Mr Golf Shorts, a young man with soft eyes, calls into Mum's shop most nights. He arrives on a motorbike, which is a bad sign that he is straight. However, he is always alone, which is a promising sign that he might in fact be gay.
One night Mum asked him if he would like to find a mate. 'I would, but no one wants me,' he said sadly. Why should he feel that way, I wonder - because he looks small and feminine? He does, but that's probably not it.
He does not have much money, and knows that Thai girls like to be looked after? That's a more likely explanation, as I have heard it from my straight friends before.
Perhaps the answer is also to be found in his unusual choice of dress, in particular his fondness for shorts which make him look like an old man. They are made of plaid, like a golfer's pants. His wardrobe makes him look older than his years, which few girls or even gays would want - even with those big languid eyes.
I asked Mum if she knows him. She doesn't, although he visits the shop often to read the sports pages (Mum sells newspapers), and buy cigarettes.
The poor boy looks lonely, and in need of a friend. We have talked in the past - I have even served him cigarettes once, when Mum stepped away - but never for long.
After he dropped in one night last week, looking his usual wistful self, I asked Mum to let him know that I was interested.
If he felt the same way, he might like to leave his phone number.
'You always like this one, or that one,' Mum complained.
One night Mum asked him if he would like to find a mate. 'I would, but no one wants me,' he said sadly. Why should he feel that way, I wonder - because he looks small and feminine? He does, but that's probably not it.
He does not have much money, and knows that Thai girls like to be looked after? That's a more likely explanation, as I have heard it from my straight friends before.
Perhaps the answer is also to be found in his unusual choice of dress, in particular his fondness for shorts which make him look like an old man. They are made of plaid, like a golfer's pants. His wardrobe makes him look older than his years, which few girls or even gays would want - even with those big languid eyes.
I asked Mum if she knows him. She doesn't, although he visits the shop often to read the sports pages (Mum sells newspapers), and buy cigarettes.
The poor boy looks lonely, and in need of a friend. We have talked in the past - I have even served him cigarettes once, when Mum stepped away - but never for long.
After he dropped in one night last week, looking his usual wistful self, I asked Mum to let him know that I was interested.
If he felt the same way, he might like to leave his phone number.
'You always like this one, or that one,' Mum complained.
I have asked her before to get boys' numbers. It is hard for me to believe now, but once I even asked her to sound out a blokey motorcycle taxi driver.
This young man, who works at the mouth of the soi opposite us, has the most remarkable Chinese eyes, the highest cheekbones I have ever seen, a huge smile, and wavy hair which sweeps over his face.
However, he also has an odd, squeaky voice, watches football - and now, I learn, goes out with a neighbourhood girl.
Still, this was in my younger days, when I thought anything was possible. I asked Mum to investigate, which she did subtly.
'Do you like farang?' Mum asked Mr Chinese Eyes one night, when he called by the shop.
Mr Chinese Eyes also likes to read the sports pages for free. The boys don't pick them up, just read them where they sit on the stand. That way, they get to read, but don't have to pay.
He knew who she meant, and shook his head.
'Scary,' he said.
These days, when I feel generous, I just send beers over the road to Mr Chinese Eyes and his friends, as they sit next to their motorbikes, idling away the hours.
'Thank you!' he calls out over the road.
He knows I like him, and is always swishing back his hair in a self-admiring fashion when he visits the shop. But we don't talk - too scary, as he says.
The other night, when I arrived at the shop, I was looking forward to hearing from Mum about the results of her exploratory probe of Mr Golf Shorts. Instead, she said nothing, and I carried on drinking.
About an hour later, Mr Golf Shorts himself appeared, read the sports pages, and bought five cigarettes in a small plastic bag. I took this opportunity to ask Mum what happened.
'Did you talk to him?' I asked.
'Who?'
'That boy.'
'Which boy?'
'The cute one with the shorts.'
'Yes,' she said.
Pause.
'His phone is not working,' she said, looking embarrassed.
I was silly to bring the matter up - can't I see that I had been rejected yet again? Still, I pressed for details. I can do that, because we are friends.
'He said he likes girls, not boys, ' she said finally.
Another rejection. I am getting used to them, as I get older.
'I have a boyfriend anyway, so we can just be drinking friends,' I suggested, to save my own face, and spare Mum further embarrassment.
'That's a good idea. I shall talk to him,' she said, looking relieved.
His decision to reject me is probably just as well, as we would only have clashed. I could not have lived with those golf shorts, I am afraid.
This way, he can keep his shorts on (though he can take them off, if he really insists) - and the two of us get to be friends, too.
This young man, who works at the mouth of the soi opposite us, has the most remarkable Chinese eyes, the highest cheekbones I have ever seen, a huge smile, and wavy hair which sweeps over his face.
However, he also has an odd, squeaky voice, watches football - and now, I learn, goes out with a neighbourhood girl.
Still, this was in my younger days, when I thought anything was possible. I asked Mum to investigate, which she did subtly.
'Do you like farang?' Mum asked Mr Chinese Eyes one night, when he called by the shop.
Mr Chinese Eyes also likes to read the sports pages for free. The boys don't pick them up, just read them where they sit on the stand. That way, they get to read, but don't have to pay.
He knew who she meant, and shook his head.
'Scary,' he said.
These days, when I feel generous, I just send beers over the road to Mr Chinese Eyes and his friends, as they sit next to their motorbikes, idling away the hours.
'Thank you!' he calls out over the road.
He knows I like him, and is always swishing back his hair in a self-admiring fashion when he visits the shop. But we don't talk - too scary, as he says.
The other night, when I arrived at the shop, I was looking forward to hearing from Mum about the results of her exploratory probe of Mr Golf Shorts. Instead, she said nothing, and I carried on drinking.
About an hour later, Mr Golf Shorts himself appeared, read the sports pages, and bought five cigarettes in a small plastic bag. I took this opportunity to ask Mum what happened.
'Did you talk to him?' I asked.
'Who?'
'That boy.'
'Which boy?'
'The cute one with the shorts.'
'Yes,' she said.
Pause.
'His phone is not working,' she said, looking embarrassed.
I was silly to bring the matter up - can't I see that I had been rejected yet again? Still, I pressed for details. I can do that, because we are friends.
'He said he likes girls, not boys, ' she said finally.
Another rejection. I am getting used to them, as I get older.
'I have a boyfriend anyway, so we can just be drinking friends,' I suggested, to save my own face, and spare Mum further embarrassment.
'That's a good idea. I shall talk to him,' she said, looking relieved.
His decision to reject me is probably just as well, as we would only have clashed. I could not have lived with those golf shorts, I am afraid.
This way, he can keep his shorts on (though he can take them off, if he really insists) - and the two of us get to be friends, too.
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