Short Story: Jazz Along Boat Quay

We lived in two worlds; within and without. Resist the tendency to think that the external is the real deal and safeguard what is inside you for what truly matters to you. 

Take a walk with Malcolm as he ventured along Boat Quay after work in this ChatGPT-generated short story.

Boat Quay: alit with colourful lights

Malcolm clocked out when the office lights had already learned how to dim themselves. Unpaid overtime again—numbers reconciled, judgments signed, life postponed. He nodded goodbye to colleagues who were already thumbing rides home, then made a quiet decision at the lift lobby: not tonight. Tonight, he would walk.

Boat Quay welcomed him the way jazz does—unannounced, a little crooked, irresistibly alive.

The shophouses leaned toward the river like old friends mid-conversation, their pastel facades glowing under strings of Christmas lights. Reds and golds flickered against teal shutters, and wreaths hung proudly above pub doors that breathed out laughter, clinking glasses, and the warm thrum of basslines. Somewhere, a saxophone slid through a speaker—lazy, soulful—turning the night into a slow dance.

Malcolm walked slower than he meant to.

At an open-front bar, diners huddled over shared plates, steam rising from peppery dishes, hands gesturing wildly as stories spilled. A group of friends toasted to something unfinished. A couple argued softly, then laughed harder. Loneliness, he noticed, didn’t live here alone—it mingled, brushed shoulders, waited to be invited.

The Singapore River moved beside him, dark and patient, reflecting fairy lights like scattered stars that had fallen on purpose. Boats glided past, engines humming in a low, steady rhythm, as if keeping time. Malcolm thought of balance sheets and deadlines, then let them drift downstream. Numbers were tidy. Life was not. And maybe that was the point.

He paused by the railing. The air smelled of citrus, rain, and possibility. Christmas music slipped from a restaurant—soft piano, brushed drums—familiar but reimagined, like an old standard played in a new key. He felt something loosen in his chest.

He realized loneliness wasn’t the absence of people. It was the absence of permission—to linger, to notice, to feel. Tonight, he granted himself that small mercy.

A waiter stepped out to adjust a string of lights. They flickered, steadied, glowed brighter. Malcolm smiled. Not every fix required approval. Some things just needed a gentle touch.

As he neared Clarke Quay, the colors grew bolder, the crowd thicker, the music louder—layers upon layers, improvising together. He wasn’t missing out on life, he thought. Life was happening all around him, and sometimes within him, quietly, between steps.

He reached the MRT entrance with a lighter stride. Tomorrow would bring work. Tonight had given him rhythm.

And for the first time in a while, Malcolm hummed along as the city played him home. 🎷

Thank you for reading Daily Refreshing.