Sleepily, sleepily, in the car after a duck rice dinner at Buona Vista, the lull of the evening drive coming to a stop and me thinking we’re home. The unexpected treat is that we’re instead pulled up to a makeshift stand in a faint pool of neon in a Dempsey Road carpark. Said stand is piled high with durians, backed by a hand-painted sign of thick red letters: DURIAN DURI N. Really, who knew. Um, apparently everyone but me, because when I say to people, simply, “Durian, Dempsey Road,” they make noises and looks of happy recognition. So, okay, a fruit stand in an after-hours carpark. In no time at all, the uncle has set us up a small wooden table and is picking out durians for us, one sweet and one bitter. We sit on four filthy plastic chairs, with a newly opened box of O’Darling tissues, and empty paint buckets by our sides for seeds and husks. In the cool air, the portable power generator grinds and buzzes while a small television topped with its antenna V plays a Chinese melodrama. The black tarmac is shiny from rain all day.