The Couture Art Of Prostituting Happiness

LAST YEAR, I purchased a heart-shaped jade pendant in a flea market from an old man when I was visiting Tokyo.

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He laughingly admitted to me he didn't even know he had that in his wares: heaps of film photographs dating as far back as the 1920s. He sold it to me for 300 yen, just slightly less than S$3. I purchased it without a second thought, and while packing it up for me, he told me, “This is real jade. You didn't find it; it found you.” I smiled politely and thanked him. There was no way real jade was so cheap, but I was willing to buy into the fantasy. After all, if I could buy happiness for a few measly dollars, who was I to walk away?

I lost that pendant just a few months ago, somewhere in the expanse of Austria. To date, I still have no clue where or when I had lost it exactly, but my heart still stings whenever the thought crosses my mind. It wasn’t because it was an exceptionally beautiful pendant, or because I believed it was made of real jade, or because I felt 'chosen' by a piece of stone. It was because the pendant was a chanced happiness that had slipped past my fingers without me even noticing it, appearing with no greetings and leaving with no goodbyes. The irony of it lies in how I had scoffed at its legitimacy and inexpensive price tag, only to mourn over it months after I had last felt it resting on my chest.