My Broken Keys

It’s been a year since the court officiated and finalised the Big D. Although the whirlwind of aftershock and fear of an unknown future made me nervous, eventually I got used to the idea of being single again and relished my newfound freedom. Turning up the volume on my favourite tunes and singing out loud to Gabriel’s song, “Dreams, they can come true”, trying to be vegetarian for a couple of months, regularly working out a sweat at the gym, and hanging out with amazing girlfriends sharing the joys of being female – I felt that I could finally say goodbye to married life and paint the town red.

Nevertheless, the thought of having a man sometimes still lingers in my mind. I miss those passionate kisses, the gentle caresses, and the surprise glances when I see that twinkle in my lover’s eyes. Yet, I do realise, after looking back, my own shortcomings and faults in my past marriage. There’s no denying that I do want a man, but the Big D has caused some trauma, leaving me doubtful and in a state of ambivalence when it comes to love. If it doesn’t come, I will enjoy life and freedom to the fullest, if the right man does comes along, then I will open my heart but tread with caution.

One day, something quite peculiar happened. I dropped my car keys in a shopping mall and it broke in half, making it difficult to start my car. I assembled the keys and tinkered with it until the engine ran, and drove straight home. However, the problem persisted – sometimes I’m able to start the car fairly easily, sometimes the car couldn’t detect the keys.

Ben found me, flustered and agitated. He asked me what was wrong, a kind gesture given that I know nothing about cars.

“I can’t start my car. I think there’s something wrong with the keys,” I complained to him, frustrated as I stood outside in the sweltering hot afternoon.

“Come, let’s see what’s the problem,” he offered to help, which I assumed was an indirect way of flexing his masculinity.

I was hesitant at first. The independent woman in me did not want to relent and accept a man’s help; it was hard to admit that I can’t handle it all by myself. In the innermost corners of my heart, I had to acknowledge that perhaps having a man could be handy after all.

After trying very hard to find the cause of the problem, Ben called his friend, who was a mechanic. Ben pressed the keys to the ignition button, and voila! The car started. Although I hate to admit it, I was a damsel in distress saved by a man who knew his way around cars; not quite a knight in a shiny armour but by the average, kind gentleman in simple jogging attire.

Fate always has a way to find itself to what is destined to happen. After our light banter over the car, Ben and I exchanged numbers; something that was unlikely to have occurred should the fiasco about the car had not happened. I forgot about him for a couple of weeks, then one night I sent him a text over Whatsapp asking if he’d like to join me for an evening walk the next day.

And so that’s how we got to know each other better, and over time, intimately. The road to romance was paved when he officially asked me on a date over coffee, another date for dinner, then another, with some made-up excuse just to bring me out and enjoy my company. From then on, we became more than neighbours; we became close friends, and finally lovers.