By Satrio Nindyo Istiko
As usual, Vero drives her Toyota Camry to the nearest McDonalds on a Sunday morning, and I tag along. She orders coffee, I have a Coke, and we share the chips and nuggets.
‘I should stop eating shit,’ says Vero. Her first sip of coffee, followed with a few chips, says otherwise.
‘It’s one of the few things we have in common with Aussies,’ I say, considering the number of cars and people hanging out at McDonalds this morning.
We go back to Vero’s place, a share house exclusively for people the landlord calls ‘Asian girls’, finish our breakfast, and do laundry. The rain stopped last night after two days, so we hang our clothes in the backyard. We spend the rest of the morning sitting on the couch, in front of the TV, scrolling through our phones and finishing our chips and nuggets, while Vero’s fan is blowing cold air on the direction of our sweaty bodies.
When lunch time comes, we go back on the road. The surface of Vero’s car shines brightly, reflecting the horrid, scorching sun above Brisbane. The heat is palpable inside.
We stop by KFC on our way to Ahmad’s. He’s making us lunch: Thai jasmine rice in his rice cooker – not the usual Rojolele we had back home; there’s also his version of sambal matah – blending shallots, chilli, garlic, lemongrass, a bit of cooking oil, and shrimp paste from one of the two Indonesian grocery stores in this city.
We eat the KFC’s chicken with jasmine rice and sambal matah; the rice is still steaming and the chicken is still hot. Ahmad’s sambal matah smells fresh and deadly. We can almost see home, even taste it in our mouth.
‘So, how was dinner with that Vietnamese guy?’ I ask Ahmad.
‘Cancelled. He got busy again with work,’ he answers, touching a chicken wing, but it’s too hot. He blows on his fingers before trying to pick another one.
‘Still avoiding you?’ asks Vero. Her right fingers are ready to put a combination of crispy chicken/rice/sambal matah into her mouth.
‘He likes you, but he wants someone different at the same time,’ I say, as I suck my right thumb and index finger.
‘That’s okay. My feelings are mine and I’m not waiting for him,’ Ahmad separates the skin from the meat of his chicken breast.
‘I admire you,’ says Vero. ‘I don’t know how to be honest with this guy who’s been chasing me. Well, not ‘me’ exactly, he just fetishes Indonesian girls ‘cause he lived in Jakarta for a few years when he was a kid.’
An image of a thirty-something year old guy who likes to hang out in Indonesian restaurants comes to mind.
‘Shall we get rid of him?’ I ask, as I accidentally bite into a chili.
‘What are we going to do?’ Vero looks curious.
‘Choke him with chicken bones. We invite him to our Sunday lunch. You’ll be the honey trap, Vero, and we feed him beers and chicken until he chokes.’
Ahmad supports my idea. ‘I can make sambal matah extra spicy.’
‘Thanks guys. If he doesn’t understand that I’m not into sex at all, let’s do it,’ says Vero.
We’re sipping Coke, sweat dripping from our faces. The industrial interior of Ahmad’s apartment building, with exposed concrete, adds to the heat in the dining room. There’s no aircon so the glass door is open. With each drop of sweat, any ill feelings from the week are coming out of our bodies, through our pores, back into Brisbane’s air that limits and liberates our desires.
‘How long before you go to England, Tiko?’ Ahmad asks me, sweat forming around his mouth.
‘Three weeks, five days,’ I’m struggling to speak with my mouth on fire. I finish my Coke and drink a glass of cold water. When the chili taste subsides, I continue: ‘I need to talk to you both about my divorce.’
‘Planning a divorce two months before your wedding?’ asks Vero. Her mouth opens slightly to let the heat from the spices out.
‘Better sooner than later.’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘When it ends, whatever the cause, I’ll come back to Brisbane. Then the three of us can buy land and build our forever home,’ I stare at my plate full of chicken bones.
‘That suits me. I’ll never find a guy who’s okay with a woman who’s not into sex anyway,’ says Vero, putting her chicken bones into the KFC’s paper bag.
‘Never say never, sayangku,’ Ahmad says, wiping away the sweat on his forehead with his inner right arm. ‘I like the plan because I don’t want to live in the same place as my future boyfriend. Distance is good,’ he takes the paper bag from Vero and puts his chicken bones inside.
‘Brilliant,’ I say, taking the paper bag from Ahmad. ‘We’ll die from diabetes, cholesterol, cancer, or heart attack, but we’ll be together.’
All the chicken bones, all the stresses from the week, are now inside the paper bag. I throw it into the bin, sensing a familiar feeling of comfort that comes after Sunday lunch with Vero and Ahmad.
Vero receives a text. It’s the guy with the Indonesian fetish.
Dinner tonight?
I look at the bin, thinking of all the paper and plastic waste Australia sends to Indonesia, and say: ‘In Invite him here.’
