By Chan Ziqian

At 9.12am Joseph Keng sat down at his cubicle with his customary sigh, a long exhalation that could be heard across the office. The sigh was not for anyone's benefit; it was merely his body's response to being there yet again in that too cold, too brightly lit space. If anyone noticed they showed no sign of it. Behind him, Angie and Yen Leng continued discussing their lunch plans. In the next cubicle, Lawrence carried on typing.

Joseph's computer took its time to boot. As a small white wheel spun on the screen, he shrugged on his jacket. It was once navy blue but had faded into a purplish grey. The ribbed collar was pilling and the cuffs were beginning to fray. It was an unremarkable jacket from a now-defunct store, but when he put it on, his breathing eased and his shoulders untensed. In it he was his own person. In it he would be unscathed by what the day brought.

And there were a great many afflictions to be borne at the office. To Joseph's left was the aisle leading to the exit, and although he had placed stacks of files and boxes on his shelf — "Building a fort?" Angie had asked with a teasing smile — to shield himself from those passing by, he couldn't escape the feeling of being watched. And as his cubicle was pushed up against the director's room, his gaze when he looked up came to a stop on a blank wall half a metre away.

This proximity to the director's room had nothing to do with seniority. In the pecking order of the finance department, Joseph hovered somewhere above the support officers and below the assistant director, deputy director and director. He had not been given a choice of cubicle, but if he had he might have picked one by a window. The view from the second floor wasn't spectacular — below were scraggy trees and a carpark, and across the wire fence was one of many condominiums in the area — but if you pressed your face against the glass and looked up, there was the sky in all its vastness, with its shifting colours and moods.

Instead, he had to suffer fluorescent lights that drained the warmth out of everything, air-con vents that blew arctic gusts at his face and shrill pings that rang out from unmuted laptops. But worst of all was the fact of being bound to that place, unable to leave or do as he pleased, for the next nine hours of his dwindling life.

Joseph would be 40 in two months. His face was youthful, clear and unlined, but his hair was already white at the temples, a trait inherited from his late father. He had been a finance officer at the same government agency since graduating, a job he had not expected to take up when starting his sociology degree. But his father had been laid off in his last year of university, and it was the first offer that came. Despite his indifference to the work and habitual sighs, Joseph was sufficiently quick and competent to be promoted three times. But since there was no chance of him entering the echelons of middle management, that would be the end of the promotions.

The computer finally connected to the network and e-mails came pouring in. There were the usual enquiries about budgets, tenders, invoices and claims; an e-mail about an upcoming department meeting; and a newsletter with self-care tips. Then Joseph saw one from Ms Ngiam, the director, titled "Long Service Awards." He clicked on it.

Please join me in congratulating this year's recipients of the Long Service Award! We thank them for their loyalty and dedication. To show our appreciation for their service, we will be presenting them with the awards at the next department meeting.

Appended was the list of recipients and the number of years they had served. There he was: Joseph Keng, 15 years. The figure was no surprise to him but the sight of it was still a shock. The 5-year milestone was a distant memory now — he remembered only the $200 deposited into his bank account — but didn't the 10-year award come just a while ago? When that happened, he had resolved to leave: a decade was too long to spend in this place. For months he applied to parks, libraries, universities and museums, even those overseas, including a botanical garden in Berlin and a natural history museum in Osaka. He chose them because they brought to mind large open spaces where he could roam freely, untethered by obligations and conventions. Only one replied to say they would be moving forward with other candidates. After some time, he stopped looking at job listings, and now five years had passed.

Without reading the other e-mails, Joseph opened a text file on his desktop. It contained the haiku he had written in the office, all 472 of them. He had never shown them to anyone, much less submitted them to magazines for publication. The haiku were just distractions from work, a way to while away the time. Yet he felt something like pride when he looked at the lines amassed over the years. Most of what he wrote were no more than finger exercises, quick imitations of famous haiku. #86, for instance, went:              

O Joseph, conquer
Your Mount Fuji of e-mails
But slowly, slowly!

Others involved puns, which he took considerable pleasure in, like #372, written in response to a department meeting:

What's on today's meat-
ing agenda? Chicken, beef,
Or sweet human flesh?

But today the words didn't come so easily. "Time," he typed, then paused. His slender fingers moved mid-air, counting the syllables in his head. "Time is elastic." He stopped. For 10 minutes he stared at the screen, not knowing how to continue. He was reaching for something beyond his usual pastiches and sardonic jokes. Finally, he typed the words into a search engine. Perhaps the Web would reveal the next lines to him.

The first result was an article on time management. You should, it said, first fit in the things that mattered to you. What were your rocks? it asked. What were your pebbles? Your grains of sand? Joseph glanced through it, his face impassive, before hitting the back button. There was nothing there he didn't already know. The second link led to an excerpt from a book by a physicist. In the headline were the words "Time is elastic."

Joseph checked that no one was standing behind him, then leaned forward to read. Time, it began, passed faster in the mountains than at sea level. If you placed a clock on a mountain and a clock on a beach, the former would run faster than the other. Similarly, time moved more quickly for someone living in the highlands than someone in the plains. The closer you were to Earth, the slower time moved. This had something to do with large masses warping time. As Joseph was wrapping his head around this, a message popped up on his screen.

Lawrence CHEONG: hi joseph, did you get the e-mail about the department jacket? can let me know your size? we need to send the vendor our order soon

Joseph suppressed a sigh. Of course he had seen the e-mail. Everyone was to receive a jacket with the department name printed on the back. Given the timing, it was likely a means to use up the budget before the end of the financial year.

If the message had come from anyone else, Joseph would have ignored it till a suitable reply came to mind, but Lawrence was perhaps his only friend at the office. Lawrence was genial, not stupid and generally happy to trade snippets of gossip about their co-workers. Though he was six years younger than Joseph, they had bonded over a series of rapid-fire messages about the blunders of a particularly obtuse colleague. This bond had persisted over the years through Lawrence's marriage to his long-time girlfriend and the births of his two daughters, even as Joseph remained decidedly single and childfree. But there was some awkwardness now that Lawrence had been promoted to assistant director and was responsible for his annual appraisal. Just last year he received a C grade instead of his usual C+.

Joseph KENG: hey, yeah i saw the e-mail. is the jacket compulsory?

Lawrence CHEONG: it's for everyone. it's part of staff welfare

Joseph KENG: i... don't really want it haha

Lawrence CHEONG: how about i put size m for you? when the jacket comes you can decide whether to take it

Joseph KENG: great, thanks!

He returned to the extract but the words no longer registered. In the background was a jumble of noises, each competing with the others. The photocopier was whirring and clicking; an air-con technician was climbing a creaky ladder while another reeled off instructions at the top of his voice; Chee Beng, the deputy director, was in the director's room, letting out his donkey's laugh every so often. Joseph gave up. Propping his head up with one hand, he opened his inbox and tackled the e-mails with the speed and focus that had earned him his three promotions.

At 11.30am Joseph got up for lunch. To leave the office, he had to pass the director's room, which was now quiet. Though the light was on, the door was closed, which meant he could leave unseen. Ms Ngiam was a stickler for punctuality, and to her, lunch hour meant precisely that.

At the exit the heavy grey door swung shut and Joseph ran down the stairs, his footsteps light as a child's. When he stepped out of the building, it was like crossing into another country. The air was warm and thick with humidity, and it carried the scents of myriad things: grass, soil, asphalt, fertiliser, exhaust fumes, curry simmering away… With long strides, he made his way across the carpark, out of the compound and towards the hawker centre nearby. As he walked, his mind cleared. It no longer swarmed with things to do but was capable of holding a thought distinct and clear as the preening pigeon before him on the pavement. What he had read that morning came back to him. Time was elastic. It moved more slowly the closer you were to Earth. Though he was no physicist, he was convinced the office had a similar warping effect. Time crawled there, didn't it? He would be at his desk for what felt like an hour but on the clock only 15 minutes would have gone by. And when he went out for lunch, the hour passed in a flash.

Joseph continued pondering this injustice over lunch. Already it was 12.05pm. He would have to ensure he got his full lunch hour as measured by office time. The hawker centre bustled and two men in long-sleeved shirts hovered near his table, ready to swoop in, but Joseph ignored them. He fixed his eyes on a point in the distance and ate his chicken rice slowly. He took small sips of his kopi-o, feeling the bitter liquid coat his tongue. Finally, with no more food or drink to delay the inevitable, he got up. His watch said 12.47pm.

Though he did not will it, his feet led him back to the office. He went past the old shophouses selling French pastries, scuba diving gear and $8 coffee; past the tall glossy condominiums with their walled compounds and extravagant names. He had walked this path so many times he could do it in his sleep, but today as he passed a condominium, something caught his eye. Just beyond the open gate, on the inner walls and ceiling of the open-air atrium, was a watery glow the colour of clear skies and menthol lozenges. It ebbed and swelled, like something with a life of its own. As Joseph stopped to look at it, he saw a swimming pool on the far side of the atrium. The blue glow was the reflection from the pool. But knowing that did not diminish his discovery or the flicker of joy it brought. In the shimmering light, the walls seemed less than solid, as if someone could step through them into another dimension.

All afternoon in the office, those glowing walls remained in his mind, lighting the way through the tunnel of hours. Even when he walked into the pantry and saw Lawrence and Chee Beng having coffee together, he found in himself sufficient stores of goodwill to chat with them. But as he made his way home in the evening on the packed MRT train, the blue glow started to fade. By the time he stepped into the seventh-floor HDB flat he shared with his mother, it was a faint memory, as if he had seen it in another lifetime.

"You're back," his mother said, looking up from the dining table where she was placing a plate of bean sprouts. "Come eat."

Over dinner, Joseph launched into a story about a mix-up over a claim at work. The pitch of his voice climbed and dipped as he exaggerated the series of errors for comic effect. But his mother didn't laugh. She only nodded and told him not to worry too much. When he asked about her day, she said vegetables were more expensive since the market had undergone renovation. After that they fell silent. They were not the kind of family that had extended conversations about current affairs or their lives at mealtimes. His father used to get up at the end of dinner and say, "Well, that's done," as if it were another chore.

"Okay, well," Joseph said when they finished eating. He stacked the empty dishes and brought them to the kitchen.

"I'll wash up," his mother said, waving him away. "Go rest."

In his room, Joseph lay on his bed and scrolled through job listings. Now and then, he clicked on a position — horticulturist, curator, communications tutor — but nothing his degree or experience qualified him for. In all likelihood, he would remain where he was for another 15 years – if not more. His arms fell to his sides. If there was no escape, the only solution was to speed up time so there was less of his job to endure. If the extract he had read earlier was true, perhaps he could move his workspace to a higher floor, where time would pass faster… He was wondering how to pull that off when his mother called him out to the living room for fruit.

As they sat eating slices of guava, his mother said, "You used to love it with sour plum powder. I had to stop you from eating the powder on its own. Haven't seen it in shops lately."

"Really? I'll look for it tomorrow."

The light overhead darkened the shadows under his mother's eyes, making her look older than her 72 years. Joseph remembered a lunch his father had hosted after being promoted at work. His mother was unaccustomed to cooking for so many but rose to the occasion with a sumptuous spread. The usually silent flat was filled with laughter as his father regaled their relatives with stories of the factories he was building. His mother, too, was radiant as she explained how she had braised the pork belly and what had gone into the seafood soup. That was the last family gathering they hosted. His father quit that job after a blow-up with management and was laid off from another several years later. After that, he began leaving the flat for days without returning at night.

Through all that, Joseph preserved a memory of his mother from that singular lunch. He was 11, looking up at her as she ladled out bowls of soup. He had thought how beautiful she was, with her hair loosely curled, her eyes bright and a touch of colour on her cheeks and lips. He looked at her now. Her skin had lost its lustre and her eyes were half-hidden by her hooded lids. Though the guava was soft, she chewed slowly, as if afraid of a piece of fruit. Time was not elastic. It was a ravager, eating away at life.

After they had finished the guava, his mother leaned back and began rubbing Tiger Balm on her fingers and wrists. She closed her eyes, seeming to enter a camphor-scented reverie. But when Joseph rose to his feet, she looked up and said, "Don't stay up too late."

Back in his room, he was overcome by an urge to weep. But why? He had not cried at his father's funeral, not even when he watched the casket disappear behind the doors of the cremation chamber. He sat on the edge of his bed and looked around. There was the swivel chair he had bought with his first paycheck. There was his desk with its clutter of cables, vitamins, and letters from insurance companies. There was the cork board with postcards from his annual holiday abroad. The tears stopped but the tightness in his chest remained.

He remembered the glowing walls from earlier that day and switched on his laptop to search for the road. The map was grey at first, but a click of the mouse revealed the terrain in full colour. Tucked within the grid of roads were vermilion rooftops, chalk grey buildings, and vegetation in varying hues of green. And nestled among them were swimming pools like bright blue jewels cut into different shapes and sizes. He gazed at them, mesmerised. He had not realised there were so many.

As a child he had taken swimming lessons, and his favourite activity was diving to the bottom of the pool to retrieve the instructor's watch. Enveloped in the water, he felt an immense peace. He would have lingered if he could. Other memories of those swimming lessons came back: propelling himself forward till he touched one end of the pool, then turning back for another lap, on and on till his body was spent; the ravenous hunger afterwards, sated by wolfing down fried carrot cake while wrapped in a towel; the bus ride home when he would drift off into a brief but deep sleep, his head against his mother's arm, safe in the knowledge that she would wake him at the right stop.

Joseph rummaged in his cupboard until he found his swimming trunks. They hadn't been used for years but still fit, to his surprise. On them was a whiff of chlorine, a smell reminiscent of the sun. That night, he dreamt about swimming in the sea. The water was dark and opaque and its surface glittered like diamonds. He glided through it, moving closer and closer to the horizon. There was not a ship or soul in sight.

At exactly 11.30am the next day, Joseph stood up from his cubicle. The director's room was quiet but the door was open. As he hurried past, he caught a glimpse of Ms Ngiam at her desk. He flew through the grey door and out of the building, pausing only to feel for the swimming trunks in his bag. When he reached the condominium he had stopped outside yesterday, the gate was open again. On the walls and ceiling of the atrium was the same blue glow beckoning to him. Joseph sauntered in, trying to look like he belonged.

"Sir!" called a hoarse voice. A security guard emerged from the guardhouse. His hair was grey and he walked with a slight hunch. "Where are you going?"

"To visit a friend," Joseph said evenly, though his heart was racing.

"You need to sign in." The guard jabbed a finger at the visitor logbook.

Joseph dutifully wrote down a fake name and mobile number, then made a show of checking his phone before adding a block and unit number.

Without looking at what he had written, the guard said, "Okay, that way." He pointed away from the swimming pool.

Joseph raised a hand in acknowledgement and walked in the direction indicated. His legs felt like they might give way. When he was sufficiently far away from the guardhouse, he leaned against a block and wiped the sweat from his face. If he screwed up his courage now, he could head to the swimming pool, change and dive in. The guard would not recognise him in the water. But when in his 40 years had he ever shown courage? At work, he rebelled by writing haiku and chipping minutes off his hours. At home, he had only slammed doors when his father returned after an absence, never uttering a word to his face.

Unable to summon up his will, Joseph retraced his steps and left. He did not look at the guardhouse. He passed other condominiums but did not stop. At the hawker centre, instead of having his usual chicken rice, he threw caution to the wind and ordered a large plate of char kway teow with extra cockles. The noodles were smoky, savoury and slick with oil, but he tasted none of it as he ate. He continued eating when he was full, his hand mechanically shoving noodles to mouth.

For weeks his swimming trunks remained untouched at his cubicle. After the encounter with the security guard, he had not made another attempt. Instead, he spent hours in the office writing haiku while wrapped in his faded navy blue jacket. He had abandoned the haiku on time and returned to the light verse he was used to. He was composing one on the frequently clogged office toilets when a message appeared on his screen.

Chee Beng ONG: Joseph, I understand from Lawrence that you would prefer not to take the department jacket. Just to alert you that they will be given out at the meeting this afternoon. There will also be a photo-taking session in our jackets.

Joseph could already see it, everyone in those jackets with the department name on their backs, like cattle marked with a branding iron.

Joseph KENG: Hi Chee Beng, thanks for letting me know

Chee Beng ONG: If you want, you can just wear the jacket for the photoshoot. But you can also keep it. The jacket is yours anyway! :)

Joseph KENG: Thanks

With a swift click of his mouse, he banished the message window to oblivion. What could he do? Put on that detestable jacket or call attention to himself by refusing it. His agitation grew. He could not focus on his haiku or work. Behind him, Angie and Yen Leng were discussing which places were offering 50 per cent off lunch deals.

"Joseph! Want to join us for lunch?"

He turned to see Angie with an expectant look on her plain, full-moon face. Years ago he had made the mistake of chatting daily with her at work over instant messaging and she still had not forgotten it.

"We're thinking of sushi," said Yen Leng, scrolling through a menu on her computer.

"It's Okay, you guys go ahead."

Joseph checked the time: 10.47am. One more hour till lunchtime. Laughter erupted from the director's room. Among Chee Beng's nasal haw-haws and Ms Ngiam's high-pitched squawks was Lawrence's voice. Joseph wanted to send him a message about the jacket now, a snarky one like their old exchanges, but who knew what he would say to Chee Beng and Ms Ngiam? Who knew what he had already said? Joseph looked up and stared at the wall that separated them, empty and colourless like the future.

An impulse seized him. Grabbing the bag with his swimming trunks, Joseph strode past the director's room, where Lawrence, Chee Beng and Ms Ngiam were huddled over a printout. He walked out the exit and headed to another condominium down the road. This time, he was prepared. He went to the guardhouse and told the security guard he was visiting a friend. After signing in, he followed the directions given by the guard. When the guardhouse was out of sight, he made a turn and wandered around the complex. Along the path were flowering birds-of-paradise and palm trees that gave it the air of a beach resort. Farther on were a pavilion, barbeque pits and a mini waterfall. There was hardly anyone around. The only people he met were a woman pushing a blond child in a stroller and another walking a maltese.

It was only when he approached the end of the complex that Joseph saw the swimming pool. Except for some yellow leaves on the surface, it was a brilliant blue, the colour of water in children's drawings. In it was a perfect reflection of the surrounding blocks and trees, as if it contained another, hidden world. He changed into his swimming trunks and lowered himself into the pool. It was warm from the sun. He felt himself unknot and unfurl, like a tea leaf in water. He sighed audibly, this time from pleasure.

He began to swim. At first he paddled hastily, his mouth hovering above the surface, drawing sharp, quick breaths. A few times the water rushed into his mouth, filling it with a sour, chemical tang. Then he remembered to dip his head and sweep his arms in a smooth, circular motion so he glided through the water with a gentle force. His breathing grew more regular. As he exhaled, bubbles trailed from his nostrils like lush bunches of grapes. Each time his arms pulled outwards, the water parted without complaint. Again and again, it yielded to him. There was little to impede his movement. He seemed to weigh almost nothing. He was nine again, just a slip of a child.

Then he dived to the bottom of the pool, holding his breath for as long as he could. There was no instructor's watch to retrieve this time but he pressed his fingers against the small square tiles lining the bottom as if they were a trapdoor concealing something precious. His hair was tinged with blue and stood waving like seagrass. His legs moved in concert with the sinuous grace of a tail. Around his forearms, water billowed like large, frilly fins. Submerged in that silent world, he was someone or something else – fearless, fantastic, an explorer of unknown depths. What lost treasure might he discover? What mermen or sea goddesses might he meet? He dived repeatedly, surfacing for lungfuls of air before plunging in again.

Finally, Joseph stretched out his arms and lay on his back, shutting his eyes against the glare of the sun. The water came up past his ears and he imagined his body dissolving, leaving his face floating on the surface like a mask. He let himself drift, only occasionally steering and rebalancing himself with his arms and legs. No one bothered him as he bobbed up and down. It occurred to him that he could do this for the rest of his working life – slip out for a swim and return late to the office – and no one would be the wiser. He would finally be the master of his time. Life might then be bearable.

Above, clouds scudded across the sky, dispersing and regrouping in ever-changing formations. The midday sun was so bright it seemed to be everywhere in the sky at once. Joseph did not know how much time had passed and only stopped when his fingertips puckered and he began to tire.

His left knee ached when he climbed out of the pool. He would have to remember not to overexert himself next time. His phone said 2.14pm, later than he'd thought. There was also a message from an unknown number, asking where he was. The department meeting had started. Joseph quickly towelled himself and changed. The serenity of the pool was gone and his only concern was to get to the meeting.

The office was empty when he rushed in breathless, hair still damp. If anyone asked, he would say he had been to the gym. He dropped off his bag at his cubicle, then picked up the jacket on the back of his chair. It wasn't his faded navy blue jacket but a black one with the department name on the back. Joseph was puzzled but there was no time to think. He was cold, so he put on the jacket.

When he reached the auditorium where the meeting was held, a young woman near the entrance said in a bright voice, "Joseph, you're here! Please join the others at the side. The award presentation will start soon."

There were many unfamiliar faces in the group waiting at the side of the auditorium, but then it was a large department. When he scanned the sea of people in their seats, there were more faces he couldn't put a name to. Angie and Yen Leng, who had been fixtures in the department, were nowhere in sight. But Lawrence was there at the front. He was in a pink shirt, surveying the auditorium, his tall frame relaxed and confident. His haircut looked different but on his face was his usual pleasant expression. The sight of his friend in that cavernous room reassured Joseph.

The presentation began. One by one, the Long Service Awards were given out. Strangely, Lawrence was presenting them instead of Ms Ngiam or Chee Beng. Perhaps they were away. Joseph did not have time to wonder about this, as he had to listen for his name. The group at the side of the auditorium grew smaller as each person received their award and returned to their seat. When only two of them were left, Joseph heard his name.

He walked forward to shake Lawrence's hand and the emcee said, "Thirty-five years!" A burst of applause followed. Still holding on to Lawrence's hand, Joseph looked at his friend, waiting for him to laugh and say there was a mix-up. Lawrence smiled pleasantly, shook his hand and handed him a certificate, his eyes already on the woman behind Joseph.

Joseph sat down in the second row. There was a roaring sound in his ears like that of the ocean. Either his head or the room was spinning. He looked at the certificate. Below his name, it said: "In recognition and appreciation of 35 years of loyalty and dedication to the public service."

The rest of the meeting was a blur. There were updates from committees about upcoming activities and sharings by officers on their work attachments, but Joseph heard none of it. All he could think about was the mistake. It had to be a mistake.

After the meeting, everyone trooped back to the office and Joseph followed them as if in a trance. When he reached his cubicle, Lawrence appeared from behind and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Congrats again," he said, smiling. "By the way, could we have a talk later? About your lunch breaks?" He nodded at Joseph, went into the director's room and closed the door. Joseph turned to the cubicle next to his and saw a young man in glasses he did not recognise. The air-con vent blew at him, and despite the jacket he wore, a chill ran down the length of his body.

Joseph sat down and switched on his computer. His hands were shaking, so he had to re-type his password several times. When he logged in, there were the usual enquiries about budgets, tenders, invoices and claims. He glanced at the bottom of the screen: 4.37pm. Two more hours before he could leave. Joseph stared at the computer blankly for some time before opening a new text file. He typed:

Time, the shapeshifter
Sometimes a vulture
Sometimes a snail

For the first time he had abandoned the 5-7-5 syllable pattern, but he did not feel compelled to change it. Instead, he felt a wave of contentment. His mind quietened and he turned to his e-mails, but something else occurred to him. He took out his phone and dialled his mother's number. She was the only person he had left in this uncanny world, the only one who had seen him through the vagaries of life. As the phone rang, Joseph realised he didn't know what to say since he'd hardly ever called her. Never mind, he would suggest going out for dinner to celebrate the award. His mind raced through dinner options as the phone rang and rang.

_____