CHUNKY MONKEY (reworked):
Frankie had brought over four tubs of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey — Sasha’s favorite — when he received her SOS WhatsApp message.
They had cracked open a tub each. Frankie was spooning into Sasha’s half-eaten tub, while she reminisced about the love of her life.
She had met him in secondary three. He was a transfer from Dempsey Secondary, an atas school in the outskirts of Orchard Road. Eurasian, light-brown hair and golden-brown eyes, he towered over all the boys in school and became the star of the basketball team – not because he was good at the game but simply by virtue of his superior physical attributes. His lanky frame and long arms allowed him to score a quarter of their baskets, and allowed the team to came in fourth, from the bottom up, in the inter-school tournament. Still, it was a better showing than the previous year where they came in dead last. He became the hero of the entire school.
Sasha would offer to do her hero’s homework, drilled formulas into him on the eve of exams – she practically carried him through his O and A Levels. In reciprocation, he would give her ornate friendship bracelets made from four different-textured but colour-coordinated strings and braid flowers into her hair on anniversaries and birthdays – yes, his too. “I want to show off this new technique I learnt,” he would say.
“On hindsight, that might have been a clue he’s gay,” Sasha lamented.
Frankie, in typical Frankie-fashion just shrugged.
“I think I need something stronger than Chunky Monkey.”
Frankie got off the sofa, yanked the vodka bottle free from under a pile of languishing kangkong and chai sim from the vegetable crisper, poured out a good long splash into the blender, dunked in the remains from the ice-cream tub, and threw in a couple of ice cubes.
Whirl whirl whirl…
Sasha looked up when the whirl of the blender stopped. Plop plop plop, Frankie filled two tall glasses. Sasha took a sip, her eyes widened, and a smile spread across her tear-stricken face.
Frankie had been many things, DJ, zi char stall chef, insurance agent – and in his most recent incarnation, a musician sporting a peach-coloured early-era-Justin-Bieber ‘do. But his stint as a bartender proved to be the most useful in a heartbreak.
He looked ridiculous jamming to Daft Punk in that hair and his tortoise-shell rimmed glasses, and she had told him to his face. And Frankie, in typical Frankie-fashion had just shrugged.
Good ol’ strong, silent Frankie – almost silent to a fault – well, at least he listens, Sasha reasoned. Plus he’s sweet, dependable, a hell of a cook…
A shock of cold broke Sasha’s train of thoughts. Frankie had dabbed her nose with some of that vodka-milkshake blend.
Sasha narrowed her eyes, the muscles on her shoulders tensed, and grabbed the edge of the kitchen island. She shuffled to her left, Frankie did too. Sasha shuffled to the right, Frankie followed suit. She darted to the left, Frankie scoot out of the kitchen and ran around the sofa. In an attempt to gain lost ground, Sasha clambered over the sofa. In her haste, Sasha didn’t realise her left foot had caught in the gaping hole in the upholstery, and when she lifted it she lurched forward arms flailing and mouth agape.
Frankie caught Sasha in an unstable embrace and both fell to the floor.
Sasha sobbed against his chest. Frankie stroked her hair and took in her scent. And felt strangely aroused.
Sasha looked up at Frankie when she felt his hard-on against her belly. Both their faces flushed. Sasha could feel more than her face heating up, a warmth had spread through her inner thighs and she felt a dampness between. She cocked her head towards Frankie’s erection, then back at Frankie. His breath was ragged. Gingerly, Sasha reached under Frankie’s jeans with her right hand, and unzipped them with her left.
“Oh my, chunky monkey!”