Yet, it was times like this—a cursory glance from a man or a woman, weighing and assessing her looks—that Ai Ling was called back to her own physicality, and was reminded once again that every feature of her flesh was being calibrated and compared against different measures of beauty. She often felt shrunken by the limitations of these judgements, by the narrow-mindedness of the people who employed such measures. She did not want to be part of this, yet she somehow felt drawn in—no, unsettled—by the young man’s look, which carried some sort of response to what she was unconsciously looking for. In his look, she was remade in a different light—a more attractive light—and this thought was oddly refreshing, the transformation of her self in another person’s determined gaze.
She was still pondering this when she stepped outside onto the busy street, and her attention was swiftly diverted to the flow of cars and people, almost crashing into a group of children playing at a standing water tap and splashing water at each other. The hem of her dress got wet, though it did not bother her. Strolling along the long stretch of Ruamjit Road, she swung her glance from the restaurants, convenience stores, massage parlours and dingily-lit bars that lined the main street to the setting sun that was submerging itself into the dark water. The nearby crash of the waves fought its way into Ai Ling’s ears, rising above the din of loud music and human chatter. After walking almost the entire length of the street, Ai Ling backtracked to the restaurant that had looked promising when she first saw it, a chalkboard outside advertising seafood phad thai and green curry. The restaurant was not much more than a large seating area made up of six tables, with an open kitchen at the entrance and living quarters behind the beaded curtains where the owner and his family supposedly lived. She was ushered to the smallest table at the front of the restaurant. Seated, Ai Ling pointed to the chalkboard, indicating what she wanted. The server, a slim girl in her late teens, wearing cut-off jean shorts, took her order and went into the kitchen. The only other two occupied tables were taken up by locals. A beat-up television hanging in a corner of the restaurant featured a drama with mostly frowning actors. Ai Ling took in her surroundings and the conversations around her with a detached interest; she always liked this sense of separateness from other people, of watching from a distance.
From the corner of her eye, she saw someone standing outside the restaurant, studying the menu on the chalkboard. It was the same young man from the hotel bar. His eyebrows arched when he saw Ai Ling sitting there, and in the next moment, he was asking whether he could join her table. Ai Ling, finding no excuse to offer, nodded her head.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the man said, levelling his gaze at her.
“No, it’s okay,” Ai Ling said, before turning to watch the show on the TV. The man, after a pause of a few seconds, began to talk.
“I saw you just now at the hotel. Are you travelling alone?”
“Yes, I’m on holiday.”
“That’s great. Cha Am is a great place. It’s my second time here. You’ll love this place.”
“I hope so.”
“This restaurant is one of the best here. They serve the best phad thai, with the fish sauce they use. You won’t find any place that serves better.”
“I’m sure I’ll like it.”
Despite her best efforts, Ai Ling found herself gradually entering into a conversation with the young man, Daniel, and coming to learn certain aspects of his life. How he had quit his job recently, as a logistics engineer in a manufacturing firm, and was planning to backpack for a while before he returned home (yes, he was a Singaporean, as Ai Ling had expected), that he did not know where he would head next, planning to be spontaneous about the places he wanted to go. In return, Ai Ling told him that she too was taking a break from her work, that she had heard about Cha Am from a colleague, that she loved the hotel and the view her room offered.
When the food came, they ate in silence. Whenever Daniel’s gaze strayed—when he turned to grab the tray of condiments or talk to the server—Ai Ling would glance at him. She noticed the dimples near his mouth and the slenderness of his ears. His smile was uneven, the left side of his lips tilting upwards in a slight smirk before the right side caught up. Even when Ai Ling was hesitant to talk, Daniel pressed on with questions that were never too specific or personal.
After their meal, Ai Ling decided to head back to the hotel.
“So early? The night is young,” Daniel said as they stepped into the cool night air. Traffic was light at this time of the evening.
“I’m a bit tired,” Ai Ling said.
“Then I’ll walk you back.”
“No no, it’s okay.”
“Nah, there’s nothing to do here when it’s dark. May as well head back to the hotel where I can catch a football match or something on TV, and maybe have a drink.”
They walked back slowly, occasionally turning their attention to other passers-by, to the patrons that had filled the bars. They chatted across a range of topics, and before long they were back at the hotel. There, Ai Ling bade her companion a good night and climbed the stairs to her room, not turning back for another look.
In her room, Ai Ling took another shower and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the evening she just had. She could not keep hold of her own thoughts, which seemed to pull her in many directions, so she turned on the bedside lamp, took out a paperback from her bag—Toni Morrison’s Beloved, highly recommended by Cody—and tried to focus on the words on the page. After several attempts, she switched off the light and watched the parade of shadows on the ceiling near the open windows, waiting for sleep to come.
For the first time in a long while, Ai Ling woke up without a thought in her head, her eyes snapped wide open to the first light of the day. She took in the silence of the room, immersed herself in it. She stayed in bed until the alarm on her Nokia phone went off, and then she forced herself to get up.
After putting on her running attire and shoes, she headed out for a run. The hotel was quiet at this hour, with only a concierge manning the reception desk and a young woman setting up continental breakfast in the hotel lounge. The morning air bristled with a slight chill, which Ai Ling shook off with a quick warm-up. The street along the beach was largely devoid of people, except for the street hawkers peddling vegetables and fish, and the housewives shopping for groceries. Ai Ling took off in the direction of the hill, on the western side of town, keeping a comfortable pace. A mangy stray dog with garish pink patches of skin came up to her, sniffing at her heels, and ran with her for some time before it was distracted by an old man seated on a bike who threw something—leftovers of his breakfast, some bones and rice—in its direction. Ai Ling slowed her pace, thinking the dog might catch up but it did not return to her side. When she came to the foot of the hill, she turned back, this time running on the beach. The rising sun shone across the water, causing the crests of the waves to sparkle in explosive brilliance. Ai Ling squinted.
Near the hotel, she collapsed onto the sand, her perspiration forming a dark U on the front of her grey shirt. Nearby, an elderly man with a basket in hand was combing the wet sand for crabs, while two boys played in the water, their thin torsos shiny in the morning light. Ai Ling sensed someone approaching from behind her, and she turned to see a small Thai boy walking towards her, five or six years old, wearing a dirty purple T-shirt and tattered shorts and hauling a dirty cloth bag over his shoulder, a bottle of mineral water in his hand. Closer, Ai Ling noticed the boy’s large sunken eyes, turned-up nub of a nose and set of crooked brown teeth. He looked gaunt, as though he had gone for a long time without proper rest or food. His smile was hopeful, expectant.