Sometimes the best moments you can ever have are when you take a deep fat poop... by some obscure pessimist.

There are more than a hundred runaway brides in all the movies I've ever watched. They run away from their weddings when stuff just gets out of control.

In one movie, she wasn't prepared to be in a longtime relationship, and yes, she ran away.

In another one, the wannabe runaway bride just hated the smell of her mother-in-law's perfume, plus her cooking.

But all in all, they have this feeling deep down inside that they can't take it anymore. They're definitely not suicidal, but more of realists.

I can't be in a longtime relationship, so I quit.

I can't be with a man whose mom has a bad perfume and cooks badly, so I quit.

In the same movies, the bride usually meets the runaway bride, and it's a moment of both surprise and anger, a wry look on every face around, as if the universe has, in its cosmic pattern, managed to bring two of its pieces together.

And it works. At least in the movies that is. Runaway bride meets her lover and he becomes runaway lover, and they live on a runaway island and live a happy-ever-after runaway life.

But that stuff is edited, climaxed to the director's expectation of what you'd expect and voila, you have a cute little movie to watch for the weekend.

In movies, it's all scripted. Every portion and corner of it all. And that's why it is so real. In real life, it feels fake.

Like how can someone really in their right mind run away from their wedding. This is literally one of the biggest moments of their lives, so why not simply enjoy it.

In movies it is acceptable to be a runaway bride. In real life, never.

But a runaway doesn't just stop in the movies, for right now as Miss Havisham sits next to me in the garden, I feel like a runaway bride.

It's like I am about to escape from the biggest moment of my life and not enjoy any single bit of it. I'm just not sure what that moment is.

"But you did not feel ashamed to see my nudity, did you?" Miss Havisham is looking me in the eye, forcing me to hide a few blushes.

"No, of course not."

"You sure, because I didn't really mean to be there in your room last night. I'm so sorry, Alexas. It was so indecent of me."

"Uhm..."

"Don't say anything. I know you must be really mad at me for being such an imbecile. I wish I never came to the birthday in the first place. What will your father think of me? Exposing myself infront of his premature daughter? That would result into a lawsuit."

I want to say there's nothing wrong and that I'd never tell anyone, but she doesn't seem to notice. Her focus is on what everyone else would think of her.

And then it strikes me.

"Miss Havisham," I say loudly, but in a gentle tone, "You don't think I am attracted to you, do you?"

She seems startled, as if woken from some alien place.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"When you said premature daughter, I take it you mean I have no feelings and that I'm really Liz's age. Right?"

"Don't get offended, I..."

"Is this what you think of me? A premature kid?"

"Alexas you're taking this the wrong way. I know how it feels to be..."

"No. You don't know how it feels. I really really really liked you. I still do, right now. But if you're so concerned about your nudity and what everyone thinks of you, instead of what I think of you, then you're so not such a likeable person after all."

"Oh no." She says, her voice almost inaudible, "I think I forgot about Liz's writing contest."

"Seriously, you're just going to divert our conversation."

"I don't have time for this drama, Alexas. If you think I should care what a seventeen year old thinks of me, news flash big girl. I don't care. Now if you'll excuse me, I have something to do."

And with that she left me in the garden, wondering if it's true that a butterfly flapping its wings in Japan could cause a hurricane in Amsterdam.

So much for chaos theory.

****

I arrive home just in time to find Liz going off to bed. She looks at me in a not-so-innocent way, as though behind those blue eyes is a spy who knows more about me than I know about myself.

"She's gone. She said she's never ever coming back." Liz cries, big tear drops swelling at her eye-corners. I hug her insidiously.

What is wrong with me? What did I say what I said to Miss Havisham?

"She said dad is going to get me a new tutor. I want her back. I don't want another tutor."

"It's all gonna be fine, kitty cat." I hug her more tightly this time. She feels warm in her polka-dotted nightdress, her hair ticklish under my chin.

"But will she come back?"

"She will, if you do your homework and finish up your cereals." I lie, and she's not having any of it.

"But she said she's not coming back."

"Well, adults say things that they don't mean sometimes, especially when they're very angry."

"Do you make Miss Havisham angry?" I'm caught totally off-guard.

"Well, Liz, aren't you supposed to be in bed soon?" I say, switching the topic, "It's getting late. Like really late. You don't want that black monster who takes away children who don't sleep early coming at you, now do you?"

She frowns, probably too big for my stories that scared her when she was nine.

"Ok, but will you read me a story?"

"Of course, kitty cat. Whichever story you like, I'm here to read it for you!"

We match to her room hand in hand. Me and my nine year old sister who believes that Miss Havisham is coming back anytime soon, thanks to yours truly being a hardcore liar.

I'm really worried though so much for Liz as well as for me. For one, Miss Havisham filled in that gap of loneliness I usually felt when father was at work and Liz in her bedroom.

It had been really intimate up until that moment when she'd slept in my room for some reason including the wine. Now I definitely have to fill in on Liz whatever lie I can come up with, lest she tells father that Miss Havisham is gone forever at this critical moment when he has more on his career plate than he can handle.

Last week he mentioned something about being on his way to a raise. It'd be a really time-wasting rapport for him if he learnt of Miss Havisham's sudden disappearance.

He would then have to look for a new tutor, make sure he trusts them which would probably include taking a leave from work - a very bad way to start a job promotion.

So as I sit reading Liz her all time favorite Adventures of Peter Pan, my mind is off to some island, floating in the middle of nowhere, and in it I'm looking for Miss Havisham left and right.

In this demented state, I'm also looking for every possible way to find a new tutor whom father can trust and no one really comes to mind.

Miss Clare, our maid, could probably know of someone who knows someone who can be a tutor, but word of mouth isn't so effective.

I definitely need all the hope I can get as it is.

"You've stopped reading?" Liz tugs at my sweater.

"Oh. I thought you were already asleep."

"Clearly, as you can see, I'm not."

"Well, where were we?"

"That part when Peter is in a mine."

I turn the pages. It is probably going to take more than reading to have Miss Birthday Girl off to sleep.

****

If the yellow books are right, the apartment block 32 B that I am standing outside of, was constructed by Renault Construction Limited circa 1950.

And if common sense prevails over feelings, this is probably where Miss Havisham resides.

I can feel that tense air between us last night as I step on the front porch, littered with bucketfuls of orange-petaled hibiscus flowers, and a neat stair case just opposite, probably leading to the upper floor.

It's ding ding ding ding for thirty minutes.

No Miss Havisham is coming after all. Seems more like a karmic experience more like, for if she left so suddenly, there is probably no way I'm going to catch up.

In the left corner of my eye, I notice a shadow. Something or someone is inside her room - either Miss Havisham herself or another being.

I duck-tape myself onto the wall, moving cautiously around the window. The shadow has now turned into nothingness as I lean onto the window, forcing myself a clear but unmistakably bizarre image of a crying lady.

Could it be Miss Havisham?

The figure kneels over as if in a state of pre-meditation, before rising up suddenly and jerking out of the room.

The movement catches me so much by surprise that I lose my step, falling head-ward into the gravel.

It's painful rising up, though in that split second between pain and fuzzy-headaches, I catch a glimpse of the lady-figure just opening the front door.

She is wearing a black cloak, hurrying in a faze towards a Mercedes Benz parked just to the left of the sidewalk.

She doesn't even notice my cries to stop as I limp behind her, and neither does she turn when I hold her cloak-hems single-handedly.

It's only when she's almost on the verge of losing her balance that she notices me.

And just as I am admiring how strange and awkward our situation is, Miss Havisham comes towards us.