before you board the train, kindly leave your bedroom antics just that

And, there you were, both arms hanging on dependably on him, like koala bear to a tree. Your fingers curled around his neck with the same reliance that a TV addict devotes to the remote control. As though, by letting go, you would plunge 130 metres all the way down and hit your bottom smack on the ground.

Actually, how nice if that were true, then at least you wouldn't be standing here in front of me, in front of a totally disgusted me.

He was no better. His arms around your puny physique. Tickling you on your sides, and then you giggling like a giddy schoolgirl that has just been let onto a privileged secret.

If there was anything remotely attractive about you, sorry, I didn't see it. Perhaps, it was your infertile attitude that contributed to my jaundiced view of your puerile character.

But, clearly, beauty is subjective. And, your boyfriend, couldn't keep his hands off you. Trailing your pouted lips suggestively, touching your hair, your waist, positioning his arms on the small of your back and then rubbing them up and down in such a lascivious manner.

Yes, yes, I know the both of you must be greatly deeply madly in love with each other, so much so that your lust for each other has burgeoned over to improper boundaries. So, much so that the whole world, (or at least all those who had the misfortune of being around the vicinity of the both of you in that MRT) has to bear witness to that unadulterated love and desire you have for the other party.

I'm sorry, but I grew up a product of conservative Asian society, and I'm really a grandmother when it comes to PDAs. I frown upon licentious attitude flagrantly displayed in the public eye.

And, I wasn't the only one. I wonder if it's true that people who are in love have eyes only for each other, because you and him were seemingly both oblivious to all the dirty glances other commuters were throwing your way.

And, then as I thought things couldn't get any worse, you started whining. As your boyfriend lean in to whisper sweet nothings into your ears, your lips part open and in a honey-coated, syrupy adolescent-like voice, you protest, 'I can't hear what you are saying...'

Forgive me if I vomited in my mouth that very same time you uttered those words. In that whiny, whimpering voice like a baby that wants his milk, you repeat those offensive words once again. 'Ummmm....(twitches body) I can't hear you...'

Please, the both of you could probably just have sex on that MRT, and I'd probably feel less disgusted and violated.

In fact, it would feel so common that other commuters would probably just glance your way and go, 'Oh, no biggie, they are just having sex on the train.'