Meet Lay Hoon,

she's been standing around for 3 hours straight, with 3 more hours to go before she retires for the night. She sighs. The smell of Dunhill Reds musk the air as she walks towards another table of middle-aged men, their faces reddened with Guinness Stout. 3 more, and an extra mug, they told her. Lay Hoon nods and walks towards the drink counter. The men go into a boisterous fit of laughter as it drowns into the incessant chatter of the next table, and then the next. She walks straight to the front of the line at the counter, behind her a queue of customers waiting to place their orders.

3 Guinness, 1 mug and ice, she said. The tiny, old lady behind the counter frowns, her right hand reaches to grab some small change and the left grabbing two cans of Coke Lite. Lay Hoon stands on one leg, gently stretching her calf while resting her arm on the counter table. The old lady grabs another can of carrot juice.

Lay Hoon doesn’t mind the waiting.
The drinks counter is a better place to stand around, rather than the tables of old men and rowdy Caucasians who only order Tiger. She doesn’t drink, but worked long enough to know that Tiger isn’t the favourite among her customers, at least the local ones. Ironic, considering that she is herself a Tiger Beer ‘ambassador’, a word she still cannot pronounce. Initially, Lay Hoon thought the unpronounceable job title gave her a sense of self-importance, but has since understood the job simply entails to taking and serving alcoholic orders.

She longs to change out of this uncomfortable uniform; its nylon material doesn’t absorb the smell of humidity very well. She gently lifts the top of her blouse and takes a whiff; that familiar acridness penetrates her nostrils.

“3 Guinness!” The old lady places the beer bottles, and a bucket of ice in front of her.

“And an extra mug,” Lay Hoon said.

*