Today, I saw a group of old ladies having a meal. I supposed a scrumptious spread was sprawled on the white, circular ceramic table at Toast Box. I could catch whiffs of coconut milk, lingering spices and notable hints of coffee beans, a blend I was all too familiar with. I knew, for sure, that these were the quintessential scents of the ever popular breakfast staples: Nasi Lemak, Laksa, and Kopi.
One of the ladies looked up, her gaze somehow landed in my direction and she beamed. She stood up and started waving at me. Another soon followed. I turned around to see another lady hustling over. They exchanged greetings with one another before settling down.
Age has a way of showing itself on our faces. When I was younger, I could never quite understand why people were afraid of wrinkles or spots in their later stages in life. I realised, years down the road that these signs forebode the premature shit that were bound to occur and I, too, had haboured subtle hatred.
The ladies at the cafe were old. I could see the deep wrinkles on their forehead, the crowfeet that grew from the side of their eyes, and the dark spots that plastered on their arms. But funny, they were by no means frail. In fact, they were a spirited bunch, laughing and chattering cheerfully, oblivious to the hustling evening crowd that plagued the bus terminal. They were carefree.
I couldn’t help but wonder ten years down the road, the kind of conversations I would have with the acquaintances around me. Would we discuss politics like old men over whisky glasses or would we simply gossip over coffee and kaya toast? Would we dine over posh cuisines or local delights like Nasi Lemak or Laksa?
Only time will tell.