Sticky Rice

I made myself some sticky rice tonight.

It was a mistake.

The smell and the texture and the taste, it all reminded me of Joom.

And I began to miss her, badly.

I remember her dipping her brown hand into the bamboo basket to roll up a ball for me. Then she hands it to me with a mischievous smile, as if it were booby-trapped. She still can't believe a farang likes the stuff.

There's always a bowl of fermented fish paste on the table, along with raw cucumbers, those long green beans, and Thai eggplant.

That's a complete meal for Joom. She laughs at me when I complain about not having any meat or curry. She eats Isaan; and she means for me to eat that way too.

We bicker good-naturedly, while her dog Nipoo curls herself around Joom's legs, panting and snapping at the mosquitoes.

We always end the night with a walk on the beach, with embraces, with awkward words from me and indistinct murmurs from her.

Then I have to leave the country. I know she needs money but I haven't any to give to her. It embarrasses me, and makes me unreasonably mad at her, so we part as distant friends, not as lovers.

And I go away, and tell myself I'll forget her after a while, and she'll forget me.

And so it happens. Very slowly for me.

Until tonight, when that cursed sticky rice stirs up memories and passions I don't want to live with anymore.

But like a stomach ache or Charley horse, it will soon pass.

All things must pass . . .

That's in the scriptures somewhere, isn't it?