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Neither Bud nor I were really into soccer, but the World Cup was a fun reason to hang out after hours. Many live matches were broadcasted late at night or in the wee hours of the morning in Singapore, given the time zone difference with Germany, the host country.
Bud would board the hour-long west-bound Bus 10 from Tampines, alighting at its Tanjong Katong midpoint before the bus hit the flat expanse of Nicoll Highway, wending towards the steel and glass of the business district.
The bird belonged to the shop just behind the bus stop, from which the fetid odour of feed and poop emanated. I stepped in just once. The shop was so full of caged birds—shelves on the walls, hooks from the ceiling and freestanding even on the floor—that it was dark inside.
Sparse bird song is melodic. This synchronous yet discordant clamour was overwhelming. I harboured quixotic dreams of one day freeing the white cockatoo that stood like a lone sentry outside, but I was afraid to get my finger lopped off, and the proprietor had a beady eye. By nightfall, the bird would be stowed away inside the shuttered shop, but muscle memory made me twitchy as long as I was waiting at the bus stop.
More often than not, when Bud stepped off Bus 10, she would be in a cosy sweater. Aircon on those double-decker night buses was extra frigid, but on alighting, the streets were balmy again. I would hold her T-shirt down as she removed her sweater. The food was only average, but there was an unkempt, spacious outdoor area, with plastic-orange tables and red chairs under saga seed trees. Bud joked that she would get a bed there so she could be my neighbour.