#they showed up and messed with the very fabric of the universe and then retired

[catabasis]

it's hilarious to me that all the crazy things that are happening in Doctor Who now are caused by Fourteen's brilliant idea of using salt and invoking a superstition at the edge of the universe

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hullo, Steph, and happy new year! Sorry if someone has asked this already, but I’m searching for Jealous John fics (preferably new ones). Just finished reading “White Knight” by DiscordantWords, and it is amazing!!! Once again, thank you SO MUCH for all the work and effort you put into this blog... the fandom wouldn’t be the same without you.

Hi Nonny!! 

Thank you for the well wishes! I hope you had a good holiday season yourself

I don’t have very many new Jealous John fics, but I do have some new ones to add to my past lists! So, why not, let’s update my Jealous John and Jealous Sherlock Fic rec list!!

JEALOUSY Pt. 5

See Also:

Jealous John

Jealous John Pt. 2 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 2

Jealous John Pt 3 and Jealous Sherlock Pt 3

Jealous John and Sherlock Pt. 4

JEALOUS JOHN

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock’s closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don’t need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

Hell Sent, Heaven Bound by ConsultingHound (M, 64,381 w, 16 Ch. || Angels / Demons AU ||  Fallen Angel Sherlock / Angel Cop John, Alternate First Meeting, Slow Burn, Case Fic, John & Lestrade are Friends Before Sherlock, BAMF John, Mind Palace John, Friends to Lovers, John in Denial, Sherlock Picks Out John’s Clothing, Clubbing / Dancing, Mildly Jealous John, Awkwardness, Kidnapping, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Sacrifice, Worried / Anxious Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Immortal to Mortal) – Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

White Knight by DiscordantWords (M, 69,840 w., 13 Ch. || S4 Compliant/Post S4, Marriage For a Case, Jealous John, Pining John, Janine / Sherlock Fake Relationship, Serial Killers, Case Fic, Undercover as a Couple, Weddings, John is a Mess, Misunderstandings, Wedding Planning, Jealousy, Drunkenness, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – Green. The word green was used to convey a great many things. Illness. Envy. Inexperience. Standing there amidst Janine’s chattering bridesmaids, watching Sherlock furrow his brow and study fabric swatches, watching him smile and simper and flirt, John thought it a remarkably apt colour choice. Because he felt quite sick to his stomach, he feared the source of said sickness might very well be jealousy, and he had absolutely no idea at all what to do about it. Or: Sherlock needs to fake a relationship for a case. He doesn’t ask John.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it’s a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

Proving A Point by elldotsee & J_Baillier (E, 186,270 w., 28 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Me Before You Fusion || Medical Realism, Insecure John, Depression, Romance, Angst, POV John, Sherlock Whump, Serious Illness, Doctor John, Injury Recovery, Assisted Suicide, Sherlock’s Violin, Awkward Sexual Situations, Alcoholism, Drugs, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn, Body Image, Friends to Lovers, Hurt / Comfort, Pain, Big Brother Mycroft, Intimacy, Anxiety, PTSD, Family Issues, Psychological Trauma, John Whump, Case Fics, Loneliness, Pain) – Invalided home from Afghanistan, running out of funds and convinced that his surgical career is over, John Watson accepts a mysterious job offer to provide care and companionship for a disabled person. Little does he know how much hangs in the balance of his performance as he settles into his new life at Musgrave Court.

JEALOUS SHERLOCK

Santa Knows by Itsallfine (T, 1,719 w., 1 Ch. || Christmas Party, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff, Matchmaking, POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – Sherlock and John both get exactly what they want from the Yard’s secret Santa exchange. Pure holiday fluff.

Denial Isn’t Just a River in Egypt by satanatemycat (T, 2,107 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Texting, Bored/Cranky Sherlock) – In which John makes a bet with a co-worker. If he wins, she shuts up about him and Sherlock being a couple. If he loses… well, that doesn’t matter, because he won’t lose. Because he and Sherlock ARE NOT a couple. Right?

The Haunting of 221B Baker Street by earlgreytea68 (M, 10,388 w., 2 Ch. || Post TRF, Halloween / Ghosts, Pining Sherlock, Ghost Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Sherlock POV, First Kiss/Time, Angry Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Open / Ambiguous Ending) – In which Sherlock Holmes is a ghost.

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

You’re On the Air by prettysailorsoldier (M, 20,616 w., 1 Ch. || Unilock, Matchmaking, Radio, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Flirting, Bisexual John) – The Consulting Detective and The Woman dominate the airwaves of their university radio station, doling out advice on everything from meeting the parents to sexual positions. When their ratings start to dip before the holidays, however, manager Mike thinks it’s time for some fresh blood, and who better to fill in the gaps than rugby captain–and notorious flirt–John Watson? Part 1 of 25 Days of Johnlock

A Home for Us by sussexbound (M, 30,581 w., 12 Ch. || Scars, Bedsharing, Grief, Doctor John, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Heavy Emotions, Clingy Sherlock, Hallucinations, Disassociation, Emotional Turmoil) – He has been on the road for two years, and he is exhausted. He’s almost accepted that he will never see London (John) again—almost. But then there are nights like tonight, where he is weak, and all he can think of is the warmth of the flat they once shared, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the teasing smile playing at the corner of John’s lips, the boxes of half-eaten Chinese takeaway balanced precariously in their laps. He aches at the memory of it, at the realisation that it is something he may never experience again.

The Whore of Babylon Was a Perfectly Nice Girl by out_there (E, 32,897 w., 1 Ch. || Past Drug Use, Blowjobs, Toplock, Mentions of Switching, Rough Sex, Background Cases, Sherlock’s Past, Sherlock’s Sexual History, Experienced Sherlock, Past One Night Stands, Fingering, Cuddling, Possessive Sherlock, Paris Holiday, Bed Sharing, Naked Lie-Ins, Bathing Together, Confessions, Worried Sherlock, Laying in Bed All Day, Meddling Mycroft, Naked Lazy Day) – Sherlock walks into a room and takes all the space right out of it. He does the same inside John’s head.

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Being John Watson-ish by elwinglyre (E, 69,902 w., 17 Ch. || Bodysnatcher AU || Author John, Cranky Sherlock, Angst, Sexual Tension, First Kiss / Time, Falling in Love, BAMF John, Past Soldier John, Feelings, Inside Someone’s Brain, Shy Sherlock, Sherlock Loves John, POV Sherlock, Switchlock, Slow Burn, Internal Dialogue, Mental Turmoil) – When consulting detective Sherlock Holmes steps on one toe too many at a crime scene, he’s consigned to a desk job in an archaic office on the seventh-and-a-half floor of the New Scotland Yard. It’s in this bleak office that Sherlock discovers a portal into the mind of renowned author John Watson. Grander than his mind palace, this new wonderland affords Sherlock new vistas of experimentation. To learn more about the mystery behind the portal, Sherlock seeks out and befriends Watson. But then it all goes wrong when others find the secret portal door—including the man whose brain he visits.

[chapitre7]

My Sun and Stars

Moon Lovers: Scarlet Heart Ryeo [달의 연인-보보경심 려] fanfiction

Modern AU

Wang So/Hae Soo

For @krysyuy. Happy birthday, love! ♥

She’s not the type of person to dread Wednesdays.

On Tuesday night, she lays her ironed clothes on the chair closest to her bed, ready for pick-up in the dark hours of morning. She crosses one more day on the calendar on the wall, applies cream to her face for nightly care, lies on her bed and looks at the sky through her skylight. Sometimes she makes a wish. Not to anyone in particular, maybe to Cassiopeia, hidden behind clouds. She wishes for a good day, a peaceful, sunny day where she can make her customers happy. Hae Soo knows it’s too much to ask from the stars, that people would be people, but she tries. A wish is a wish and not a certainty, and it’s better than wishing for nothing at all.

So she wakes on Wednesday morning with an orchestra of birds singing in her phone, and she picks up the clothes she had already chosen for the day, walking to the bathroom with her eyes barely open. The morning is neither cold nor hot, so the water is not a second alarm, it’s the start of a brand new day, sun-kissed warmth on her skin and flower petals in her soap. She wakes up early enough to wash her hair, to dry it, to apply a lotion with the same fragrance as her soap. Her eye shadow is the rose color of her uniform, and her lip-gloss is a transparent red, only enough to show healthiness, to make her smile shine. She reads her horoscope while she eats breakfast, while the weather forecast plays in the TV in the background, and she cheers mentally because it’s positive, telling her to go for it. The day is yours, Hae Soo. Weekend is still far but something good will happen today. She steps outside her house, walks to the bus stop with a skip in her step and no umbrella in her purse.

“Good morning!” She greets her sleepy co-workers. Some grumble over their coffee cups, others use the mirrors in the establishment to double-check their make-up, to make sure their restless nights are covered, mechanically replying without looking at her. Soo puts her things away in her locker in the staff room, runs her hands over her uniform, smoothing out the fabric, and she’s ready. Everything is set for a brand new day.

“No checking the stock for you today, Soo,” her manager says, promptly followed by the echoed groans of those who would man the stock.

“Roger that!” Soo says, cheerfully gliding towards the door, greeting the morning workers who pass by. She lures them with a shining smile and compliments on the women’s matte lipstick, grinning at those who like her honest, nice words enough to stop by, promising that it’ll be really quick to show them their new collection, the quality of their long-lasting, not-transferring foundation, and the excellent make-up remover they also have that will feel like washing years away in just seconds.

The well-dressed morning women diminish quickly. The late ones don’t even spare her a glance. Soo greets retired older women and housewives with the same open heart, “Your hair looks vibrant this morning, Mrs. Shin!”, and they reward her with blushes, with visits, buying hand-cream they don’t need because they discover how nice they smell. Soo is a waste in the stock room; she’s much better as a busy little bee, dropping pollen from her touches, and making flowers grow strong with her buzz. She inhales the misty smell in the morning air and appreciates the day even when it grays out and the first drops wet the asphalt.

The woman and her child arrive around ten.

“This is our new fragrance,” Soo tells her after the woman states her object of desire. Soo is a model poster girl, standing still with a smile on her face, her scarf even matching the colors in the perfume’s poster. She keeps the smile on as the woman picks the bottle from the self, sprays herself on the wrist, puts it back on the shelf without much of a reaction. Soo’s smile falters an imperceptible millimeter when the woman’s child stretches his little arm towards the only shelf he can reach and picks a bottle. Her eyes dart to the mother but she’s already immersed in a completely different product with her back to them, and she panics internally when she realizes it’s not a tester that the child is holding. She wants to curse but cursing is a jinx and it’s too early for jinxes, she can’t have them, not when she’s already planning on having lunch at her favorite restaurant and exchanging a few cheery messages if she’s lucky.

Soo doesn’t curse; she bends a little to be closer to the child’s eye level and offers him both her palms.

“I like that one too! Why don’t you give it back to auntie Soo?”

The child holds the bottle closer to his chest, clearly away from Soo. She licks her lips and looks around carefully, not standing from her position. Her co-workers are all busy and the mother is still preoccupied with every single shade of lipstick from the stand.

“Aw,” she says with a pout. “I don’t think your mommy likes it though. Why don’t we show her something else?”

He shakes his head. Soo swallows. Out of arguments, she reaches out to take the bottle from his hands and he pulls back, ever so slightly. With her hand on the perfume’s cap, she tries to persuade him with a benevolent raise of eyebrows, with all her teeth, but he still struggles. Soo pulls, he pulls back, and the second she believes she’s won their little tirade is short-lived when the cap comes out in her hand and the bottle falls to the floor and breaks into dozens of floral little pieces.

The silence that follows is quickly broken by the child’s crying.

“What are you doing to my son?!”

Of course she’s there when Soo doesn’t need her to be.

“I’m not paying for that! What is wrong with you?!”

Of course she checks her son over and he doesn’t have a single injury when Soo’s shoes are drenched in overpriced perfume.

Don’t curse, she tells herself as her manager attempts to calm the woman down and ultimately lets her walk away with a tearless wailing son. Soo almost expected the child to look over his shoulder and give her the tongue but he doesn’t because the universe’s sense of humor was on her side. Maybe. Her manager’s frown speaks otherwise.

“I’m going to have to take this out of your pay, Soo.”

It’s only the most expensive perfume in the boutique. “Yes,” she says, bowing. “I’m deeply sorry for my mistake, it won’t happen again.”

“Sure. Clean up this mess, okay?”

She keeps the corners of her mouth upright after a deep breath. She tries to sweep and mop it all up quickly as to not disturb any customer — while thinking that that spot of the store is perfect for advertising the perfume, it didn’t have to be a complete disaster, after all —, and she only notices she missed a small glass shard at the far end of the store after she’s taken all the cleaning supplies away. She scooters close to it like a child about to steal a cookie from a hidden jar, crouches to pick it up and throw it in the trash, but she drops it the very next second with an “Ack!”. It’s such a small little cut, a harmless little thing, but blood flows like she’s a murder victim. She sucks on the wound, hurries past her manager with an apology and into the staff room where she keeps her purse and band-aids.

It’s fine. It’ll only be tricky to wash the dishes for a couple of days...

Soo sighs and she’s about to put her purse away when she looks at her phone inside and gets a funny little impulse. She picks it up and types a message, a little giggle bubbling out of her and jingling in the deserted and badly lit room.

I cut my finger :(

She allows herself to wait a full minute before accepting that he’s probably busy and can’t answer in a timely fashion. She thinks she can picture the answer, even the scoff that accompanies it on his side, a jabbing How do you even manage these things, you don’t even work with anything sharp! that she would follow with a dignified crossing of arms and a pout. He had witnessed her in several accidents, cheap sunglasses that she breaks ridiculously often, coins that drop into a pit of oblivion that certainly opens up on the ground every time something slips from her fingers, and really, she opened the door of a restaurant on his nose on their first blind date. He probably half finds it endearing, for he usually wears an expression of amusement and wonder when she can’t find her keys in her purse, and half wants to kill her when she forgets things at home pretty much every time they go on a date and she has to dart back up and risk falling down the stairs (sometimes actually falling down the stairs). But she wants to be a little cute, wants the smile that makes her feel pretty and endearing, even if it’s not the most sophisticated adult flirting technique to get the man from something status to boyfriend status.

So she puts her phone away and walks back to the store with only one thought: Lunch. Lunch will be good with delicious spicy chicken and messages about their favorite historical drama’s melodramatic developments.

Two hours later, the notice on the restaurant’s closed doors come as a kick in the gut. Her stomach growls as she reads that the establishment is temporarily shut down and the page is signed by a health inspector. But she ate there only a week ago? Should she be writing her will? Were bugs involved?!

She wants to slouch towards the nearest restaurant but a quick glimpse at her wristwatch tells her to hurry up or she’d be late and she’d had enough troubles for the day. She orders black bean noodles and thinks that it’s okay, that’s good enough, she likes those too. And hey, if she hasn’t died from food poisoning yet then she’s safe. It’s a solid assumption. Probably.

If I die from late food poisoning, I’m leaving my plants under your care.

She bites her bottom lip and touches the tips of her shoes together, waiting, waiting, making movement on that rainy day. The reply arrives at the same time as her plate.

There’s a possibility that they’ll live longer under my care. Should I be worried and writing my own will or

She smiles as she stirs her noodles so the sauce is evenly spread and ready to fill her eager stomach.

No, I’m the only victim, so you’re safe to finish Ha Ji Won’s filmography.

She feels it with the first slurp of her noodles. Her phone flashes with a message, something about the Damo episode she was supposed to have watched the night before but fell asleep in the middle, most likely some praise about Ha Ji Won’s action moves and mesmerizing gaze, but Soo is too busy staring down at the dark spot on her uniform, one that she knows will still be there even after she tries to wipe it away. It’s almost a miracle that she remembered to take her scarf off and put it in her locker and also a blessing because she’s already whimpering and hitting her head against the table in what could only be described as despair.

So, I’m having a bad day, she sends, along with the unhappiest emote she finds. She dares not write really bad day, lest it attracted even worse accidents. What would smart, brave Ha Ji Won do?

She’s careful with her next slurps, her feet no longer tapping each other under the table, no longer moving, the beginning of defeat in them, on her shoulders. The phone emits a happy beep.

Do you want me to pick you up? I’m leaving the office early today. We could eat something that is not life-threatening.

Excitement is an arrow that makes her back stand straighter and her shoes to tap the floor. She really did want to see him and talk about silly things they both liked, re-enact the perfume accident dramatically, hear about his intern who played too many video-games and used too much slang, just add a splash of color to her day. She would cover up the day’s imperfections, touch her cheeks with the warm comfort of his company, and maybe, hopefully, touch his lips with her lipstick. Beat that, Ha Ji Won.

She almost skips all the way back to the boutique, only remembering the stain on her blouse when she sees her reflection in one of the mirrors by the entrance, so she covers it with her hand and rushes to staff room to brush her teeth and reapply her lipstick and wish upon an invisible star in the cloudy afternoon sky that there’ll be no further incidents, no minor disturbances, only the sweet approach of evening and the promise of comfort and—

Every single item inside her purse is stained with sticky, reddish liquid. Inside the bathroom, she sees her reflection in the mirror pull the criminal lip-gloss into the open, staring aghast at the cap with the applying brush. Betrayal has a name and it’s every product she sells to innocent, unsuspecting women, and as she empties her bag and tears pieces of toilet paper for the menial task of speed cleaning, she thinks, grumbles, that maybe she shouldn’t sell them with such enthusiasm, the backstabbing buggers. After doing the best she could with the time and material she had, she puts her purse back in her locker with a pout, foregoing the lip-gloss entirely, into the garbage can.

Even bad days have an end is the thought that keeps her going in the never-ending afternoon. Minutes take hours to pass, customers refuse to show up, to enter, to entertain her grumpy mind. She tries to cover up the stain in her blouse with her scarf but she’s conscious of it, of her toes that start to hurt inside her shoes, of her cheeks that hurt from trying too hard to please. Peace is a flower that wants to bloom in her mind, another flower for another day in the garden of her subconscious. It’s the hope to finally be herself, to just be, at the end of a busy day. It’s in every raindrop that touches her hair when she steps outside and looks at the dark sky to greet the falling evening.

When the hand of the clock finally points to freedom, Soo doesn’t dillydally. She tries not to rush either, tries to appear composed to her colleagues, even if they seemed to talk all day about her blunders behind their hands, just outside hearing distance. It’s okay. It’s okay to make mistakes and own up to them. It’s okay, accidents happen. It’s okay to slip, you can stand up again.

But Soo does slip. Literally. On the wet footprints by the boutique’s entrance, her heel slips and she holds onto the door so she doesn’t fall down and create a bigger spectacle than she already did. She’s several different shades of red when someone asks if she’s okay. She nods and tries to run from view — where, in that rain? Anywhere — but she realizes her heel has broken off so she can’t even make a graceful exit. She can only limp away, with her dirty purse close to her body, sticking close to the wall where there’s a small space of shelter from the rain.

She walks all the way to the corner of the street, where she takes a deep breath and sighs into her hands. Her eyes hurt from not wearing her contacts, contacts she hates. She hates her broken heel and how she’s going to have to buy a new one and pay for the broken perfume, which are expenses she wasn’t counting on. She hates the humidity that frizzes her hair, the drops she can’t shield herself from, and the embarrassed blush that makes her look even more like a teenager than she already does. She wants a new job. She wants something more.

The umbrella is what catches her attention first, covering her in the gloomy rain. Where did it come from? What side? Did it fall down from the sky? She looks up at him and he tilts his head to the side, blinks a couple of times, touches her hair with a warm hand that makes her wish she were a cat, ready to be taken away from the rain, into his arms, and ready to purr at his petting.

“What happened?” Wang So asks. “It doesn’t look like you’re out here because you like the rain, did you forget your umbrella?”

“Yeah... My heel broke,” she says, looking down, and his gaze follows hers. “Maybe you could... go to my flat and bring me new shoes so we can go out?” She bites her lip. Were they close enough that he’d pick up things she forgot? Or would he prefer for her to change? Would he wait for her? She really wants to change. She also just really wants to lie down and rest, but they had made plans...

“Don’t be silly, Soo. I’ll take you home, come on.”

She’s about to protest, something about looking ridiculous with only one heel, but his arm sneaks around her shoulders, brings her closer to his side, and together they walk under his umbrella, his steps matching her clumsy ones, all the way to his car. He covers her until she’s safe and sound on the passenger seat and then he closes the umbrella and rushes to his side, shaking the rain out of his hair with his hands. He gives her a smile that is more reassuring than any pep talk she had given herself, and she keeps on looking at him as he drives to her place.

Her friend Baek Ah had introduced them because he was, allegedly, tired of being their first choice of company for outings and he really wanted to spend time with his girlfriend without either of them sulking. They had things in common, Baek Ah had said, from their teenage interest in historical dramas to their diligence and righteous spirit. As a journalist, So had had fierce arguments with his Editor-in-Chief about covering political corruption, and all the articles that she found with his name attached to them had impressed Soo. He was a welcome change in her routine, and she knew Baek Ah knew it, too. Soo had broken off with so many acquaintances, people who made her feel inferior, and she wanted, needed... More. Someone who could offer her a chance to indulge in reading about Chinese zodiac signs and compatibilities, someone that she’d add on her phone under several different names: Blind Date, Baek Ah’s Friend, Ha Ji Won Fan. He could be her choice, Baek Ah had said. He could be her reminder that days could be good instead of just being day after day after day.

In his car, with all her little flaws bared to him, she faces him and wishes Baek Ah had introduced them sooner.

“Do you want to come up?” She says as she recognizes her neighborhood out the window on his side. “It’s raining. I could make us dinner.”

He parks the closest he can to her building.

“I could help you,” he says, but for a few seconds, neither of them really moves. It’s always hard to take the first step into the unknown, but Soo is so tired and so eager for a good evening that she takes it, a step out of the car, a heel-less step, and she limps away under the drizzle. So exits the car, catches up with her and offers his arm so they rush, together, towards the entrance.

“The kitchen is that way,” Soo says, pointing, “and you’re free to start dinner while I take a quick shower. I’m sorry about the mess.”

“No mess at all,” he says, looking around. “It’s very neat. I like the flowers.” He walks up to one of her vases and smells her peonies. Soo likes the genuine smile that graces his lips at the pleasing scent, at her apartment, at her. She excuses herself and he makes way for the kitchen.

Soo washes her hair, relaxes her tired muscles, tired feet under the shower. She lets the day flow out of her, down the drain, and welcomes the evening with steam in her lungs, with a healthy blush on her skin, nothing like she had felt earlier. She wears her round glasses and dresses in unflattering, oversized clothes, but with her small built, she’s aiming for a comfortable, cute look, and So does seem pleased when she hops next to him. They work together, chopping the vegetables, taking turns with different pans on the stove, setting the table, placing generous amounts of side-dishes for each other. Soo hears more than she talks, not because she feels her day was less important than his, but because she’s already tired of going over the same scenes over and over again, she’s already tired of that boy and his mother, of the images of pests crawling along the shelves of food she might have eaten, about people whispering behind her back. She hears him talk about what he had worked on that day, about his intern’s latest mishap, about places others had been to for an article that he wished he had written instead. He tells her of things that reminded him of her, a little stray cat that he saw on the way to lunch and that he fed on the way back, and embarrassing texts Baek Ah sent him while he was drunk that makes them both laugh.

Happy and fed, Soo lies on the couch in her living room while So washes the dishes, as he had offered. She closes her eyes but she doesn’t sleep. She just lies there in contentment, a song playing on the TV mingling with the sounds of So in the kitchen and the rain outside. A day could change so quickly, from the sun that greeted her at morning to the downpour that tempts her like a lullaby, but in the end, you choose what to make of it. You choose to let discouragement take over you and fall asleep in loneliness or you choose the other option. She hears So coming closer, hears him sit on the floor, feels his hand on her hair. She smiles in return, open to him, to his touch.

“I have something for you,” he says. She opens her eyes and they widen when they see the velvet box in his hand. “It reminded me of you.”

Soo sits up, her heart beating loudly against her eardrums, her pulse hot under her skin. Even if it’s just a present, even if it’s something small, on that rainy day, it feels big.

She opens the box and stares at the silver ring inside, at the small rhinestones and the thin lines that trace its surface. It’s too big for her ring finger so she places it on her middle finger, a shiny little contrast with the band-aid on her index finger. She admires it from a distance, appreciates the way it reflects the light, the little twinkle on the stones look like...

“It’s Cassiopeia. They said suns, moons and stars are popular nowadays.” He chuckles and takes her hand in his. It’s only then that Soo realizes he’s wearing a ring himself, with his own constellation. “I know it’s not your favorite.”

“They didn’t have Pegasus?” She grins as he groans, touches the back of her hand to his forehead.

“It was an accidental lisp!”

“No, it wasn’t. Repeat after me, three times fast, Pe-ga-sus.”

“I’m leaving.”

He gets up and pretends to leave but she pulls him back, laughing all the while, and he sits beside her on the couch, kisses the back of her hand, an off-hand gesture. They both rest their heads on the couch, their joined hands forming the w of the stars she wishes upon.

“I’m not really asking you for anything, Soo, we don’t have take steps you don’t want to take. But I’d love to—”

He’s blushing when she touches his cheek, when she pulls closer and kisses him. Her something, her little someone, giving her the stars when she had wilted. She opens her mouth against his, opening up like a moon flower, climbing on his lap when he pulls her, her arms locking around his neck. Out of breath, she pecks his lips once, twice, rests her forehead against his, fills her senses with him.

“Are you sure?”

With her hands still in his hair, she’s sure that his eyes shine brighter than the stars in her ring, than the stars hidden away from the rain. She nods and lets him carry her, the TV and the lights going off behind them, no sound in her home but the rain and the sound of their kisses, of their breath. His ring is cool against her skin and she shivers, she giggles, she calls his name as the day fades away.

She’s a morning kind of person. Wakes up before her alarm clock, gets up right away, the skylight always illuminating every corner of her life.

On that Thursday, Hae Soo wakes up with his arm around her waist. She looks down and the pale dawn shines on their matching rings, stars that glow all day long. She reaches for her phone and promptly turns her alarm off. Her boss’s scolding over her first ever tardy arrival is worth it. In fact, she’d trade her whole day for a few more minutes. Maybe she could call in sick? She rolls over to face him and scoots closer, as close as she can be, her cold nose making him stir and tighten his embrace around her.

She sleepily thinks that she needs to update his name on her phone. Boyfriend So ♥ doesn’t sound so bad.

With her arm around his naked torso, she’s sure she’s beaten Ha Ji Won’s leads by miles.

Special thanks to @justonehappyvictory for invaluable Ha Ji Won drama knowledge and ideas ♥

[dailynewscameroonusa]

Betis plot to install Frank Biya to succeed his father as Cameroon’s next President | Dailynewscameroon

To avoid chaos, anarchy and possible explosion, CPDM apologists and Beti tribal jingoists should perish the thought that Frank Biya will succeed his father as the next President of Cameroon.

Cameroon news

In December 2008, a Guinean newspaper published a photo of a frail and ailing President Lansana Conté, who appeared to be struggling to stand up. The photo sparked rumors of the president’s ill health and angered the country’s political elite, who hastily ordered the editor’s arrest. The next day, on the instructions of the security chief, the same newspaper carried an even bigger photo of Mr. Conté on its front page – this time smiling broadly and looking spirited. But Conte died a week later, vindicating the newspaper’s initial resolve to let Guineans know that the president’s health was failing.

 The head of the National Assembly, Aboubacar Somparé, later explained that leaders hid the president’s “physical suffering in order to give happiness to Guinea.” Mr. Somparé’s clumsy explanation implied a need to avoid succession squabbles and potential violence. Yet six hours after the president’s death was officially announced, the army staged a coup, suspended the constitution and threw the West African nation into political turmoil.

 The same scenario seems to be playing out in Cameroon where speculation is rife and rumors abound that the 87-year-old octogenarian President Paul Biya has groomed his son, Frank Biya to succeed him as president. Cameroon’s socio-economic and political crisis is the inevitable result of poor leadership. In a country where the retirement age is 55 years, the average age of the cabinet is 68 years. The Senate President and constitutional successor to the president, Niat Njifenji Marcel, is 85 and has been recycled in different positions of authority for 58 years. House Speaker, Cavaye Yeguié Djibril is 79 and has been an MP since 1971; and Speaker for the last 27 years and counting. The Chief of Army Staff, Gen. René Claude Meka is 80; the Delegate General for National Security, Martin Mbarga Nguélé is 86 years old.

 In a mindless distraction from the urgency of the moment, however, the Betis are not only pre-occupied with confiscating power by foisting Frank Biya on the nation, they find it convenient to embark on their quest in the most insulting manner to the sensibilities of all Cameroonians. It does not require a special skill or intelligence to recognize that Cameroon is sick. Although the Betis who have confiscated power may find it a bitter pill to swallow, Biya like very reluctant mortal will eventually die. It is a sad commentary on the character of Cameroonian politics and politicians that the debate as to who will succeed Biya continues to dominate public discourse despite the clear and unambiguous constitutional provisions about presidential succession. Needless and distracting, it is deafening and getting volatile by the day, threatening the fabrics of the nation. As a matter of fact, this needless debate is the pivot on which every political development and activity in the country today, negative and positive, is anchored.

 Within the corridors of power in Cameroon, the topic of succession is twisted by delusions, secrecy and ineptitude. The ruling political party’s strategy over the last four decades is for the Cameroons to be a champion of zero-imagination. They have existed in illusions as if Paul Biya would live forever. They have had over thirty years to devise a progression strategy but have done nothing. Paul Biya and his close acolytes have been lazy and reckless in a crucial leadership responsibility to work out a succession plan for the nation.

 The daily rumours and briefings from high level regime officials about the appointment of Franck Biya, the president’s son, as the next head of state has been a showcase of lack of preparedness and exceptional absurdity. The drumbeat for Franck Biya’s coronation from high level regime officials and Biya’s tribesmen is shameful. Cameroon is not a monarchy!

Cameroon - info

Franck Biya has had a profoundly mysterious existence. It was reported that he abandoned school in the US. Little has been reported and documented about his education and professional life. Cameroon Concord News Group has been allowed official papers that evidenced he was issued a license to exploit and export the country’s timber with impunity through Ingeniere Forestiere (ING-F) which has now been declared bankrupt. The accounts of the business and its paid taxes are non-existent.

 The Panana Papers alleged that he owned several bank accounts in financial havens around the world. It was rumoured for decades that he showed no interest in politics. But recent photographs of him in motorcades with huge military presence, released by the inner-circle of the CPDM crime syndicate, have raised eyebrows. Why would a country of 25 million settle for such an experiment in the middle of the worst political and economic crisis to befall it? It would not take a rocket scientist to work out that the plan is to put the best person in place to cover the tracks of the crime syndicate that has ruined the country for four decades.

 President Biya, presumably a good student of history and a dramatis personae of the system has had 38 years to change the narrative and halt the nation’s steady decline, but he has failed woefully to rise up to the challenge of personal example which is the hallmark of true leadership. Ironically, Cameroon started out on an excellent note as patriots were not in short supply after unification. With their sterling qualities, the likes of ET Egbe, Achidi Achu, Ayissi Mvodo Victor, Samuel Eboua, Maikano Abdoulaye, Dorothy Njuema, Claude Tchepanou, Andze Tsoungui, Sadou Daoudou, Augustine Federick Kodock, Charles Doumba, Eteki Mbouma, Sengat-Kuo Francois, Andre Ngongang Ouandji, Delphine Tsanga, and many others of that Ahidjo era illuminated the horizon with ideas for a nation bound for the greatest of heights. They were men and women who till date remain beyond compare.

 In a civilised democracy, where democratic values and culture have been sufficiently implanted in the soul, mind and spirit of the people and imbibed as tenets and societal norms, the ridiculous notion that Frank Biya can succeed his father as president of Cameroon would pass for a mere mundane issue that is laughable and should attract no further comment. This leadership vacuum created by Biya’s absence has left in its trail, economic crises, political turmoil and wanton impoverishment of the people. Worst still, the prospect of prosperity for all in a land so blessed materially and in every other respect is undermined by corruption. Nothing seems to be working in the country today. To make matters worse, the bond that binds the ethnic nationalities together appears at the very best tenuous, if not snapping, and threatening fundamentally the unity of the country.

 It is perhaps right to say at no time has the basis of Cameroon’s existence as a multi-ethnic bilingual nation been as furiously assailed as has been witnessed in recent times. The unity in diversity of the country which hitherto was advertised as its strength has been supplanted by the diversities in the unity, such that an average Cameroonian sees himself first in the mold of his ethnic nationality. This explains why the country is politically weak and structurally fragile, even as the regime insists on its pig-headed war of attrition against Anglophones; a majority of who now favor outright separation from the union with French Cameroon. The rising insecurity and frightening prognostications is exacerbated by poverty and insensitive political leadership that prides itself in a false sense of direction with little or no accomplishments to show.

 Amid repeated media reports that Biya is dead, political watchers have determined the president is showing more wear and tear mostly in the form of wrinkles on his face; the declining swagger of his gait; the alleged uncontrollable flatulence and protracted anal blasts and the deterioration in his husky voice even as the subterfuge amongst the President’s men is to insist all is fine even when Biya can barely walk. Over the last thirty-eight years, the moral and intellectual equilibrium has slackened under Mr Paul Biya. Political appointments, personal advancements and many things under his reign have been dependent on an inconceivable degree of tribalism, nepotism and a personality cult around him. Over time, Paul Biya has become increasingly ruthless. Under him, the aggregation of power is unprecedented. It is a cult. He rules predominantly by decree. His parliament is a collection of comedians and common criminals. His 180 parliamentarians and 100 senators are spokespeople, subservient to his CPDM crime syndicate. All ministers and parliamentary comedians are expected to recite from a script written in the presidency. It’s fascinatingly dull and depressing but somehow normal in one of the poorest countries on earth despite being blessed with enormous natural resources.

 Paul Biya is old, weak, and medically incontinent. But he is surrounded by hand-clappers and ruthless henchmen. Their determination to stay in power is matched by their viciousness. Franck Biya’s unpreparedness for the presidency is obvious. The argument that one doesn’t need a sound university education to govern a nation is weak and made weaker with the rise of Donald Trump. Cameroon Concord News Group summits that if a man cannot exploit timber for free and export for a profit, such a man is ill-suited for the presidency of a nation.

 Cameroon’s current state of economic and political woes demand a man or woman of integrity, equipped with the knowledge of world economics in a fast changing world. The country needs to make a logical choice to clean up the mess of the last thirty-eight years. Cameroon needs a choice to drag the country from the abyss into peace and prosperity. This is not the time for costly political experiments and cover-ups. Generations have been destroyed. This country, blessed with abundant human and natural resources, cannot afford to waste another generation.

 The next president of Cameroon should not emerge by accident. He ought to have been cultivated, has a clear pedigree, knows the nation, and has the capacity to capture the imagination of Cameroonians by the way he articulates the problems plaguing the country and seeking solutions to such problems. Nor should he be driven by the modern madness of primitive material accumulation and conspicuous consumption of the Biya regime. He must lead by being led by the people.

 Cameroon post-Biya must somehow recapture the true spirit of leadership, of service, of sacrifice. Such new kind of leader must espouse a clear vision for the country. He must possess big dreams for Cameroon and sell it to all and sundry. Unlike Biya, he must be a man capable of empathizing with the people – weeping when the people are hurt, and rejoicing when the people are happy. Such a leader must possess the acumen, candour and courage to weld together all of Cameroon’s disparate parts. Such new kind of leader must not be a man of doubtful character and credibility. He must be someone who finds himself in the nation’s highest office by clear grooming and preparation.

 Cameroonians must stop moaning and start questioning those who offer themselves for leadership positions. They must look beyond the immediate gratification and the corrupted process that politicians are pirating. They must back up their desire for a better country, by mobilizing to challenge any such effort to impose Frank Biya as the next president of Cameroon. The country needs a president who can recapture the dreams of our founding fathers and once again, begin the earnest journey to true nationhood.

[vincentbuckles]

Weekend reading: Can we take back control from Brexit?

[A quick update on Brexit thoughts for those who want to reasonably discuss it. For those who don’t, please feel free to skip to the links.]

Imagine having anticipated something for 30 years, finally getting the freedom to do it, and then making a car crash out of it.

But enough about my life as a mid-life singleton. I’m thinking here of the Eurosceptic wing of the Conservative party.

You know – those 40-odd guys who can’t muster up enough votes to unseat the UK’s most ineffectual leader since Hugh Laurie’s Prince Regent in Blackadder the Third, and yet who’ve somehow managed to send 63 million of us towards an apparently imminent impoverished future.

You might think the World Class farce we’ve endured over the past 30 months would see me smiling.

After all a second referendum is looking ever more likely, if still not odds-on.

But unfortunately, I continue to read and hear abundant evidence that most of the Leave voting contingent still doesn’t get it.

And that means despite the demographic challenges of that faction (i.e. its original margin of victory is literally dying) it’s quite possible Leave could win again.

Especially if the Remain side sticks to the previous policy of dull facts over bus-splattering bullshit fabrications.

No wonder Leave voters seem almost as angry as Remainers:

I’ve seen a parade of #Brexit leaders on news programmes today. Their position boils down to this: We are absolutely sure voters knew exactly what they voted for and, as soon as we manage to agree among ourselves what that was, we will inform voters what it was they voted for.

— Alex Andreou (@sturdyAlex) December 6, 2018

A second referendum is a horrible solution to a stupid problem, with plenty of downsides.

However from my perspective it has the minor virtue of being less terrible than all the other alternatives.

Whose Brexit is it, anyway

Can we not stop this death march? Absolutely no one seems happy with the direction of travel.

Not even the Leave voters, that’s the most galling – if unsurprising – thing.

Blogger Ermine came close to capturing this contradiction at the heart of the Leave vote with a graphic this week. Leavers are represented here by the two Mickey Mouse ears on top of the smug metropolitan elite mug:

What @ermine’s Venn diagram is missing though is the set of people who voted either Leave or Remain to make us poorer.

Perhaps that’s because it doesn’t exist – despite even the Government admitting that’s what we face.

True, a tiny set of Brexiteers have belatedly conceded that a No Deal Brexit will hit us in the national nads.

That, they now say, is a price worth paying for sovereignty / blue passports / the right to negotiate trade deals with Madagascar and Kazakhstan.

But all the leading Leave-supporting players continue to lie to the electorate.

Theresa May herself rounded off her Deal Debate Dodge by harking back to the supposed ability of Brexit to reduce the inequalities and insecurities she spoke of in the aftermath of the vote – despite almost every single analysis of Brexit showing a net negative impact, economically-speaking.1

If you want sovereignty or fewer immigrants from Brexit, fair enough. Own that. Don’t claim the tooth fairy too.

But sadly, the very few Leavers I come across in real-life are still saying things like “The EU needs us more than we need them.”

The same EU that has run rings around us in negotiations.

The EU that has stuck firmly together, despite all forecasts to the contrary, and strangely believes more in its vision of togetherness than in the fantasies of Brexiteers.

The EU that takes 44% of our exports, while we take 8%2 of theirs.

The roughly 450 million of them versus the 63 million of us.

The UK vs the EU is a negotiating position that only looks attractive to Tories of a certain class raised to see greatness in the self-destruction of The Charge Of The Light Brigade.

“C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre; c’est de la folie”.3

Barry Barricades

What I missed when I created Barry Blimp – the archetypal Home Counties Leave voter of not inconsiderable means and more than a few years – was his zealotry.

Because I now see a big chunk of the Leave cohort want Brexit no matter what.

In fact I rather think some would enjoy it if we had ferries piled up outside Dover and food rationing at Tesco.

Obviously I feel vindicated when I think back to the insults hurled at me when I ventured my opinion on my own blog that many Leave voters didn’t know what they’d started, or that this would drag on for years.

But that’s about as satisfying as telling the person in the seat next to you that yes, you were right that the 747’s engine sounded a bit funny as the Captain shouts “Brace, brace!” over the tannoy.

There seems no good solution to this mess now. Revolutions have started over less.

(That may sound melodramatic if you don’t know your history. I suggest you Google the origins of the French Revolution, the English Civil War, or the American War of Independence before you jab your finger in my chest.)

To be clear I’m not predicting revolution – let alone hoping for it, from any perspective – but there’s got to be a non-zero chance.

Currently we are just living through a nationalist coup, and that’s bad enough.

The irony is for many on the right, Jeremy Corbyn is a revolutionary Marxist.

Politics has abandoned the center ground. As a result, lots of people are going to be very unhappy, however this turns out.

Our politicians need to get a grip, fast.

From Monevator

Money is power – Monevator

From the archive-ator: The characteristics of an entrepreneur – Monevator

News

Note: Some links are Google search results – in PC/desktop view you can click to read the piece without being a paid subscriber. Try privacy/incognito mode to avoid cookies. Consider subscribing if you read them a lot!4

UK economy slows as car sales fall – BBC

Property market at weakest since 2012 as Brexit takes toll, says RICS – Guardian

ECB ends €2.5tn eurozone QE stimulus programme – BBC

Luxury goods inflation running at nearly 6%, says Coutts – Guardian

Richest parts of London generate 30x cash of poorest parts of UK – ThisIsMoney

Scotland freezes threshold for higher-rate income tax – Guardian

Crowdcube investors threaten legal action after Emoov goes bust – ThisIsMoney

      Check out the collapse in the price of solar powered energy – Vox

Products and services

Are real or fake Christmas trees better for the planet? – Guardian

Small energy providers keep going bust. Is switching too risky? – ThisIsMoney

Investors flock to venture capital funds [Search result] – FT

Britain to force broadband providers to tell customers their best deals – Reuters

Ratesetter will pay you £100 [and me a cash bonus] if you invest £1,000 for a year – Ratesetter

Examining the risks and rewards of securities lending for funds – Morningstar

Investec’s new notice savings account allows 20% withdrawals – ThisIsMoney

Questioning the $1million retirement maths special

$1 million isn’t enough – Fat Tailed and Happy

The hardest problem in finance – The Irrelevant Investor

$1 million? Meh. [US but relevant] – The Belle Curve

Comment and opinion

Stellar take on the savings-versus-investment-returns debate – Get Rich Slowly

Situational spending – Seth Godin

Index-investing critic takes aim, fires, misses – Bloomberg

Rational versus reasonable – Morgan Housel

Financial planning – Indeedably

Three investing maths mistakes to drive you nuts – The IT Investor

The current danger for stocks: Fear itself – Morningstar

Why you need a money mentor – The Cut

The reason many billionaires aren’t satisfied with their wealth – The Atlantic

The wonderful Portfolio Charts has had a makeover – Portfolio Charts

How to measure a company’s growth rate – UK Value Investor

The best investing white papers of 2018 [For nerds/pros] – Savvy Investor

Crypto corner (December 2017 nostalgic edition)

Four days trapped at sea with crypto’s nouveau riche – Breaker Mag

Yes Bitcoin was a bubble. And it popped… – Bloomberg

…but is it time for believers to buy back into Ethereum? – AVC

Prices are down more than the ‘fundamentals’ [My quotes] – Chris Burniske

Brexit

The EU rebuffs Theresa May on Brexit — six takeaways [Search result] – FT

Lord Heseltine nails it on Brexit [Video] – via Facebook

“This was the second failed attempt to unseat May in three weeks, for a bunch of guys who’d be picked last for paintball and are led by rejected Paddington villain Jacob Rees-Mogg.” – Guardian

EU leaders scrap plans to help Theresa May pass deal after disastrous meeting in Brussels – Independent

Sir Ivan Rogers on Brexit [Full speech] – University of Liverpool

How Ireland outwitted Britain on Brexit – Bloomberg

Don’t know why people see a nasty, racist fringe to the Leave vote… – via Twitter

Kindle book bargains

The Barcelona Way: How to Create a High-performance Culture by Damian Hughes – £1.09 on Kindle

The 100-Year Life: Living and Working in an Age of Longevity by Lynda Gratton and Andrew Scott – £2.99 on Kindle

James Acaster’s Classic Scrapes by James Acaster – £0.99 on Kindle

Off our beat

Habits are the compound interest of self-improvement – Farnham Street

Population mountains [Striking 3D maps of global populations] – The Pudding

KFC debuts fried chicken-scented fire logs ahead of Christmas – Fox News

We need academic conferences about robots, love, and sex – Slate

And finally…

“For half a century the competition to produce the fastest stock price-printing machine was almost as frantic as the pursuit of the stocks and the shares. Indeed for many, the two were inseparable.” – Selwyn Parker, The Great Crash: How the Stock Market Crash of 1929 Plunged the World into Depression

Like these links? Subscribe to get them every Friday!

Yes, a couple of things might be made better for a tiny subset of the population. But as we’ve discussed before, almost every serious economist believes those benefits would be grossly outweighed by the economic negatives. They’d be far better addressed directly via redistribution or government investment.

Or 18%, in a certain light.

“It’s magnificent, but it’s not war; it’s madness” – General Pierre Bosquet.

Note some articles can only be accessed through the search results if you’re using PC/desktop view (from mobile/tablet view they bring up the firewall/subscription page). To circumvent, switch your mobile browser to use the desktop view. On Chrome for Android: press the menu button followed by “Request Desktop Site”.

Weekend reading: Can we take back control from Brexit? published first on https://justinbetreviews.weebly.com/

[goneontherun]

We were together again, gathered in Mrs. Lee’s living room for the third book club session of the year, the fifteen or so of us pressed up around her coffee table in the middle of June. I was on the soft loveseat this time, smothered by her floral cushions on my left and a fat, bulk of a woman on my right, sweat gathering between my thighs. Why the fuck won’t Mrs. Lee turn the fan on? I squirmed and tried to prop myself up with one arm, conscious of the wet stain I would leave on her couch, with the fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin. Mrs. Lee had set out cups of tea on the coffee table, and Jillian, the woman beside me, was already on her second slice of cake. I didn’t know her name was Jillian at the time. I’d never seen her before, but she had written her name in equally fat, block letters on her copy of the book. I’d heard sometime that book clubs are supposed to be good for me, on account of a friend from college, who ran book clubs of her own out of her living room in Ann Arbor. I’d told her that I missed our undergraduate English classes, arguing about form and devices in our classroom in a grey-brick building overlooking the chapel and the rolling hills of Western Mass. A time when the words on the page spoke about the very leaves that were flaking off the trees in the woods just five minutes away, and winter quarter brought the snowy evenings that were apt for stopping in. Besides, you might meet someone, she added, winking at me over Skype. But the connection was slow and her eye ended up in a mess of pixels. I nodded. I pictured intellectuals gathered around a table in a coffee shop, peering at small text in thick books over the top of their round glasses. Maybe I’ll finally meet someone who shares my enthusiasms for the Romantic poets, I thought. I give the room a once-over, and sink further into the flowery pattern: so how the fuck did I end up with a group of semi-retired middle-aged women, talking about Middlemarch in a three-room flat in Jurong East? Jillian was going on about the most romantic bits of the novel, Dorothea this and Will that, the cake crumbs spitting out from her mouth and landing on the marble floor. Okay but how about the other characters, Mrs. Lee said, pulling the leadership card that Jillian seemed to have ignored. I’d like to talk about Celia. On the other side of the room, I noticed someone yawn and glanced up at the clock on the wall. Our eyes met, she shrugged, before she looked back at the book on her lap. 90 minutes, like the 1000-level seminars in junior and senior years. I didn’t have the heart to feign interest. Besides, I didn’t finish this 900-page monstrosity. Between following the latest drama series and dragging myself to the CBD every morning, there was no place in my imagination for the petty troubles of these characters who lived in landscapes and times I never inhabited. Someone else had started talking, something about the gossip, but I couldn't stop watching Jillian finish her third slice of cake, picking off the crumbs, and licking her lips as if it was the treat she came for. She caught up to me in the lift lobby after the session. As soon as Mrs. Lee had announced that it was all the time we have today, ladies, and the books thud shut, I dislodged myself from the sofa and stumbled into the corridor into a view of a sunset over the park. Mrs. Lee lived in one of those flats whose open, common corridors still faced the rest of the world, and the view of concrete flats and trees competing for space jarred me from the English countryside I had been forced to imagine. "Hi! I'm Jillian. You were next to me, weren't you?" There is no way to pretend I didn't hear or see her. The elevator we were waiting for was still on the third floor, slowly hauling itself upwards. I nodded. "You didn't say anything! I was hoping to hear what you thought of the marriages. Which one was your favourite?" I didn't think anything about marriage, and only six-year-olds chose favourites. I hated her even more. “Actually, I didn't read the book," I said. I watched for her suppressed disbelief and disgust, and waited for her eyes to glaze over as she passed me off for some fraudulent book club member. "Victorian lit is just not my taste." She shrugged, and laughed. She entered the elevator and stood in opposite corners. The doors slid shut, and immediately I regretted coming. "What do you read then?" Who was she to inquire about my personal tastes? She was looking at me, her glasses and thick, choppy bangs doing nothing to temper the force of her gaze. If this was what Eliot had meant by being "found" by another's stare, I felt it completely in that moment. I told her I didn't like to read much, and in fact the truth was that I haven't finished a "real book" since senior year. By then the elevator had turned into a confession box, and I was there, head hung, whispering words to a figure that seemed to be both the woman she is, and the woman who was next to me on the couch for those 90 minutes. We were not partners, and in fact we shared nothing except be subjugated to a physical proximity. By "real book" I meant the kind of thing on my class syllabi, or the kind of thing you'd find on a university reading list. By senior year I meant since the last English class in took in the Fall semester. I read, yes, but I didn’t mean snippets in the newspaper here and there, and The New Yorker's Fiction archives when I feel guilty. "There's just no fucking inspiration here," I finished. "No history, no culture, nothing worth reading. It makes me just want to be a mindless working drone." The doors slid open, and we stepped out into the evening light. I was suddenly conscious that I had been talking too much. What the fuck had I done? Why did I spill my guts to a stranger? In panic, I turned to Jillian, anticipating her reply. She looked away, and we began walking towards the train station, passing along the way the crowds of home-bound office workers, earphones in and hands full of shopping bags, straining like trees under the weight of the fruit their bore. She kicked up the fallen angsanas and took a detour to show me the busker near the walkway between the flats and the station. I know what she wanted to say about the poetry of the place, and I stopped myself from telling her how big of a cliché it was. "I never used to read much too. But then I noticed there are stories everywhere," Jillian offered. "It was my first time at Mrs. Lee's book club anyway, and it was quite interesting. I didn't think many people would be interested in these thick books. The cake was good too." You'd be surprised, I said by way of evasion, and mentioned that she should come again. At this point, the home-bound crowd surged around us, and instinctively I started to take out my wallet, about to apologize for my outburst and bid her goodbye, then run off to catch the next train to Pasir Ris, arriving in 3 minutes. "Wait a second." The busker started to blow into his harmonica: a Chinese oldie about a girl as beautiful as an orchid. She might’ve reached out to keep me but I let the crowd take me away in the hum of an oncoming train. Elsewhere the sun was rising. Elsewhere someone was playing an English song we all knew. While waiting, I set my copy of Middlemarch on a bench on the platform. A painting of rural England set against the red concrete tiles. It was one way to say goodbye.