After much cajoling, I finally agreed to meet JZ’s Japanese colleague, H. Apparently, she thought we would be a good match because he’s single and ready to mingle, and because I’m interested in Japanese culture.

To clarify: I’m interested in Japanese culture and history, in general. But I’m generally not interested in Japanese men. I did have that one teenage crush on my downstairs neighbour, but my ears don’t prick up and I don’t gird my loins especially for Japanese guys like a sarong party girl or those crazed Hallyu fans might at any mention of a Caucasian or Korean name (honestly, that “oppa” rubbish, eeyur).

Also, I think JZ herself is actually interested in H – but I think she’s projecting her feelings for him on to me lah.

Anyway, I met them at a restaurant nearby their office after work. The plan was – JZ had told me excitedly, almost breathlessly actually –  that she would introduce the both of us to each other, help break the ice for maybe an hour or two over makan, and then leave us on our own for drinks and maybe more ;b (yes, she included a winky emoticon, honestly).

H and I did go on to have drinks later at another establishment. At first I was glad for it, because, well, he was good-looking. And although I don’t feel any urgency to get into another relationship, I’ll admit I enjoyed the attention. Gave the old ego a boost that another person (ugh, listen to this smug bitch, not just ‘someone’ but ‘another one’ leh, wah lao eh) found me attractive.

H told me more about himself. I’ve always loved martial arts and I have a thing for men in uniform, so I was very pleased when he showed me a photo of himself in his judo gi.

Then a server bumped into my arm and spilled the drink he was carrying down my shoulder.

It was definitely not a pleasant experience, but I was hardly at all offended. It was an accident after all, and the server apologised profusely.

I don’t know whether it was due to the alcohol, pure machismo, or due to first date nerves and oh-shit-this-has-not-gone-according-to-plan panic, or a combination of all three — but H berated him. Like he almost got aggy; there were several times he nearly got off his bar stool as though he was ready to square off with the server.

I managed to talk H down, saying no real damage was done, that the alcohol should wash out and that even if there were a stain it wouldn’t be obvious anyway because my shirt was black. And I quickly waved the server away out of his sight.

But H continued to stare daggers across the bar at the server, and it was really bringing the mood down.

Listen, it’s fine. I’m OK, it’s OK. No need to glare at the guy.

Bad service. Clumsy fuck. 

It’s just an accident lah. Relax. People trip up unintentionally all the time.

You don’t need to explain for him. He is just a server.

What the fuck.

Eh, I told him. People trip, fall down, and make mistakes all the time. Myself included. And you too hor, don’t say no, don’t act otherwise. And by the way, right now I’m a customer, but I used to be a server too. And I used to trip up too. So I say this both as an ex-service staff member and as a girl who was and is no longer interested in you: fuck you lah.

And to the nearest server: Can we get the bill, please?

Fucking hell lah. What a disappointment.


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