I spend my life in basements now, the workshop (work) and the...well...workshop (home) both basements, thankfully only one is flanked by a funeral home. Although there are worse things to work next door to. At least the dead are generally quiet. I mostly work with wood at home, started in Cambodia carving an otter as a prize for a school project. They trap them there, skin them and eat them, view them as pests even though they're officially endangered. We used to buy them, $20 per otter and drive them to an otter sanctuary in Tonle Sap. Seven hours in a Jeep with a furious, thrashing otter. Wonderful. So, woodwork. Quiet, calming, it's getting me through. Slowly. But I still look up and expect to see her curled in her chair on the deck, gas lamp on the floor between us. She's sewing, usually, or reading, squinting in the half-light, occasionally uncurling herself and stretching, snapping her joints before settling back, hunched over her work. If I look up too quickly here, at dusk, distracted, should have turned the lights on, illuminated only by the heater. Shadows leap across the sofa and more than once I've smiled at her. Except, of course that there's no one here. Just me. Stabbing a chisel into the workbench and slamming on the lights. Ridiculous. Shaking my head to dislodge the crystal clear image of her, cross-legged, bent towards the light, curls of hair falling around her face, more than once I stopped whatever I was doing to just watch her.
I stayed late in town one night. Photocopying at an internet cafe. Only an hour from a village with no electricity and no running water I'm able to send emails, photocopy and lounge in air-conditioned hotels. The drive back seems long, I know she won't be sleeping - the soothing sounds of cicadas, creaking trees and chittering bats become something else entirely when you're alone in a house with no locks or glass in the windows. Dark, overcast, can barely see the road through the windshield, pressed up against the steering wheel, seatbelt frayed where too many drivers have done this exact thing before me. No lights as I pull into the village, past midnight, only three hours till the first stirrings of morning rituals. Turn the corner, pull the Jeep out of the way and spot a light, I think. Leave the papers, car unlocked, limp around the deck, long day. Turn the corner and she's curled tight in the chair, gas lamp flickering next to her. Transfixed. Noise of cicadas loud in the quiet night, a halo of mosquitos around the light, oppressive blanket of heat, damp shirt against my back. Quiet steps, leave my cane against the doorframe, looking, haven't seen her since this morning.
She brought breakfast to the school, rice, charred pork, chicken stock, chilli sauce in a tin box, chopsticks nested in the curls of her hair. I'm buried in papers, white skyscrapers line the front of my lopsided desk, she takes my hand, leads me out back. Peace, just for a minute, eating with her, a quiet smile on her face watching the yard busy with children coming and going. We don't speak until she's ready to leave, pinning clean chopsticks back in place. "Tonight?" she asks, I grimace, photocopying, exams, a smile from her "some peace at last!" A lingering kiss, the press of her hand warm against my chest and she's gone, fresh water and a clean shirt left on my desk. I watch her leave, can see the silhouette of her through her white shirt, a gaggle of young girls follow her to the path, stroking her arms and giggling. She doesn't look back but she waves as the path turns out of sight.
On the veranda I watch her. Wish I had words for how she leaves me breathless in this shifting orange light. Wish I could tell her everything, thank her for all this. For leaving her life in a heartbeat and coming here to live so far away from everyone she knows and for doing it so well. She shifts, smiling in her sleep, damp hair wrapped around her throat. I lean on the railing, watch her stir and wake, slowly, not quite shrugging off sleep. Smiling at me, stretching as she unfolds, collar of her shirt slips down and she links her arms around my waist, drop a kiss to her warm skin, salt, soap, her. The chink of her anklet as she stretches up to kiss me, pauses, one hand on my cheek now, studying me. Her eyes narrow, small frown, cocks her head to the side. I wait, almost smiling, know what's coming. Her face clears, she reads me like a book; "I wouldn't be anywhere else."
I stayed late in town one night. Photocopying at an internet cafe. Only an hour from a village with no electricity and no running water I'm able to send emails, photocopy and lounge in air-conditioned hotels. The drive back seems long, I know she won't be sleeping - the soothing sounds of cicadas, creaking trees and chittering bats become something else entirely when you're alone in a house with no locks or glass in the windows. Dark, overcast, can barely see the road through the windshield, pressed up against the steering wheel, seatbelt frayed where too many drivers have done this exact thing before me. No lights as I pull into the village, past midnight, only three hours till the first stirrings of morning rituals. Turn the corner, pull the Jeep out of the way and spot a light, I think. Leave the papers, car unlocked, limp around the deck, long day. Turn the corner and she's curled tight in the chair, gas lamp flickering next to her. Transfixed. Noise of cicadas loud in the quiet night, a halo of mosquitos around the light, oppressive blanket of heat, damp shirt against my back. Quiet steps, leave my cane against the doorframe, looking, haven't seen her since this morning.
She brought breakfast to the school, rice, charred pork, chicken stock, chilli sauce in a tin box, chopsticks nested in the curls of her hair. I'm buried in papers, white skyscrapers line the front of my lopsided desk, she takes my hand, leads me out back. Peace, just for a minute, eating with her, a quiet smile on her face watching the yard busy with children coming and going. We don't speak until she's ready to leave, pinning clean chopsticks back in place. "Tonight?" she asks, I grimace, photocopying, exams, a smile from her "some peace at last!" A lingering kiss, the press of her hand warm against my chest and she's gone, fresh water and a clean shirt left on my desk. I watch her leave, can see the silhouette of her through her white shirt, a gaggle of young girls follow her to the path, stroking her arms and giggling. She doesn't look back but she waves as the path turns out of sight.
On the veranda I watch her. Wish I had words for how she leaves me breathless in this shifting orange light. Wish I could tell her everything, thank her for all this. For leaving her life in a heartbeat and coming here to live so far away from everyone she knows and for doing it so well. She shifts, smiling in her sleep, damp hair wrapped around her throat. I lean on the railing, watch her stir and wake, slowly, not quite shrugging off sleep. Smiling at me, stretching as she unfolds, collar of her shirt slips down and she links her arms around my waist, drop a kiss to her warm skin, salt, soap, her. The chink of her anklet as she stretches up to kiss me, pauses, one hand on my cheek now, studying me. Her eyes narrow, small frown, cocks her head to the side. I wait, almost smiling, know what's coming. Her face clears, she reads me like a book; "I wouldn't be anywhere else."
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