sampaafulhu and i are at scoop after experiencing the art inspired, i think, by mental illness at the national art gallery. and what is scoop if not a place to recuperate after a killer dose of real life seriousness.

‘some of them, they had potential,’ she’s telling me. ‘it would’ve been good to know the age of the artists though.’

‘yeah, some of those felt like they were pretty good for younger artists,’ i say.

‘which ones?’ she asks. so, i show her the photos.

‘can you check on our food?’ she says flicking through my pics.

i do.

‘you know, you didn’t have to stand there by the counter the whole time,’ she says when i return.

‘well, why didn’t you say so?’

‘it was funny.’

‘huh.’

and before too long, our meals are placed before us.

sampaafulhu has ordered a chicken wrap, and it’s come with fat fries. scoop has arguably the best fries in town, for real guys. plus i love how generous they are, and it’s fucking real potato to boot. beat that, seagull. i sometimes order in just scoop’s fries to eat with the hot sriracha sauce you get at @meatthebutcher.mv (not an ad).

meanwhile, my chimichanga doesn’t look like any chimichanga i’ve ever had.

‘what IS this?’ i ask samfa. ‘how do i even eat it?’

‘try a knife and fork,’ she says.

funny.

i cut into it and it’s brilliant! cheesy, and meaty, with a delicious contrast of textures between the crispy tortilla and the soft insides.

‘have some mustard,’ says samfa. and that turns out to be the cherry on top.

by the end of it, i am completely stuffed. and the bill is below 220MVR!

‘why aren’t we coming here more often?’ i ask samfa as we venture out into the sun.

samfa mutters something.

‘sorry?’

she is silent, trying to fish her box of terea out of her purse. you know, the uniqlo kind that every yuppie in town has.

‘what’s that?’ she asks.

‘nothing.’

‘i could’ve sworn you said yuppie.’

‘nope.’

i think about the art again. it’s so hard not to. if it’s just about the mentally ill sublimating their feelings, then all of it is valid. but i don’t know how most of those pieces can be justified aesthetically. and to be held at the national gallery, it now seems to be the place for anyone vaguely connected to art to rent and exhibit as opposed to a place of refinement, skill, and dare i say prestige.

anyhow, off we go into the clear afternoon, the cloudless sky a captivating blue. the weight of the art exhibition is finally lifted by this radiant day and it fills me up as i take a moment to breathe behind the sultan park and snap a photo.

‘can’t you walk faster?’ snaps samfa. ‘your legs are longer.’

‘cigarette didn’t calm you down then?’

‘what did you say?’

‘nothing,’ i say abruptly.

‘i could’ve sworn you said calm down.’

‘not at all.’