I move closer, inhaling the scent of testosterone I can feel enveloping me, suffocating me.A spent chicken bone lands in front of my nose and I rear back, instinctively looking up, both surprised and appalled. The Asian tyrant is before me, lounging on an enormous throne, lavishly upholstered. He is tearing with his bare hands into a golden-brown roasted bird, ripping a large thigh from it and stuffing his mouth greedily. He has on the familiar uniform, but this version is so tight at the middle it appears ready to burst, the buttons bowing outward. Any thoughts I may have had of plying this maniac with my womanly wiles are quickly leaving me. His gluttony, combined with his obesity and pomposity are slowly revolting me. My anger starts to rise. ?How?much longer do I have to??? I start.?No more,? he snaps. ?You are here.? He looks at me quizzically, knitting his large wildly unkempt eyebrows. ?Did I say you could look upon my royal person?? he growls, through the mass of chewed-up. Just we hadn’t those kinds of sexual feelings for each other. Time passed, last time I heard she married to someone, well, the person behind our break up, just after completing her junior college. I did my engineering and joined a construction company which I later left. (a story for another day). It was almost six years since she was married.I was unaware of what she was doing or where she was. I just never wanted, maybe because of the hate. But hate also has its charm. Once I was going through Instagram. I saw a photo of a school friend. I was less interested in the photo but with the comment written by a person on the photo.It was her, Roja. In curiosity, I touched the name and her profile opened. Her profile photo confirmed it was her. The account was private so I couldn’t able to see any uploads. Now came the hard part. My stubborn ego just wanted to leave her account.But at the same moment, my heart wanted just to send a message, a simple ‘Hi’. Let’s see if she still remembers.
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