I sat at the mezzanine bar of the Mandarin Oriental on Orchard Road, drinking my nightly hot-chocolate, watching the wide sidewalk below. There was a yellow car down there with nothing protruding from it except the rear-view mirrors. Everybody who passed by stared at it: young and old, Singaporeans and Japanese and Westerners, women and men. Many took pictures, some took lots of pictures. Two teenage girls posed as though they were inviting friends into their car. People passing in cars noticed it immediately and turned after they'd passed.
The spectacle went on.
At 10:00, there was a commotion. Two strong men pushed aside, with their legs, the pots around the car to make room, and the owner of the fancy car came out with a young lady who looked as adorable as his car. The doors of that divine vehicle rose up like wings. The man was young, his shoulders were stiff and awkwardly raised, his gait was slow and self-conscious, with all those eyes weighing on him. He reached behind and pulled up his trousers and while at it mussed up the insert of his shirt. I found it surprising that he was wearing a shirt and pants, like anybody else, and, just as with regular folks, his clothes were rumpled. After they'd gone, it was as though they'd carried away an adorable monument.
I gazed at the emptiness they'd left behind, and got up to go get some sleep.