Memorial Hospital smelled of cold antiseptic, damp clothes, and aggressive air-conditioning. Mark sat in the waiting area for the ophthalmologist—the damn September monsoons had gifted him a severe eye infection.
He had lived in Pattaya for a couple of years. He prided himself on knowing the “real” city: the secret Na Jomtien beaches, the hidden-gem cafes for perfect Instagram shots, the authentic local spots. He had long ago absorbed the golden rule that you don’t look for love in a go-go bar. Sure, he still wandered into them a couple of times a month, but purely out of “anthropological curiosity.” Just to confirm the machine was still running.
Sitting in the queue, there was a Thai grandmother in front of him, and a young woman sitting directly across. A surgical mask covered most of her face, but her eyes were incredible. Deep, calm, and laughing. Mark’s gaze drifted downward: endlessly long legs in cheap elephant pants, and a faded, sequined cat t-shirt that was immaculate and neatly pressed.
Their eyes met. Even through the mask, he could see her smile. He nodded.
The classic hospital small talk began. Mark expertly complained about the monsoon rains, acting like a seasoned local. She softly replied that she was there because she had twisted her ankle on her scooter in the rain.
Mark immediately played the wise expat card: “Yeah, you have to be careful with those bikes. That’s exactly why I prefer walking.”
Sensing an opening, he threw out the bait: he knew a great, inexpensive restaurant with a stunning view, maybe they could get dinner sometime?
“Why not,” her eyes smiled again. “But only for lunch. I work the evening shift at a restaurant, every day until late.”
He got her LINE ID. A second later, the nurse called her in, and then it was his turn. When he walked back out into the corridor, she was gone. But the contact was secured in his phone.
Walking home through the rain, Mark felt a surge of absolute superiority. “Look at all these idiot tourists buying love on Walking Street,” he thought. “All you had to do was go to the hospital. A normal girl, with a normal job.”
He figured his eye and her ankle would be fine in three days, so he planned to invite her for lunch on Monday. But two days later, his eye was already clear, and a treacherous thought crept into his mind: if this lunch turns into a real relationship, these are his final days as a free man. He owed it to himself to have one last wild night out.
23:29. Walking Street.
Mark sat on a plush sofa inside a dimly lit go-go, breathing in the heavy mix of vanilla perfume, stale cigarette smoke, and spilled beer. A girl sitting next to him, whom he had already bought two lady drinks, was slowly stroking his arm. He was contemplating a barfine, but a moral dilemma was gnawing at him: was it fair to do this when he was about to start a “clean” relationship with the sweet girl in the cat t-shirt?
The music shifted. The rotation changed.
Suddenly, right in front of his table, a girl stepped onto the stage in towering platform heels. Endless legs. Mark slowly looked up.
Damn it. Those eyes.
It was impossible to make a mistake. She looked right down at him through the flashing strobe lights—and smiled softly. Exactly the same way she had in the hospital waiting room.
They stared at each other for almost fifteen minutes while the bass pounded. The girl sitting next to Mark started getting nervous, catching his frozen stare.
“You know her? You want her? She already has a customer, but I can tell her to come to you after…”
The girl with the hospital eyes gracefully climbed down from the stage, walked right past his table, and slid effortlessly onto the lap of a large Korean tourist sitting opposite him.
Mark slowly turned his gaze back to the girl sitting next to him, feeling the concrete slab of Pattaya’s reality crash down on his head, crushing his perfect, arrogant illusion.
“Screw it,” Mark said hoarsely. “Get the bill. Let’s do a barfine.”
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