Mauy, 38, comes from Esan, in the Northeast. Her shop, which sells Esan food and alcohol, consists of metal tables lined up on the sidewalk against a wire fence.
It is basic, but a good, cheap place to eat and drink for people who work in the area.
Many years ago, I used to drink regularly at her shop. Now I rarely visit. The last time was a few months ago. Her shop is on the same road as my office.
Thais are expert at remembering people's names. Muay has always known mine, but until this week I couldn't remember hers.
When it rains, and she sees me walking past, Muay owner asks her son, Chuay, to take me to the office on the back of his motorbike, so I don't have to wade through puddles.
If he's not there, she will ask her husband to do it, or brother-in-law. All three have given me a lift down the road in the past.
In years gone by, the road would flood badly. I would take off my shoes, and wade through ankle-deep water to work.
When it rains, taxis fill up quickly, and tuk tuk drivers don't want to know.
Thanks to climate change, or maybe simply better drainage, flooding on the road is no longer so bad. But if Muay sees me, she will ask one of the boys to take me anyway.
They take me to my office, or in the opposite direction to my bus stop.
The other night, she asked Chuay, a handsome lad aged about 20, to take me to the end of the road towards my bus-stop.
Chuay hopped on his motorbike. I climbed on the back.
As we pootered down the road, I asked after the young man's mother.
"Is she okay?"
"She's fine," he said.
He asked me where I live, and if I had just finished work.
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