These shoes are not made for walking

March has come and gone. Spring has manifested herself in the most resplendent of red and yellow, pink and green. Perhaps it was the glorious sun peeping through the trees, casting shadows of dancing figures that deluded you, maybe it was the lulling concerto of the birds that pulled at your heartstrings, for some unknown and nevertheless bizarre reason, you decided to take me out for a walk in the park, at 2 in the afternoon. Dressed in my favourite feathered sandals and ethnic black ensemble, (those were the only clean clothes and shoes i have that day) we made for the park. The first 30 minutes were as romantic as i'd imagined it to be, my arm in yours, we sauntered along, giggling and fighting, the endless skies and sea amalgamated into one.

"Patata, thats Greek for potato, and tomato?" you asked.
"ermmm, tomata?"
"ehh la malaka, tomata!"

And so patata i became, and tomata you were. Frivolous conversation fitting for a capricious afternoon of frolicking under the sun. It was fun until my sandals began to give and my top began to stick to my back.

"Shall we continue or do you want to head back?"
"Ehh, lets go home, i've had enough."

And so, we headed home. On foot. From East Coast Park to Katong we walked, and walked, and walked.

"There is a song playing in my head tomata - The road is long, with many a winding turns, that leads us to where, who knows where..."
"Keep up patata, we would have got home by now if it wasnt for you."
"I would be crazy to do this again. I would have to be. "

That was, until you turned around, spread your arms wide opened and locked me in your embrace, sweat and all.

"Are we there yet, this is the great wall of china, we'll never get there." I lamented.
"You're are useless malaka, useless."

And then you kissed me. The tenderest of kisses.
I'd be crazy not to do it again.