The Pair!
The bungalow's open shutters exposed palmtops and sparse clouds moving across the sky.
Porn indicated she would collect eats, and I lay down until she returned from downstairs with a bowl of fruit and a short paring knife. She peeled or cut the fruits and sliced them. They included mangosteen, honeydew and watermelon. Porn fed me pieces as I lay back. I liked the contrast of her pink lips with the watermelon's jade skin as she delicately bit pieces.
She brushed her hand through my hair. We occupied a different time and place to the rest of the world's beat and an evening train I assumed I needed to catch. A shaft of sunlight caught the fine skin scars on my face. Porn traced her finger over them. I let her track without explaining their cause. I accepted her touch without attempting to join her reasoning.
She eased up, left, and returned with one glass and a pitcher; I watched her fill the glass. We drank in turn and teased each other with the dregs at the bottom of the glass. Droplets, in turn, trickled to each other's lips. I gave a boyish thumbs up, a lad whiling hours in the company of a girl.
We laid on the mat in rapport, fingers wed. Suddenly, I jolted into an unexpected, explosive tumult. Porn slapped my arm. I bolted upright. What the hell!
She opened her palm, revealing a squished mosquito. Natural order returned, so simple. Porn excused herself, washing her hands.
Returning, she invited me outdoors. Pleasant and easy, we spent the rest of the morning idling in a day she had stolen away and, with hindsight, before I stole away.
We ventured outside into the building heat of the day. Snug on a low wooden bench in the shade at the rear of the bungalow, our hands clasped. Porn knew my onward travel plans, yet neither mentioned the time all morning. My mind blanked on plans for the afternoon.
She excused herself while I stayed sitting on the bench under the trees. When Patsaporn returned, she wore a becoming jade green t-shirt and dark three-quarter pants. She urged me inside to say goodbye to her 'relative' approaching midday.
Weaving and rambling in alleys between wooden houses, she located a taxi stand. Her work bag hung loosely over her shoulder. Our cab stopped outside an amusement park after a twenty to thirty-minute ride. She helped me buy a roll of ride and sideshow tickets at the entrance. With a few words and gestures, she explained we needed these tickets to play games and enter rides.
The afternoon brimmed muggy out of the shade. The fun park projected a quaintness, an appealing charm in a rundown, ramshackle way. It required a fresh coat of paint here and there. Porn suggested we ride the dodgems, and I agreed.
The track was empty except for another pair. Porn and I mounted and raced in separate cars, her dodgem red and mine green. We bounced bumpers accidentally before I side-swiped into her vehicle. My accelerator pumped as I escalated bumper-bashing.
I initiated a smash 'em-up derby. She caught on fast and butted. I barged in an arcing, angled crunch into her car without considering the other pair of drivers on the circuit. Porn's dodgem sustained the full jolting, reverberating bump.
It set off an unfortunate chain reaction involving two other dodgems. The pair driving these, I realised later, were a young beau and his girlfriend. They cruised in circles in a sedate manner, their eyes on the turns and each other.
Suddenly, dodgem cars buffeted and rebounded. The young lady's glasses were shaken off her face in the car's recoil. Spinning beyond control, my dodgem crushed her glasses on the track. I swivelled to an abrupt halt. The operator switched off the power of the cars. The sideshow guy shouted and waved his hands high at me. He wasn't furious, more wide-eyed disbelief.
I guessed he yelled in Thai, "What the hell are you doing?!"
Everyone jumped out of their cars. My focus moved to apologising [in English] to the young woman whose glasses I broke. She gestured and accepted my apology. I knew my carelessness caused her broken specs.
Between repeating, 'I'm sorry,' I kept looking at her shattered lenses and twisted frame. Porn assumed centre stage deftly, smoothing the situation. She engaged the operator and the couple as a group. Glancing rapidly at everyone and rubbing my hands down my pants, I was thankful and relieved that Patsaporn accompanied me. I grasped what I caused but lacked the local language to sort it.
Porn soothed everything in an unruffled way, a superb small assemblage peacemaker. With her help, I understood to open my wallet. I handed it to Porn, and she paid to replace the glasses.
The couple saw the lighter side of the 'bump, bump,' thanks to Porn. I liked how she used her hands to calm the situation, though my stomach fluttered as the couple clasped fingers. They snuggled into each other and looked at us in appreciation.
Holy hell, they desired what Porn and I appeared to share.
I was saved from confronting my heart as Porn led me to the sideshow alley. The humidity in the afternoon kept building. As we entered the side shows, I was surprised by drawn shutters versus opened shutters. Perhaps the time of day or the day of the week, I contemplated briefly how I strayed on holiday, tracking time or days.
Porn convinced me—well, challenged me—to a shooting contest in one of the few options operating.
We aimed a type of air rifle at tin targets. The prizes hung over our heads and were strung on each side of the game stall. The soft toys included button-eyed monkeys sprouting super long tails, white rabbits with glass eyes, fat pink pigs with prominent plush snouts, and fluffy brown bears that reminded me of Baloo. While I glared at the long twisting snakes, I recalled Josh and me meeting Brittany at Luna Park.
To win any of these prizes required an outlandish scoring combination, not hitting repeated bulls-eye. However, this emerged as the game between Porn and me. We glanced in a synergy of understanding of our gameplay.
I hit a bulls-eye; Porn hit a bulls-eye. I shot her bulls-eye; she hit mine. The operator rolled his eyes and, I suppose, decided our nonsense lined his pockets. We weren't scoring to win prizes. We fired a shot for shot, like an in-sync pair.
Where was the pair?