|Tears on my towel, yesterday|
nb. This is Part Two of a two-part story.
Part One is here.
I wasn’t going to make a potentially life-changing decision without consulting my friends, obviously. I called, emailed and spoke to a few people, asking not only for their opinions, but for more practical advice – like how would I deal with her bar wanting money to smooth the passage of her leaving?
Most reacted with amusement. Then recoiled in shock when a punchline was not forthcoming. “You want to do what? Are you insane?” – etc.
Others were more useful. “Don’t pay the bar a satang”, said one. “That money’s supposed to ease her leaving, and ensure that she can go back if she needs to. But if she makes money for the bar, they’d take her back anyway. And if they don’t, another bar will”.
But the most important advice was with regard to the difficulties of ending such a relationship. If a girl has the keys to your apartment, dumping her can get to be extremely expensive – in both monetary and psychological terms. One friend had a girl come at him with a machete when he decided he wanted to break up. Another had to fake his emigration to Cambodia in order to stop her from constantly coming over to wail at him.
“Think about how you’re going to handle the break-up”, was the advice I received on Friday night. “And think about how she’s going to handle it. If she’s the type to get over-emotional and over-react to trivial things, then the break-up, when it comes – and it will – is going to be hell”.
He had a point. The girl and I hadn’t even had an argument yet. How would she react if it all went pear-shaped and I wanted her out? I needed to find out, but I wasn’t quite sure how.
Fate always provides. That very night, I brought her back to my place once again. I sat down to catch up with my e-mails, and read the new comments on this site while she showered. But when she returned, she spotted a scrap of paper on my desk.
It said “Nok. 08xxxxxxxx”. Oops.
Nok was a cute girl from a Silom massage shop who’d given me a thoroughly enjoyable foot massage a couple of months ago – before I even met my potential co-habitee.
She’d given me her number, but when I called there was no answer. I sent a text, and received no reply. That was the end of that – except I’d forgotten to throw away the piece of paper with her name and number on.
I explained all of this to my girl. She nodded, and softly padded away into the bedroom. I finished up on the computer, and shut it down for the night.
In the bedroom, she was crying into what had been a pink towel, but was quickly gaining a pattern of black smudges from the mixture of mascara and tears she was sobbing into it (pictured above).
I was genuinely concerned, and tried to comfort her, but it seemed that – whilst she believed that Nok was no longer a concern – she was still so jealous that I’d received another girl’s phone number before we’d even met that she was overcome with emotion.
This didn’t bode well for any future, more dramatic, clashes. I figured I’d sleep on it. Well, on her. And it.
I woke up the next
morning afternoon and left her sleeping while I spent an hour or so on the site entertaining my hordette of fans. She eventually rose at around 4.30pm, and wordlessly locked herself in the bathroom where she showered and dressed.
“Say hi to Nok for me”, she snarled as she left for work. I protested my innocence again, but she wasn’t impressed. She hasn’t been back. I think that’s possibly what they call a close shave.
Bangkok Bad Boy is still living alone, and now has an extra pair of earrings for sale.