoiselle.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

He sighs forlornly in the cold Paris, ruing how time has changed. He wants to meet her for one more time, but something tells him that that isn\u2019t the best of all ideas. Another friend of his was convinced that it is the worst of all ideas.<\/p>\n

\u201dIt\u2019s the end. You\u2019ll suffer more if you meet her again,\u201d\u009d the friend said.<\/p>\n

\u201dI know, but I just want to see her again for one last time,\u201d\u009d he stubbornly replied. \u201dI need to see her again, just for one more time.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201dYou\u2019re a sucker for pain, you know that. You going there will only hurt both of you. You need to move on and get over her.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Whatever it is, it is too late to back out now. There she is, walking straight towards him, smiling and looking beautiful, as she has always been.<\/p>\n

He smiles back, partly relieved to see her again, partly devastated that he won\u2019t be able to hold her hands again.<\/p>\n

\u201dHi…\u201d\u009d she says rather nervously, wearing a smile to hide, perhaps, the past. \u201dHow have you been?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

In his mind, he wants to say I miss you so much. He doesn\u2019t. Instead: \u201dI\u2019m feeling great, and I\u2019m excited to be here for the first time.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

A necessary lie, perhaps.<\/p>\n

\"Mohd\u00a0\"Mohd\u00a0\"Mohd<\/center>First published in\u00a0Selangor Times<\/em>\u00a0on\u00a0November 4 2011<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He remembers all too clearly what happened six months ago on the other side of the world as he stands among strangers under a statue of St Michel, waiting for an old dear friend to emerge from the Metro. \u201dDon\u2019t bite your nails.\u201d\u009d \u201dYou\u2019re starting to sound like my mother,\u201d\u009d she replied to him sarcastically […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[27,3],"tags":[1420],"class_list":["post-9357","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-personal","tag-selangor-times"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9357","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=9357"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9357\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9498,"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9357\/revisions\/9498"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9357"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9357"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/maddruid.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9357"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}