Step 11: Ask what time the class runs until. The bartender squints at the poster on the far end. Nine o’clock, she tells you. You ask if it’s safe for a woman to walk home alone at that time. Dragon Hall is literally just down the road. Five minutes. She hems and haws. Her answer is: She’s never done it. She’s always just cycled everywhere. So she couldn’t possibly tell you. Pace in a slow circle in front of the bar, contemplating your next move.

Step 12: Someone comes in and signs up for the class. You hear their voice and turn to them. Could you, perhaps, be so kind as to walk me home after? It’s just down the road. They say they have volunteered at the National Centre for Writing before, sure, they could do that. Yay! You sign up, too. The bartender tries not to show any emotion at witnessing what you just did, but why do you feel a little judged? Perhaps it’s something out of an amateur’s playbook, trusting a stranger you’ve met for five seconds. Never mind. Something tells you that the person you’ve asked is safe. Gut instinct, maybe.

Step 13: Go upstairs and sit in a big rectangle with other participants. Take a line for a walk. Put charcoal on paper. Press. Hold. Lift. Score. Let the line glide around, thinner or thicker with pressure, creating shapes that eventually form the semblance of a woman. The model is Beth. She is beautiful. Feel bad that your drawing skills suck. That you can’t transpose her beauty and piercing gaze onto paper.

Step 14: Matt, who is sitting next to you, says: “I like that one best. It really looks like Beth.” And suddenly, you are so thrilled. Suddenly, it no longer matters that when you were ten, you showed a colour-pencil portrait you did to your tuition teacher, and she turned to your mother with an indulgent smile and said: “Mrs Chow, this girl really can’t draw, right.” And your mother agreed. Tell Matt that it means a lot. That it’s your first time doing live drawing.

Step 15: Class is over. Stand and follow Beth around like a star-struck fan. Ask her if you can take a selfie with her. She is gracious and strikes a few poses in her dressing gown for your phone shutter. Professional all the way.

Step 16: Walk home with Terry, as agreed. He tells you, along the way, about his childhood, his siblings, his time in an industrial city that shall remain unnamed here to prevent hurt provincial feelings (“Could be improved,” is his verdict – we crack up at the traffic lights at this two-star review – “Norwich is so much better.”). It’s only a five-minute walk, but he packs in a lot of information. You wish it’s a longer walk now. You want to hear more. But Terry has a bus in the opposite direction to catch. Say: This is me. St Ann Lane is dark, except for a group of people huddled under the street lamp directly outside Dragon Hall. Hug goodbye.

Clara Chow (赵燕芬)

Clara Chow (赵燕芬) works across genres of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Her strange experiments under Hermit Press include obscure prose chapbooks such as The Melancholy of Broken Bollards. She has been a resident at the University of Iowa, Toji Cultural Center, Asean Literary Festival and Shanghai Writers’ Programme.

Their residency is supported by NAC Singapore.