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, 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.