Little Talks


You shoot a question while we were outside a Thai local bar. Name three things you are most addicted about. Sex, chocolates, alcohol, books, rave music, conversations were all I could remember in the jumble of addictions that night. You caress my thighs warmly and briefly. We walk, we look for our friends because they were taking so long. We drink rum and Coke while walking, while shouting Penis along the streets, while searching for the shadows of our friends. We spot them sitting in a bench in the dark. We walk again, together again. You teach me Spanish words and phrases I couldn’t remember now. We stop by a convenience store and you buy me chocolates since both of us are mutually addicted to them. We walk side by side in the midnight hum. You’re looking at me like I’ve done something mesmerizing. We are outside the bar. You tell me I have the ability to seduce. I deny. You tell me one more time that I definitely can seduce. And maybe I did that night, unconsciously.

You’re staring at me like I’m seducing you, like I’m a shape and color of something so exotic and interesting. You mention that you broke your camera while I’m holding mine. We drive to the canyon, all seven of us. You drive fast, so fast, it is an adrenaline looking at you in your blue scooter and blue helmet. We stop at the foot of the canyon and walk up the concrete stairs. We catch the sunset and do our own thing while catching the sunset. The sun is a witness. We are the last among the group to leave and descend. You are telling a story of your recent camping trip in Macedonia, how it was cheap and there were few people in the place and how locals were helping you during your trip. Finally, we exchange names. You notice my tank top where words of ‘You and Me’ were inscribed. You utter You and Me, while staring like I’m a shape and color of something so exotic and interesting.

You appear in the street with your loud and handsome friend. You ask what I was drinking. Watermelon shake. You teasingly request if you could taste a little. You express with enthusiasm how delicious and refreshing it was and maybe you should buy one. The next morning, we chill in the tattered hammocks of the common area. We talk about a few things. My friend mentions my recent “love story”. I was embarrassed but you encourage me to tell the story. And I did. We talk about a few things and share our favorite Arctic Monkeys and Oasis and City and Colour songs and our past and present romantic tales and the books we are reading and our ideals of a lover. You are leaving that night. We ask you to stay. But you are meeting your special friend in Laos. You can’t stay. So I get up from the hammock and go inside my room. I head back to the common area and look for you. I give you a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being book I was reading at that moment. We hug. You ask me to write a dedication. You promise to visit us and the Philippines the next year. We hug again. But one day, along the shore of Koh Rong island in Cambodia, you send me a message saying you lost the book.