Tennis With Jai Liu

Flying foxes hang replete from the tall trees dripping in the morning sun. They have sucked the flesh of mamey sapote, of rambutan and mangosteens. Their dog-like pelts are copper pendants that seep a dawn drenched dew onto our heads. The summit of Penang Hill is reserved for the rich who live above the heat and hustle. Cool nights favor a fragrant adulatory. Jia Liu has an 'Uncle' that is not related to her. When he is away she takes me to the villa as a tennis partner, and sometimes lover. After the game we stroll under the bat dribble. “It’s good for your hair,” she says laughing, running ahead. I call after her: “Where do they go in the heat of the day?” “To the fruit markets in George Town, “they hang from the rafters.” Last night I was with her again- a dream. We were drinking amrita of guava, our lips smeared with a sweet red thirst that felt no shame.