The Mustard Jumper

By A.P. Lettinger

What is it like to navigate a romantic relationship against the odds, just before a global pandemic throws its mighty spanner in the works? Follow Singaporean romantic Luna, who paves the way in awkwardly neurotic, sometimes laughably sweet and at other times deeply painful fashion on a journey–over seventeen chapters–through the trials and tribulations of modern, cross-continental love set in the current world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.P. Lettinger
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223304609

Book preview

Part 1

You’re gonna need a very big stone.

Chapter 1

It was just another white guy with a nice face. His profile read ‘Bacon enthusiast'. 6ft 6" in heels.’ I swiped right. He texted first, asking why I enjoyed long walks to the fridge. He managed marine planning for the British government and I impressed him with my knowledge of mangrove ecosystems in Singapore, where I lived. We both liked surfing and did not particularly like the pretentious degustation menus over which his work lunch was held. He asked me out that day, only if I had no plans.

We met at my favourite taco place that evening. I knew a cook there, which would have helped should he have turned out to be trouble or the date just unbearably awkward. I made the effort to mention beforehand that I was not interested in a one night stand, after knowing he was in Singapore for a conference and would be leaving the next evening. I just wanted to meet someone who actually worked in marine management. The real deal.

He was early. I saw him as I approached the entrance, back facing me at the corner of the bar; his lanky, pale legs almost too long for the bar stool. His worn sports socks were not pulled up all the way, as if in mild rejection to hipsters everywhere. He was reading a book, and laid it on his canvas tote that was tucked by his side on the table before standing up to greet me. He looked better than in his photos. Uncomfortably tall.

I did not hold high expectations when meeting people in general. Most of my life was dedicated to wondering why nobody liked me, not realising that humans usually take an interest in other humans who show them a sliver of interest first. The few special ones who did not mind my lack of interest (humble passivity, I called it) made up my tiny stable of friends. I could count them on one hand, and struggled to remember their birthdays.

What were you reading? I queried, pointing to his book.

Oh. He passed the substantial paperback over to me. "Anna Karenina" he said, pointing to a woman’s headless bust on the cover. This is very misleading though. It is not about breasts.

Ooh, very meta, I noted dryly.

He laughed a single-syllable laugh, the kind that was impossible to tell if it was an act of self-restraint to not embarrass himself or an act of courtesy to not embarrass me. I’m reading it for our next book club, he smiled.

Wow, you’re in a book club? I felt my face contort in distaste towards my lack of culture. I had never met a person who was a member of a book club. I hardly read books myself, as my mind would wander in between sentences and lift off like a hot air balloon into empty sky. I began to think this was not a great match.

It’s more like a wine club with books, he chuckled.

My expectations thus seeped from the floor into the drain. It probably helped, as without expecting anything out of this meeting, the conversation flowed freely and unfolded like first leaves in early spring. We walked to a rooftop bar nearby after dinner, and started sharing about our living situations. Finn had recently bought his first home in London, not far from the Thames.

Do you live with your parents then? It’s a thing in Asia, isn’t it? he queried.

I do, but I’m shopping for a flat now. I need my own space! I exclaimed, half in jest and half exasperated. I went on to explain my current living situation—young niece and nephew, bipolar mother, depressed father et al. I recently started seeing a therapist, and getting my own space is one of my goals. Have you tried therapy? It seemed like a natural progression of the conversation. He looked down at the large single cube of ice in his negroni in a slight, silent sigh, as if waiting for its transition to liquid state. I did one time, when I was in a bad place. His index finger tapped on the rim of his glass. The cube was still solid. Then I changed jobs and I was happier.

That simple, huh? I blurted in jest.

"It’s that simple," he laughed sheepishly as his eyes rose back to me with a look as if to say please don’t prod further. They were such a bright blue they seemed to glow like the lights of the cityscape behind us. What happens after you get your house?

Move in, get a dog I’ll name Good Boy so he won’t have to wonder, never socialise again and die alone, probably. I don’t know, I tend to bounce between an acute need for security based on fear, and setting mildly extreme goals just because I fear fear itself. The images of me growing into my mother flashed before me. This was the actual fear that defined my goals ie. anything she said not to do. Like, you know, being afraid of water, never stepping foot into the sea and then, on a whim, doing a three day scuba diving course in the Philippines on my own. She instilled a fear of swimming in me by defining it as a suicidal sport and taking me out of  lessons when I could not keep calm in the pool as a child.

She also made it clear I should never go anywhere alone, not least live on my own—it was a mark of failure in finding a husband to guide me through life. Such an irony considering the dull ache of misery imposed by being witness to her own marriage to my father that erupted into the sharp, unbearable pain of being torn between supporting either of them in several ‘interventions’ in the last few years.

Finn burst into quiet laughter. Firstly, you’re not going to die alone. Secondly, naming your dog Good Boy is like naming your child Moral Human.

What’s your surname?

Featherswallow.

My eyebrows rose. Your name is Finn Featherswallow?

Yes, I am a white bird, he winced at his own humour.

Well, I managed between semi-suppressed laughter that may have resulted in an ugly snort, Moral H. Featherswallow has a nice ring to it.

My firstborn is going to hate me, he laughed.

Seriously, though, I continued, the next goal is to change my frigging career. There was another thing I did because my mother did not: I deliberately missed the deadlines to apply for university after college. I remember it very clearly because she got so desperate that her siblings called me on the phone to persuade me to go to school. These uncles and aunts of mine never called me. Each call riled me up even more. But the parents would not have it, and threatened me with every Singaporean youngster’s worst nightmare: eternal shame upon the family should I not get a degree. I compromised and applied to art school. I had never touched a canvas in my life.

After a few benign twists of fate, I had made a decent career of event management, eventually putting on community programmes for a public garden. But the downside of working for the people was that people tired you out. I was so tired of people. I hated art. The earth was being destroyed. I needed more fulfilment from my day to day life, and had taken keen interest in the state of the environment. That was the work I wanted to do.

You should definitely do something in climate change, he beamed.

Yeah, but how do I get there? I leaned over, slightly intoxicated and intensely keen for an answer.

Have you considered going back to school?

What? I almost spat out my overpriced cocktail. "Give up a few years of income to live out the constant, agonising reminder of my attention deficit disorder again? Nope!"

It would be a great experience, and you could do it anywhere in the world. Have you ever wanted to live abroad? he considered, looking past me as he tipped his head up to down the last of his drink.

How convenient, I thought. This was the last goal that I had all but given up on a while ago: live abroad, because mother never let me. She thought every other place on the planet was unsafe.

Okay. Let’s do this, I declared, spontaneously lifting up my tiki glass in the air.

Ah! he perked up, like he was ready for this adventure. Do what, exactly?

Kill these two very large birds, as you have proposed, I expounded enthusiastically, driving the tiki glass down. The steel cocktail table quaked for dramatic effect. Finn’s smile grew wider, almost as if the upcoming adventure was his own.

Right. They’re big, beautiful birds.

Like phoenixes?

"Like phoenixes. You’re gonna need a very big stone."

As the conversation flowed on, I felt a weight sliding off my shoulders. It was the great weight of the chains of social conditioning that Finn’s calm, accepting nature was gently lifting off. Some of my own friends had scoffed at the revelation of things like therapy—still rather taboo in an Asian city state. Definitely not something you would reveal on a first date, unless your expectations were laying quiet and still in a drain.

With every idiosyncratic detail I revealed to him, he responded by sharing his own. Like how I often had breakfast at the same table as my father and our conversation would not surpass a low grunt, except the days mail from the bank or insurance company piled up and he would question if I had paid my bills. And the one time a year, on my birthday, that he would try to hug me with a single pat on the back and I would squirm because why would you hug a person you do not talk to? Is that weird? I thought out loud.

Every family is weird in their own way, he mused, before sharing the time he tried to ask his dad, whom he considers close, about his friend who had passed from old age, and he literally froze his usually jolly self—like a pipe of his emotion clogged up in an instant, never to be cleared. Sure, our situations were different, but the act of genuine listening without judgement made me feel close to him.

We reached his capsule hostel. I genuinely wanted to walk him home, but inviting myself up to see his bed was bestial instinct. I knew it was a slippery slope at the top of the stairs. He drew open the curtain to reveal a single bed, neatly made in pure white sheets and surrounded by laminated walls in muted beige. It reminded me of a coffin and I wondered if lying inside it made him feel dead. I wanted to lay in it with him.

By then it was close to midnight, and I had to wake up at 6 a.m. to go scuba diving off the southern islands. An organization that worked on the preservation of local marine reefs and ecosystems did regular dive cleanups, and I needed to be alert to navigate the murky waters that flanked international shipping routes. He walked me down to get a car and gave me a hug and said he would text the next morning.

Will you be texting to say bye? I asked with sad puppy eyes.

I’ll be texting a plan to get you to London and make all your dreams come true, his smile twisted a little, as if in sudden regret.

Finn, that is the worst pickup line, ever, I muttered, rolling my eyes. I laughed so hard my head tilted back along with my feet, tripping off the five-foot way onto the road.