How Red Sneakers Changed My Life

I  close my eyes and I see him so clearly. He stands on the cramped stage; everything about him the image of perfection. Dressed casually-white t-shirt emphasizing his toned arms and faded-in-all-the-right-places jeans, he holds onto the microphone like it's his lifeline. He raises his shaved head, rubs his scratchy three-day stubble, and looks right at me as the opening strains of the song he's going to sing play.  He sings for me. He sings with feeling. All my life I've waited for him and the moment lives up to my expectations. The crowd titters. It's an old song. Not something you'd perform in a concert. Does he care? No. When he's done, he reaches out, pulls me up on stage with one fluid motion and before my thoughts can catch up with life, he's kneeling in front of me on the dusty floor of the stage. His jeans are smudged. 'Classic' I think as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls it out-unmistakably a ring, and asks me to have him, if I wi...

The engine whirs on, but smoothly, quietly, not like the trains back home we're accustomed to. Everything sways in time to the train's rhythm; the seats, the luggage rack, the floor. And outside, it's started raining. In Malaysia, when the sky wants to rain, it opens up and rains with all its heart. My window is speckled with huge angry streaks of water. It's quite cozy like this, watching the landscape flicker past and the sky turn a stormy grey, from the comfort of my seat. The train slowly pulls up at a station. This one's smaller than the others. The building is a faded yellow, plaster peeling off in places, with one central room serving as the waiting area. This must be what the real Malaysia's like, stripped off of all the embellishments that have been used to promote tourism in Kuala Lumpur. Judging by the size of the station, we've stopped at either a small city or a large town. The people grouped around the platform are all so interesting-looki...