There is a cat sitting shotgun.

At first I assume that I must have seen it wrong. But then the cat meows and pats the headboard with its paw, as if demanding for food to be served at the dinner table. The driver lets out a huff but ignores it. The cat, white furred with black patches here and there, proceeds to lie down and lick the round tip of its tail.

However, I have bigger things to worry about.

"Excuse me, mister," I call, not sure what else to address him by, "but why did everything suddenly become black and white?"

It's as though the world on both sides of the taxi windows has been dipped into a B&W filter. My own hands have turned colorless, so have my clothes and shoes. I glance at the rear-view mirror and find the greenery washed out of my eyes. The buildings outside are a gloomy shade of gray, the footpaths a lighter one. Streetlamps, neon signboards, and car headlights all glow dazzlingly white. The night sky above, indigo in my memories, is now as black as the invisible bottom of a deep well.

"Me not know, child," the man replies with a huff. "It's you's eyes, you's world."

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. Well, I suppose that's just how it's gonna be from now on.

The man's voice is husky and somewhat grumpy, as though he is annoyed by something. But it doesn't seem to be intentional. There is a deep accent wrapping his words. The cat raises its head, as if having a sudden thought, and looks directly in my direction. Then it meows at me.

"Is this your cat, mister?" I ask.

"Yes yes, who's else?"

"Umm . . . does it always stay here?"

"Yes yes, where's else?"

I scratch the back of my head. "Don't you get passengers who are like, allergic of cats?"

"Me cat, no allergic," the man affirms simply.

"But shouldn't you keep it behind a seatbelt? A speed-breaker or two may come up."

"Me cat, just fine."

"I see."

He must not be very fluent, so I shall save him the trouble of a conversation. Instead I lean back on my seat and look out the window. It's as though I'm watching the world through the lens of a Leica M10 Monochrom camera. Once upon a time, I used to be into photography and had a list of cameras I would buy when I have more money. 'More money' ended up remaining an unrealistic hope, and my dreams died along with the digital camera I owned as a kid.

The scenery outside the taxi is not familiar but predictable. Tall buildings huddled together. Thousands of windows peeking into thousands of lives, some dark and some bright. Electricity poles and fire hydrants at regular intervals. Large billboards advertising one thing or the other. Mannequins behind the glass stores. Cars and buses and bikes and fellow taxis.

And people.

People standing by the street, people crossing the road, people walking alone, people walking in pairs, people talking on the phone, people looking for something in their bags. People, people, people—all have a life of their own, I have a life of mine. I know nothing about them, they know nothing about mine. Everything feels so strangely distant from inside this taxi, as though I'm watching a movie on the big screen. It's as though I'm no longer a part of that world. I'm an audience in a pitch black cinema hall, wearing 3D glasses, watching from afar, trying to get sucked into the monitor but failing.

Come to think of it, my parents often watched black and white movies from the 60s together sitting at the living room. It would always be after dinner, usually on Saturday nights like tonight. They'd be not only English movies, but movies from all over the world. 

There were times when I would be sitting between them on the sofa, staring at the screen but not quite understanding anything. Especially when it was a foreign movie, for the subtitles would always disappear by the time I read only two or three words of it. Most of the time, I would drift away in the middle and wake up in bed the next day, and I would smile when I would remember that it's Sunday and there's no school. But then my father would come and jokingly tell me, You just missed the best part!

Maybe because he said it so often, but I've always been missing the best part in every movie of my life since then.

But it's worth questioning, what was the exact point in time when I grew old enough to tell them straight to their face that I don't want to watch a movie with them anymore? When was the exact point in time when this little family tradition of ours broke down, and Saturday nights became just like any other night again?

I wish I could remember, but I can't. What's the point of remembering anyway?

I take a deep breath and let out a loud exhale. I wonder what my mother is up to right now. Is she sitting by that man's bed, watching his face twist in pain with every breath he takes, a tear or two rolling down her eyes? Or is she at home, cooking some food to take to the hospital, because the food served in the cafeteria is unbelievably bland? I wonder how the home I left behind looks right now. What did they do to my bedroom? Leave it as it is, or renovate it into perhaps a study room?

I know the answer to all those questions, yet, why am I asking them to myself?

This is kind of depressing.

So I look out the window again. Everything is still black and white. I can't even remember the color of my own clothes, so I can't paint them in my mind. Maybe my parents are watching me on the TV screen right now. I wonder what the best part of this movie is. Will I miss it again?

The movie, however, gets boringly monotonous after a while. The cat has curled into itself, drifting into the serene world of dreams, back slowly rising up and down. So I too lean back on the seat, turn my face up to the ceiling, and close my eyes.

When I open them again, the color in the world has returned, but I'm no longer sitting in the taxi.