Chapter 1:
Unexpected meetings from the height of 27 floors, Jakarta City looks like a living mozaik. The windows of the office building glass reflects silver sky, making every business tower look cold and arrogant. In one of the tower, Naura is an architect of the regularity, a master of a sterile world. He walked on the velvet carpet, across the lonel and air-cooled hallway. The movement is measurable, every step is the manifestation of the discipline that he is uphoused. Below there, between the roar of the horn and the pedestrian crowd, Slamet is the antithesis of the Naura World. His obsolete cilok cart, with a flashy little fluorescent lamp, looks like an anomaly in the middle of the sidewalk filled with the insect people. Slamet, with a kumal shirt and a silly smile, busy pouring peanut sauce into a bottom of soy sauce. He ignores the corporate world that is towering around him. For him, the only important thing is the perfect cilok sauce. These two worlds, so different, are not realized to interact with each other. Naura stepped out of the building lobby, checking his shiny watch. At the same time, Slamet pumps the bottle of sauce with the spirit, not realizing the pressure that is getting stronger in it. When Naura stepped into the sidewalk, a "PLOP"! " sounds. The burst of coconary sauce brown is tenthouses to the slightly, splashing right in the NAURA's pump skin of the newly pocketed. Instantly, the crowded sidewalk was lonely. Naura stopped. His cold eyes are now looking down. Meanwhile, Slamet just blinks, confused to see the soothes soy is now empty and a brown stain in the asphalt. He has not realized that the stain is not in Asphalt, but in shoes that is equivalent to its annual income. What do you think? I will continue to the Naura's point of view in the next response .....
(Pov Naura)
the smell of hot asphamps mixed with the intestinal exhaust, a contrast that pierced my index after hours in the fragrance. My steps are regular, focus, and almost without sound. While walking, my mind is busy streaming strategy for the presentation of the board of directors tomorrow. Perfection is the only standard I know, either for myself or for every detail around me. Then, a "PLOP" sound broke the silence I created in my head. Something warm and sticky touched my feet. I stopped. My view fell, slowly. On top of his shiny shoe-shaped shoes puzzles I'm buying for an important meeting later-there is a concentrated brown stain. Initially, I did not understand. There are beans spots there, and the aroma ... sweet, sour, and very unprofessional. I hold our breath. This is not a joke. This is a small disaster. My eyes switch to the source of the mess. A man with a Kumal's shirt was staring at an empty sootte bottle with the most innocent expression I've seen. Beside him, the three-wheel-painted carts are shabby. The man seemed unaware of how severe the situation was. He was busy scratched behind his head, his rounded eyes flashed plain. It feels like there is a glitch in reality. The man and his cart is anomaly that should not exist in my neighborhood that is very tidy and expensive. I let the silence take over. I do not have to talk. The man, in a strange trousse, would surely realize his mistake. I just stood there, waiting, let my dormately and sharp letters filled the surrounding, he wished he would understand that he just did wrong with the very, very, unplucin. ...
(Pov Slamet)
That afternoon was great fitting. The sun is not too scratch, the wind is cool, and my cart is already a lot. Just one more thing: Regiling the cilok sauce. I poured the beans sauce from the jerkike to a bottle of soy sauce. The bottle is already Mleyot-Mleyot, but this is my bottle of my favorite. I'm a pet-tense, but the saucefant. I tried the dial, again louder. While, tick, I said, "Come dong, met! Exit, Met!" to the bottle, exactly the way it is likely to chat. Suddenly, "Plopp!" The sauce is muthing out, tough. I was surprised, until the mottle bottle of my hand. I see it down, the sauce is just a niping in the asphalt. Ah, safe. I'm grin, relieved. I want to grab the bottle, but my eyes stopped forward. There is a shoe. Shiny black shoes, kayak mirror. Above the shoe, there was a brown stain. The stain was ... my peanut sauce. I'm poured. My eyes immediately met his eyes. His eyes were cold, sharpening knives. His face is beautiful, but no smile at all. He stood upright the king's electric pole, his aurast was strong. I immediately felt small. My legs would like to tremble. Voluntly, it feels like again facing the principal mother who wants my rapot value. He's silent. I'm also silent. I want to apologize, but my throat is dry. I want to run, but my feet feel good. I can just stand up, stare at the high boots that are now dilai casil. Duh, why is my cilokku sauce landed there? Does he want to buy cilok? But where is it possible, people are asking the food of the roadside? I feel like being facing the greatest problem in my life, a heavier problem of my broken cart.