What Do I Want?

The end of my last post must have been as close as I’ll get to some kind of cliffhanger for you, my dear imaginary reader. Something that might get my friends and family (if I had those things) excited that I’ve met that special someone. I rolled up my sleeves, dusted off my wings and flew to another country to live out my very own Disney fantasy.

My family and friends (when I once had those things) would probably not be fooled, because I have a penchant for being a bit melodramatic. And after I and this girl parted ways, that habit was in full swing.

Hours before we parted ways, she stood on the skywalk ahead of me, another incredibly fit runner-type recording the sunset and gorgeous atmosphere of the park, panning to the right and in my direction. I was the only one blatantly in the way of her camera, and I didn’t want to ruin the shot by walking towards it and filling it up with my derpiness, so I spun around and put my back between her and I, trying to look natural like I was always there, another unimportant decoration in the park.

After it looked like she was done and the coast was clear, I started to walk past and told her I was trying to not screw up the video for her. Her smile is radiant and she asks me if I want a picture. On her phone, I ask? She says yes. Oh God, this is going to another one of those weird lost in translation moments before one of us gets fed up and walks excuses themselves. Most likely her, because she’s way nicer to look at.

I tell her I don’t like having my picture taken (or taking pictures in general it seems, by how devoid my blog is of them), so we settle on me taking a photo of her with her phone. That seems sensible, right?

I’m really confused the more we keep talking, about her new iPhone (and if she’s a fast enough runner if I decide to steal it), where she’s from, and I forget what else, because I’m waiting for that quintessential moment when the Thai girl I’m making innocent conversation with excuses herself and legs it in the opposite direction.

But it’s not happening.

In fact, she extends her hand and tells me her name. What the fuucckkkkk is going on? I forget what I’m supposed to call myself for a second. Confused? Nervous? What? Oh, Kenny. I’m Kenny.

And she doesn’t stop smiling for a while yet, and even asks me if I want to walk with her. She tells me she’s a gym girl, and god damn, it’s very easy to tell. As we walk through dusk, laughing and talking about English accents, food and whatever else, I feel the weight of ourselves leaning against each other, the sweeping of the skin of our arms and hands.

And as I get one last look of her in her gym gear as she exits the BTS and waves to me, I think, “you have absolutely no shot here, mate.”

That thought lingers a bit too long for my liking. That’s nothing new for me, of course! The most stressful thing about meeting a girl for me is totally having to DO something about it. The constant pressure to get it right, the immeasurable weight of not fucking it up when it is going right, the endless despair when no response comes to that witty message I sent… or the extremely boring, direct one thrown out so I don’t come across as try hard by trying to be witty.

Maybe it would be easier to not be thinking too hard about this if I can’t open Instagram for a reminder of how much of an absolute smokeshow she is.

My mind is going off to all kinds of places, jumping to all sorts of conclusions; am I good enough? Am I being played? I there a future here? Should I cancel this plan or that one in case she wants to do something?

Why am I here, again? What am I supposed to be doing?

Oh, chilling out. Relaxing. Finding solitude, a love for my own company, the desire to get out of my studio-shaped coffin in London and be open to the wonders of the whole wide world (not just the web) again.

But my dude. Have you SEEN how much of an absolute smokeshow this girl is? Do you recall the sound of her laugh? Her willingness to smile? That feeling of almost walking hand-in-hand?

Why am I here, again?

I go through a whirlwind of a Monday, trying to wriggle my way out of a dinner reservation so I can have meet up with her, only to then find out she has cancelled on ME to see another friend. And then after going through the motions of slight despair, to acceptance, giving up and sipping on cope, she messages me to say her friend has cancelled on her and asking what I’m doing. Then that she’s too tired to do anything.

Fucking hell, I walk 21,000 steps a day in Bangkok, I rarely sleep well, I go to the gym despite a severe calorie deficit, I’m often overwhelmed by how much there is to do and how I’m not doing it… and nothing is more exhausting than dealing with the long parade of insecurities, anxieties and bands marching to the tune of inadequacy and avoidance when a woman is involved.

BUT. On Tuesday, we meet up at a mall. It’s really hard to play it cool around a girl that’s this hot, oozing confidence in her workout wear. Our arms and hands sweep against one another again, and I’m glad I decided to wear shorts tonight as I overdose on oxytocin as our legs rest into each other.

She shows me her phone where we’ll order the food and we lean towards one another, and my arm just barely hangs around her shoulder. And the parade starts playing the song of, “she’s using you for dinner, dimwit.” Is she? God, I hope not. This place is absolutely not cheap.

“That’s the whole point, dimwit,” the band sings back.

The tug of war inside of me is like, Olympic level. The devil and angel on my shoulders are playing for dear life, like it’s the fucking Squid Games. She’s bored and doesn’t like you. No, she’s just tired. You’re making her tired. No, she said it’s from work. That’s just an excuse. Why would she bother with all that?

I gawk at the sheer amount of meat landing on our table.

“That’s the whole point, dimwit,” the chorus fills up my ears.

The conversation flows slowly, like the meat we’re having to barbecue (or fry, I dunno) ourselves, which I am way too full (or anxious) to eat.

I pay for the bill, because that’s the whole point, dimwit. The only persons permitted to know how much of a cheapskate I am is me and the people working at Primark.

We sit outside of a cafe, her eyelids getting heavy, and sometimes sparking up with light and laughter. Our knees are touching. Occasionally, I lean in to better hear what she’s saying, our faces so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her, and it feels like we’re on a razors edge from possibility and potential… but somehow, still in completely different places.

She asks me how long I’m here for. I tell her 3 more weeks. A pause hangs in the air. She asks me if I’m sad. I ask if she is. I can’t tell if the yes is a joke or not. The band is a bit less loud.

She grabs my hand and starts a few thumb wars, and no going to the gym will ever help anyone defeat me in that sport. Or mental tug of war, it seems.

She has to go home to do more work, and I ask her if I can walk her back. She occasionally grabs my forearm and leads me in the right direction, and as our hands rest against each other, I ask her if Thai people hold hands. She says only couples do that kind of thing.

I hold out my arm and ask if this is okay, then, and she links hers in mine, and I joke that where I’m from, that means we’re hitched now. She asks if I’m single, and I say yeah. In a way, single for 10 years, since I was last in Asia. When I went through these kinds of motions, which felt both easier and harder back then. When I showed up in the country and at the feet of that girl with less baggage. And then left with the weight of knowing everything had been broken, leaving me constantly questioning…