Noon lives alone. She does not miss her.
Noon wakes up by herself, on the mattress in her tiled room, the fan hum lazily shooing mosquitos just out of reach. Their orchid wilting in the corner next to the window, outside of which the city rises, a jungle within a jungle, sleek concrete and glass shapes intertwining the vines and palms and banyan trees. Outside, her motorbike waits patiently, as does the creamy brown cat, yawning as if to ask, aren’t you tired of this yet? Noon hangs an extra helmet from the hook between the handlebars and accepts the first ride.
The morning’s first passenger is an expat. There are two kinds of male European expats in Southeast Asia; ones with shaved heads, sunburns that they don’t care about, and short sleeved shirts; and the kind with undercuts, their hair pulled into small topknots, sleeveless tops, and whatever local wrap goes around the waist- Thai fishing shorts, a sarong, or harem pants. It could be said that there are other kinds of expats but Noon would call all others tourists. This is the bald kind. He is going to a temple halfway across the city, and as the streets begin to awaken, his thighs hug her hips, his only contact to her body as they speed through the dawn.
The second fare is a woman, slight and dressed smartly, going to work at the bank. She cups Noon’s shoulders in her palms and leans into her back, sitting side saddle. This is not the way She used to hold Noon, looking over her shoulder, reading the morning paper. But it is close enough that Noon speeds up, almost trying to shake the feeling.
The next passenger holds her with two hands by the waist, almost formal, as he perches behind her on the way to the market, his head craning over her shoulder to watch the path. This is how She would appear in the kitchen, looking over her shoulder to see the chopping board or the pan, what’s for dinner, she’d ask. Noon does not miss her.
It goes on like this, to coffee shops and hotels and shops, the park, the market, each passenger holding her. Noon takes no notice, her body remembering without her. She does not miss her. She thinks of the weather and traffic and if she will be tipped, whether she should go home and sleep when the sun gets high.
At three o’clock, she picks up a woman, of whom she takes barely any note. Noon does not look at the address, simply following directions on the gps. As they speed up to enter the expressway, the woman leans in, presses into her shoulders, one arm around Noon’s waist, a hand on her upper arm. Her legs, to one side, pressing into Noon’s thigh. She feels a catch and it takes a moment to register that it is not the engine, it is the breath in her throat.
The wind plucks water out of the corner of her eyes, behind the clear plastic visor. This is her. This is her. It must be. This is how we sleep. This is how I wake up with her. In the drowsy afternoon, heat pressing into her skin.
Noon cannot turn her head to look but the scent of Her hair whips across Noon’s face. The passing neighborhood is too familiar, that mango tree, the statue, this wrought iron gate. Turn left, says the gps. They slow. Past the gate.
The woman hops off at a hostel, says thank you, leaves a good tip. It couldn’t have been her. It will never be her.
But her imprint, the shape, her weight. This is her. This is always her.
I miss you, Noon says. To the hot misty air. The jungle says nothing.
