The Apple Crumble & The Chosen Ones
Dust motes dance in the Saturday light, A solitary ritual, orderly and bright. With bitter-sweet coffee and a crumble so tart, She guards the quiet fortress of her heart.
Disrupted by children, a whirlwind of red, She thinks of the life that she didn't wed. The "Chosen Ones" promised a future of gold, But left her with stories that ended too cold— One taken by sickness, one stolen by lust, Leaving "forever" to crumble to dust.
"She studied in English, so she couldn't choose," The grandmother’s verdict, bitter news. But looking at couples in their gentle decay, Wati finds peace in the David Gray way. No screaming, no chaos, just a corporate throne, A jet-setting queen, happily alone.
Yet the family leaves a forgotten trace, A crayon, a receipt, in that hallowed space. The judgment dissolves into something sweet, A sudden grace on a downtown street. She leaves them a gift, a debt paid in full, For the beautiful noise in the morning lull.
Walking past the Mercedes, sleek and grand, She takes her happiness into her own hand. No need for a husband to make the picture right, The Chosen One chooses her own colours tonight.
The Apple Crumble & The Chosen Ones
One bright weekend, the late morning sun slanted through the tall glass windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air of the downtown café. Wati sat alone, a ritual she cherished. In front of her lay the perfect pairing: dark, fragrant coffee and a generous slab of apple crumble, its crust flaking just so. She came here every Saturday, a self-imposed appointment with peace.
The silence was briefly, violently shattered. A young family entered, their two children a whirling dervish of primary colors and shrieks. One of them, a girl with a bright red bow, careened dangerously close to Wati’s table, sending a tremor through her cup. Wati’s jaw tightened. She disliked the noise, the intrusion, the messy vitality that felt alien to her carefully constructed tranquility. Luckily, they left not long after, the father ordering his takeaway at the counter before swiftly ushering his troupe out the door.
The café settled back into its comfortable hush.
David Gray croons in the background.
Please forgive me if I act a little strange.For I know not what I do
A couple of quietly dressed married couples drifted in, settling at a large booth far away. Watching their gentle, practiced movements—the way the husband helped the wife off with her light jacket—didn't trigger sadness, but a curious sense of peace and security. They were markers of a path not taken, a life she had tried to forge, and failed.
Sipping the warm, bitter-sweet coffee, her mind drifted back to her school days. A boarding school, a citadel for "the intelligent ones." The chosen ones, they were called. A title that promised success and a flawless future. Yet, looking at their lives now, the post-mortem of the "chosen ones" was messy: many single, some divorced, a small, statistically insignificant percentage 'happily married.'
"It’s the trend," her BBF, Rita, had said with a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We go home alone. If we die, we go to our forever home, alone. That’s life."
Wati had gone home alone twice already.
Her first marriage to a kind man ended after three short years when he was taken by illness. Two years after his passing, she met a handsome, smooth-talking guy on an elevator. The connection was electric, the courtship a whirlwind.
David Gray croons on the background
When ya kiss me on that midnight streetSweep me off my feetSinging, "Ain’t this life so sweet?"
But the sweetness curdled quickly. The second marriage lasted just a year, shattered by the cliché of the young, sexy secretary. The betrayal sent her reeling to her mother’s house, tears blurring the pages of her well-planned life. That was when she overheard the words that stung her more than the infidelity itself:
"I studied in a Malay school. I know how to pick a husband. Wati studied in an English school and didn't know how to pick a husband."
The wise old grandma. Wati didn't think it was wise; it was a painful, unnecessary verdict.
Yet, sitting here now, she suddenly felt an unshakeable contentment. The bitterness had dissolved. She had a great job, excellent pay, and perks that sent her traveling overseas for major corporate meetings. Marriage? No. That dream had been exchanged for a jet-set reality. She was no longer chasing the ghost of a family with kids running around.
The Small Act of Atonement
Wati stood up and walked to the cash counter to pay her bill. As the cashier processed the transaction, Wati paused, her eyes catching a small, slightly wilted bouquet of colourful roadside flowers—bunga raya and some yellow daisies—on the counter, waiting to be discarded.
"That family that was here earlier," Wati asked, pointing vaguely towards the door. "The father who got the takeaway. Did he pay for his order?"
"Oh, yes," the cashier said, checking the receipt. "He paid. But I think he forgot something. A child's colouring book and crayons. They must have left it on the other table."
Wati looked down at her own hand, gripping the card receipt. She had resented their noise, judged their chaos. They had left behind something small and innocent.
"I’ll pay for his order again," Wati said, surprising herself. "Please refund him when he comes back for this."
The cashier blinked. "Ma'am, he already paid."
"I know," Wati smiled, a genuine, soft smile that hadn't touched her lips in weeks. "Just put it on a gift card, then. Tell him... tell him the lady with the apple crumble appreciated the colour he brought to the room." She paused, then added, "And tell him he has the best taste in music."
She stepped out of the café, the cool air hitting her face. The sleek, black curve of her Mercedes was parked perfectly out front. She didn't head straight to the driver's side. Instead, she took out her keys, clicked the lock, and walked past it. She crossed the street and headed towards the small bookstore. She wasn't visiting Rita right away. She was going to buy herself a new colouring book. The 'chosen one' had chosen herself, and in her own quiet way, she had found her own kind of happy noise.
TESSA YUSOFF
24 November 2025
Contact: aeedaoli@gmail.com
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