The Whispers We Ignore: Stories from a Penang Café

I sit in the middle of a noisy Zus Coffee, trying to write. It’s loud, dynamic—people yapping at the top of their voices, someone watching a K-drama on full volume with zero self-awareness.

My mind wanders back to when I was seventeen, working as a waitress.

I served a writer who used to drop in during the quiet hours of the afternoon in the coffee house. He would order a pot of black coffee—no milk, no sugar. Everything had to be placed just right: the pot, the cup and saucer, the teaspoon, the napkin. He showed me how he wanted it without saying a word, speaking only with his eyes.

Sometimes a small Guinness Stout. He showed me how to pour to achieve that perfect 1″ foam. Back then, I was hesitant, a little in awe of him.

One day, he showed me a Chinese novel, his finger tracing a name on the cover I couldn’t read. He pointed to the author’s name, raised his finger, and then pointed straight to his own chest.

My mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

Now, years later, I’ve become a wannabe writer.

Overheard in Penang Hokkien

I try to block out the clatter of the café and force myself to focus on the page, but my ears betray me. They lock onto a familiar rhythm nearby.

A table of housewives talking in sharp, lively Penang Hokkien.

They chatter about the price of fish at the market, when to start the laundry, what time to cook dinner, school buses, their children’s routines. Standard afternoon market talk.

Then, out of nowhere, a single sentence slips out softly into the noise.

“Oo tan si, ee pak wa kah or cheh.”

(Sometimes, he beats me until I’m black and blue.)

The voice belongs to one of the women.

Everything at their table stops. A heavy, suffocating silence hangs in the air for maybe sixty seconds. I bolt straight up in my chair, not daring to turn around or look over, but listening with every nerve in my body.

No one knows how to respond. No one knows what to say to a truth like that dropped so quietly onto a coffee table.

After a minute of heavy air, another lady abruptly breaks the silence, exclaiming loudly that her drink is getting cold. And how she can’t stand lukewarm coffee. The rest quickly pivot, latching onto safe, random chatter to fill the hole.

The woman tried to open a door, but no one knew how to walk through it with her.

What We Leave Behind

A few minutes later, they pack up and leave, leaving behind a table scattered with empty cups, crumpled tissue paper, and rubbish.

I sit here in the quiet mess they left behind.

And I continue to write.