rich daughters she was easily the most beautiful woman. It was lust at first sight. It still is. I leaned forward allowing the cold water to pound my neck into submission. When the adrenalin stops, and just before the pain starts to kick in, on the cusp between the two, we have a chance to look at ourselves for what we really are. I was a fucking idiot.
Pim was the first person in my life who chose me. Everyone else had me thrust upon their lives one way or the other. To Por, Joom, Uncle Mike, and even Chai, I was a responsibility. To their creed of honor, an unavoidable duty. Pim chose me. Against the will of her parents and friends, those who knew who I was, she chose to be with me. I dried off, put on a pair of Levis and a t-shirt. I went back down into the living room and sat on the sofa next to her.
She didn't move and didn't stop looking at the magazine, now the right way up. Holding the magazine in her right hand, her elbow on her hip, her fingers twirled a strand of hair with her left. I swung my legs up on the sofa and slid my head onto her thigh. Not looking at her, I felt her muscles tense when I laid my head down. She turned a page in the magazine, being careful not to touch me, the snap of the page speaking volumes. I stayed still, she hadn't pushed me off.
Three more snaps of the page later, I was thinking of the best thing to say. Everything I thought of was lame:
- I should have called (give me a fucking break)
- I'm sorry (every time I hear those words it reminds me of the song: Is all that you can say)
- I've been busy (Oh please or fuck off - take your pick)
- How are you, baby? Wait a minute. That might actually work. Anything’s better than this deafening silence.
I said softly, almost a whisper, “Pim, how you doing, baby?”
My head hit the sofa as she jerked her thigh out from underneath me. The magazine slammed down on the coffee table so hard the bang echoed off the walls. Jumping up, she spun around, one hand in a clenched fist behind her, the other holding a finger a millimeter from my nose. Her knuckles bone white.
“Fuck you, Chance. You were dead two whole days and you didn't think to call me? No. Don't get up. Don't say a fucking thing before I'm done and I throw you out of here. I had to go to your funeral. Your fucking funeral, Chance. You aren't even dead. You've off doing fuck knows what, with fuck knows who, and when you're done you think you can just come here and it's all okay? Well fuck you. Are you really that fucking arrogant or are you just fucking stupid. For God's sake, Chance, I thought for two days, two fucking days, that you were dead. You can't do that to someone. You leave here gonna go to talk with Por and get out of the family business, blah blah blah. The next thing I hear you've been blown up in a fucking massage parlor on Ratchada. Did you tell Por before or after you fucked the whores? And while you're fucking whores, I'm at your funeral surrounded by all the other stupid whores you've fucked. Snidey fucking looks: at least my boyfriend wasn't killed in fucking massage parlor. Shit. You are shit. You didn't even have the decency to get blown up somewhere respectable. No. You had to get blown up in a fucking massage parlor.”
Pim grew up in London. Where she learned her English.
As I sat up, she slapped me. Luckily on the right side of my face. I sat dead still, looking at her. She slapped me again. I looked at her. She punched me. A guy's punch, shoulder behind it, twisting the fist as she connected with my chest. She pulled her arm back for another go and I grabbed her fist. Pulling her onto me, holding her close, she fought like a cat in a net. She'd never been as beautiful. I twisted us around until I got her back on the sofa, and ripped her lacy black panties down. She let loose a feral snarl and punched me on the jaw so hard I saw stars. Then she was on me.
***
She was kneeling between my
Pim was the first person in my life who chose me. Everyone else had me thrust upon their lives one way or the other. To Por, Joom, Uncle Mike, and even Chai, I was a responsibility. To their creed of honor, an unavoidable duty. Pim chose me. Against the will of her parents and friends, those who knew who I was, she chose to be with me. I dried off, put on a pair of Levis and a t-shirt. I went back down into the living room and sat on the sofa next to her.
She didn't move and didn't stop looking at the magazine, now the right way up. Holding the magazine in her right hand, her elbow on her hip, her fingers twirled a strand of hair with her left. I swung my legs up on the sofa and slid my head onto her thigh. Not looking at her, I felt her muscles tense when I laid my head down. She turned a page in the magazine, being careful not to touch me, the snap of the page speaking volumes. I stayed still, she hadn't pushed me off.
Three more snaps of the page later, I was thinking of the best thing to say. Everything I thought of was lame:
- I should have called (give me a fucking break)
- I'm sorry (every time I hear those words it reminds me of the song: Is all that you can say)
- I've been busy (Oh please or fuck off - take your pick)
- How are you, baby? Wait a minute. That might actually work. Anything’s better than this deafening silence.
I said softly, almost a whisper, “Pim, how you doing, baby?”
My head hit the sofa as she jerked her thigh out from underneath me. The magazine slammed down on the coffee table so hard the bang echoed off the walls. Jumping up, she spun around, one hand in a clenched fist behind her, the other holding a finger a millimeter from my nose. Her knuckles bone white.
“Fuck you, Chance. You were dead two whole days and you didn't think to call me? No. Don't get up. Don't say a fucking thing before I'm done and I throw you out of here. I had to go to your funeral. Your fucking funeral, Chance. You aren't even dead. You've off doing fuck knows what, with fuck knows who, and when you're done you think you can just come here and it's all okay? Well fuck you. Are you really that fucking arrogant or are you just fucking stupid. For God's sake, Chance, I thought for two days, two fucking days, that you were dead. You can't do that to someone. You leave here gonna go to talk with Por and get out of the family business, blah blah blah. The next thing I hear you've been blown up in a fucking massage parlor on Ratchada. Did you tell Por before or after you fucked the whores? And while you're fucking whores, I'm at your funeral surrounded by all the other stupid whores you've fucked. Snidey fucking looks: at least my boyfriend wasn't killed in fucking massage parlor. Shit. You are shit. You didn't even have the decency to get blown up somewhere respectable. No. You had to get blown up in a fucking massage parlor.”
Pim grew up in London. Where she learned her English.
As I sat up, she slapped me. Luckily on the right side of my face. I sat dead still, looking at her. She slapped me again. I looked at her. She punched me. A guy's punch, shoulder behind it, twisting the fist as she connected with my chest. She pulled her arm back for another go and I grabbed her fist. Pulling her onto me, holding her close, she fought like a cat in a net. She'd never been as beautiful. I twisted us around until I got her back on the sofa, and ripped her lacy black panties down. She let loose a feral snarl and punched me on the jaw so hard I saw stars. Then she was on me.
***
She was kneeling between my
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