Moving on

Last night a young man turned up at my drinking place who I have not seen for three years.

When I last knew Nat, I fancied him as alternative boyfriend material, even though he was quiet. I used to prompt him, to try to get words out of his mouth, but none would come.

Back then, I thought that trait was endearing. Now I just think it's dull.

Nat still looks good, though is face and frame are fuller. He wears his jeans perched at a low angle on his bottom, like a teenager. Someone should tell him he is now too old.

I first met Nat and two of his friends one night while I drank at Mum's shop. They were walking past while I sat there. I was eager for company, so followed him down the street until we could talk. That's when I met Nat.

After that night, I used to meet them at Mum's shop or we would drink beer down at the river nearby.

Once, I saw Nat or his friends as often as two or three times a week. Then they started drifting back home to Esan, so one by one I lost contact with them, including Nat.

Last night when Nat wandered into Mum's shop to fetch a beer, I was so surprised I had to take a second look to make sure it was him. I did not expect to see Nat again - but then maybe Nat is a creature of habit, just like me.

'I'm dropping in to see a friend who lives around the corner,' he told me.

We sat for a moment, so we could look at each other, to see how the passing years had treated us.

Nat still has his beautiful smile, I noticed. He used to like cuddles and hugs, which I gave him when we visited the river, about five minutes' walk away.

In those days I used to put him on my lap, though he found that too embarrassing, unless we were alone. He was the shy type.

He was also possessive, in an endearing way. He did not like me showing interest in his friends.

Back then, Nat hung around with two young men from the same hometown, who were scratching a living in Bangkok.

Occasionally they would bring along their friends, too, usually from Esan. They worked by day, if they could bothered, but mainly slept. At night they would go out.

Some were naughty. One day, one young man in their group ran out of money. He took a Thai man back to his hotel, drugged his drink, hit him on the head, and stole his wallet. He fled back to Esan before the police could catch him.

Nat regarded his own quietness as a drawback, as his friends who were more boisterous attracted more attention socially. I told him it didn't matter, as I still liked him anyway.

'I am staying with my older sister, just as I used to do when I lived in Bangkok.'

One night we took a long taxi ride together to Mor Chit bus terminal, to pick up a relative. We went back to his sister's place, where they left my taxi.

Nat did not invite me in, as the place was too small.

That's virtually the only time we did anything together away from my drinking spot, though we used to call each other on the phone. I bought him clothes once, but he did not wear them, as he said they were too big. He sent them back to his Dad instead.

I also offered to buy him underwear.

'White?' I asked. All gays wear white. I thought they'd look wonderful against his tanned skin.

'No. My friends will see them and think they are affected.'

'Affected?'

'You can only wear white if you are pale already. If you are tanned, like me, you have to wear coloured pants.'

Nat, like many Thais, has a complex about his skin colour. He would rather be pale than tanned.

According to his belief, if you are lucky enough to be born with pale skin, then you can wear white; but if you are tanned, like Nat, then wearing such a bright colour is an invitation to be teased. It's like you are trying to be better than you really are.

I asked him what he had been doing all this time, but I suspected I knew the answer.

Nat, like his friends, left school early. In Bangkok, if he has a job, he works at karaoke shops. The rest of the time he relies on hand-outs from his sister.

'Nothing,' he said. 'There's nothing to do at home.'

Nat did not ask me about my life, and I did not know what else to ask him.

I wonder if he still thinks about our hugs. Possibly not; we have both moved on, as they say.

We had run out of conversation, so said our goodbyes. As he walked away, I thought about those times, years ago, when I might have run after him down the street.

My heart is no longer that empty that I need one of my friends of the night to fill it.

I can't wind back the clock. We might both be creatures of habit, but I shed that old skin ages ago.