We’re storming to Zouk. We’re getting drunk tonight! we shout, drowning out the Jacky
Cheung schmaltz murmuring from the taxi’s radio. We wind down the windows, stick our
heads out, smirk back as the driver glares in the mirror. It’s a no-holds-barred night, exactly
what we deserve after living in the trenches of our office the past six months.

The taxi pulls up to the club and we sashay in, whooping. How sweet the burnt-candy
glycerol, how dizzying the artificial fog, the strobe lights! How liberating after our caffeine-
fuelled all-nighters! We armed ourselves with research on frustrated contracts and duty of
care, shocked and awed our enemies by firing out memos like machine-gun bullets. Anything
and everything to show Boon Tat we’re strong, we’re sturdy, we’re soldiers. We disappeared
other pupils’ files, leaked their clients’ confidential information, deleted court hearings from
their calendars. Victory at all costs: only us four have been promoted from Pupil to Associate.
Time to celebrate!

The club throbs with electronic beats, filling our ears, invading our chests, the balls of
our feet. We flash our credit cards, slam down tequila shots, gyrate on the podium, all ‘I’m a
Slave 4 U’-Britney. We’re lawyers, fuckers! we holler to the oblivious crowd. No more
flimsy Zara shirts; we’ll have them tailored in Raffles Hotel. Time to chuck our childish
Casios and slap on Rolexes, nice and fat.

More tequila! More, more, more! Our heads cotton-candy soft, our mouths dry, we
squeal about how awesome we are, cackle about the shit we’ve been through. Remember
when Justice Lai screeched at Boon Tat because one of us – Charmaine – fell asleep during
his cross-examination? His face had burned as red as his Harvard tie. He moved her into his
office to keep an eye on her, whip her into shape. Lucky bitch, we said, even as her wink, her
smile, faded.

How’s Boon Tat? we ask, eyebrows wiggling. Some rando with bangs and a goldfish
mouth stumbles and steps on Charmaine’s foot. Fucking bitch! she shrieks, her face crimson,
eyes wild. Come near me again and I’ll end you!

Whoa. Okay. Time for a break. We lumber out, to the Grand Copthorne Waterfront
next door, plop down by the flagpoles.

This is the best night of our lives. Slumped against each other, our fists raised at half-
mast, we slur and we cheer. Bring on tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, the mountains
of discovery documents, clients flooding our inboxes, weekends sacrificed to the firm. We
can’t wait for another tepid leftover-from-lunch char kway teow or nasi goreng for dinner
before stealing out for happy-hour cocktails and returning merry, good soldiers revving
ourselves up for more. Who cares we lost the boys we thought we’d marry, that we’re
popping anti-depressants like commandos on Modafinil, that those other pupils were our
friends?

Charmaine plonks herself down onto a pavement light. Ooh, my ass is warm, she
says. Guess who loves it warm? Giggling, eyes half-closed, mascara streaking down her face,
she throws her arms back, shouts into the starless sky, He loves it red too! Hand-printed red!
Every time I make a mistake!

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Originally from Singapore, Ya Lan Chang lives in Cambridge, United Kingdom with her husband and son. Her work has been shortlisted for the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize, and has been published in Paper Dragon, The Argyle Literary Magazine, SoFloPoJo, Northern Gravy, Every Day Fiction, Litro Magazine, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, and Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. She works as a law lecturer and is a writer at heart.