It’s just after noon in a small Thai joint somewhere in the east 30’s on the corner of Madison.

I enter the establishment wearing a t-shirt with a typewriter on it appropriately labeled “writer” in courier print; a tipped Kangol hat; and a pair of men’s carpenter pants, cut to fall halfway down my muscular calves. It’s hot outside.

The “shorts” once belonged to my second husband, and someone before that because they were second-hand like everything else about him. The t-shirt was a birthday present from the first. Divorce is impossible, I’ve learned. It never goes away.

The restaurant is empty and both of the gorgeous Thai serves, one male, one female – both 20 something – are over the moon to see me.

“You’re open right?” I ask knowing that they obviously are but grabbing the chance to flirt with the pair of them.

“Yes, yes!” they say smiling and speaking at the same time.

“Which table? Any table you like.”

I take off my hat and grab a bench seat toward the front where natural light is still flooding in, prior to when the sun tips too far west and afternoon shadows cast. But before I actually land in the seat I say, “Thai beer?”

“Singha?”

“Yes, please.” Continue reading