Photo by Carl Tronders on UnsplashI broke his heart in Lion City.
Our relationship was sudden and passionate, like a thunderstorm on Valentine’s Day. He was a Gemini, I was a Leo; he was a Gregory, I was a Lola, and I thought that would be enough. On our six-week anniversary we made an impulsive decision and booked a holiday in Asia, embarking on the touristy novelties one does as we sailed and flew through Vietnam, Cambodia, Japan and anywhere else that would take us. It was in Singapore that a devastating conclusion crept upon me.
Gregory had many attributes that made it easy to dislike him. He was allergic to strawberry ice cream and resented the North Pole. He snored during thunderstorms and left his toenail clippings on my pillow. On the second Tuesday of every month he would shave his eyebrows to reduce wind resistance. Squirrels threw nuts at him from treetops and he didn’t have the accuracy nor the inclination to retaliate. He was a bore, a coward, and a less than average lover.
Most damning of all, however, was that Gregory was unable to fathom a metaphor.
He just couldn’t grasp them. He was a very literal man and saw the world in binary: coffee was black, milk was white, numbers were digits and rain was wet, and anything else short circuited his brain. I’d remark to him that I was drowning in work, and he thought I was a lifeguard. I would tell him that his mother had a heart of gold, and he assumed she was getting into alchemy. I told him that my grandfather had croaked, and he looked for a frog.
It was while in Singapore, walking the streets adorned with neon buildings and a sea of crystal blue, a modern metropolis covered in trees and greenery that lifted me off my feet, I sighed in happiness and said, “Ah. This place makes me feel alive.”
His dim-witted eyes turned to me, and in horror he went to my wrist and checked my pulse. I slapped him away and continued to stroll, detailing Singapore’s rich history and culture. It was all information I’d swiped from the brochure in the hotel lobby, but still.
“Where are the lions?” he asked, dumbfounded.
I explained that ‘Lion City’ was a nickname, a leftover translation from the Malay language. Gregory stared at me for a few moments more, his jaw hanging and his eyes straining. After considerable time, when any remaining emotion or interest for the man had turned to ash, he said, simply, “So… Is Singapore a city or a country? Language is stupid.”
Languages can be stupid, but so was Gregory. I told him it was over, we were finished, we were done. I apologised for breaking his heart and he looked down at his chest in confusion.
The city swallowed me, alone, and I disappeared in search of idioms, turns of phrase, and a less literal world. I was content knowing that I could call Singapore a symphony of colours and not have to stop to look for an orchestra conductor.
