The Woman Who Was a Beach

Sounds of chops and clicks of knives at work, the business of pans underneath the makeshift fire pits. The air smells of grilled skewers of lamb and chicken marinated in lime, soy, and garlic. Everything fades when a cloud of steam blows on my face and mutes all my senses. I bravely walk across it and see a young Thai man standing behind a steel cart. He is hard at work despite no clients in sight. I see the smile on his face as he greets me, exposing his teeth, yellowed from the number of cigarettes he passionately consumes, even while cooking. The fag in his mouth, a constant presence. The meat he hands me has a tobacco aftertaste — the secret ingredient.

I press my teeth onto the skewer and pull a large chunk of meat off of it. It dissolves in my mouth instantly. I take another bite and then one more. I extend my hand almost automatically, and he responds with another skewer. This one is different. The meat is lamb, its taste elevated by spices I do not recognize. I squint my eyes at Somsak, the young Thai. He turns around and points at the girl who stands behind him. “Sister," he says, and I extend my hand. Her skin is rough and warm, almost coarse. I think of sand. Then, I take a better look at her face and almost immediately take my eyes off her. It’s like staring into the sun. When she speaks, I hear a soothing voice that reminds me of steady ocean waves. The wind blows on my face, and I’m sitting on a beach, and everything is alright. My dark impulses are lifted from me, and all there is is solace. 

Somsak says something, but I don’t understand. I guess he wants me to pay, so I push my hand into the pocket of the Hawaiian shirt I am wearing. I try desperately to wiggle the wad of cash free, and it spills all over the warm asphalt at our feet. They do not try to help. They think I hold some preconceived, incorrect presumptions about their intentions. They look at me as I grab the banknotes one by one, aiming only for the largest ones before they too are taken by the wind.

I stand up and hand Somsak what I owe him and more. He grabs the fifty-baht note in both of his hands and raises it above his head. I still can’t look at the sister. I scan her long legs instead. They are pale, almost milky. It suggests that she goes to great lengths to hide from the blazing hot Asian sun. Her feet are small, toenails coated in bright pink polish. I test my resolve and decide to look up again. I stop briefly at her narrow waist, move towards her contrastingly large breasts. I see the whiteness of her neck and stop. I can’t go any further.

Somsak says that I should invite his sister for a coffee. I reply that I would love to. Would she like that? I hear ocean waves and Somsak clapping his hands. It’s a date.

I go back to my apartment. I almost float. I am stricken. It has been years, decades, since I’ve felt something resembling genuine affection. Two milliseconds were enough for her face to burn into my mind. It pops in front of me when I pass the door. I throw the keys onto a heavy glass tray. The picture fades once I take off my shoes and turn my eyes towards the living room; the naked body of a woman lies on the carpet. Her eyes and mouth are open, but her face is relaxed. She doesn’t breathe and is clearly dead. She is right there where I left her.

There’s no time for me to do with her what I’ve done with the others. She must retire to the wardrobe, where I fold her body to fit its narrow space. I’ll deal with her once I deal with Somsak’s sister, I think to myself. I’ll handle both of them at once. There’s no time for me to do what I want to do, I remind myself again, but there will be in three hours once I am back with my new companion. I close the door behind me and notice that the TV is on. Serial Killer on the Loose, the headline reads, and I switch the programs immediately. I do not wish to read about my exploits. I’ve been here too long, I know that, and I need to retire soon. I need to be on the move, but I can’t control what I like, and I like it here, in Phuket. After tonight, however, everyone will know that it was me. Somsak will tell them that I was the last one to see her, and the police will figure out the rest. I can’t stay after today, I repeat in my mind.

The coffee date turns into dinner, and we enter my apartment holding hands. She kisses me once I lock the door behind me, and I awkwardly return the affection. The two bottles of wine we drank in the restaurant have helped me muster the courage to behave like a gentleman should; to look into her eyes, to pay her compliments, to fake polite confidence that doesn’t resemble arrogance.

We kiss, and I can sense the wine escaped through my pores during the walk to my apartment. I suggest opening the bottle; she accepts and excuses herself to the bathroom. I take the glasses from the kitchen cabinet and place them on the counter. From my pocket, I take out a small, round pill and crush it under my hand. With the same one, I push the powder inside the glass before pouring the wine.

I move to the living room, where the TV is still playing. Then I see it. Another Male Victim's Body Found. I reread the headline once, then again, before a heavy ashtray flashes in front of my eyes and everything goes black.

I feel the soft mush on my cheek, the wetness on the top of my head.

I lay on the carpet and bleed profusely.

I can hear a thumping sound coming from the side of my face that is exposed, and as everything fades again, the last thing I see are the bright pink toenails.