City of Shared Stories Kuala Lumpur

I hear your thoughts. Yes, you, sitting by the fountain, taking in the Twin Towers. It must be something about fountains, because every time I’m near one, the thoughts of the people around me ride in the mist and whisper in my ears.

I know, for instance, you’re thinking of the last time you came here with your ex-girlfriend, made fun of her as she looked up at the towers, walking backwards. She would’ve fallen in had you not yelled out a warning. I know also that you hate your wife right now for dumping the kids on you while she dawdles in the Gucci store, that temple of monogrammed horrors where they keep bags for Asian women with lots of cash but little taste.

But such thoughts are of little use to me. I’m about to move on to the woman sitting a few feet to your left, when you turn around, trying to place me without knowing you’re doing it. All you feel is a prickle at the back of your neck, as I drink in your thoughts.

Ah, now there’s a thought I could use. You’ve left the backdoor of your bungalow ajar. But Damanasara Heights is a safe area, you tell yourself. Better listen to your wife and have a long lunch and catch a movie, you poor sod. Because if you return in an hour, you would interrupt me at work as I rifle through your family’s drawers and cupboards, looking for goodies. And I’ll have a parang at the ready if you happen to come back early.