กายเดียวใจเดียว

 

In​ ​the​ ​shimmering​ ​haze​ ​of​ ​late​ ​afternoon,​ ​where​ ​the​ ​shadows​ ​of​ ​banana​ ​trees​ ​stretched​ ​long​ ​and​ ​languid​ ​across​ ​the​ ​cracked​ ​red​ ​earth,​ ​Sakkarat​ ​was​ ​running​—​not​ ​urgently,​ ​but​ ​with​ ​the​ ​steady​ ​pace​ ​of​ ​someone​ ​who​ ​had​ ​just​ ​stepped​ ​off​ ​the​ ​fields,​ ​knowing​ ​the​ ​shop​ ​might​ ​close​ ​before​ ​dusk.​ ​His​ ​feet​ ​were​ ​caked​ ​in​ ​dry​ ​mud,​ ​his​ ​ankles​ ​visible​ ​from​ ​the​ ​rolled​ ​hems​ ​of​ ​coarse​ ​cotton​ ​pants,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​scent​ ​of​ ​sun-warmed​ ​straw​ ​clung​ ​to​ ​his​ ​damp​ ​shirt.​ 

The​ ​village​ ​of​ ​Moo​ ​Baan​ ​Mayurin,​ ​nestled​ ​in​ ​the​ ​gentle​ ​hills​ ​of​ ​Phrae,​ ​stirred​ ​with​ ​its​ ​usual​ ​quiet​ ​rhythm:​ ​white​ ​and​ ​brown​ ​chickens​ ​strutted​ ​near​ ​the​ ​stilts​ ​of​ ​timber​ ​homes,​ ​while​ ​the​ ​calls​ ​of​ ​playing​ ​children​ ​mingled​ ​with​ ​the​ ​distant​ ​drone​ ​of​ ​a​ ​two-stroke​ ​engine​ ​from​ ​someone​'​s​ ​battered​ ​motorcycle.

The​ ​store​ ​wasn​'​t​ ​marked​ ​by​ ​any​ ​signboard,​ ​but​ ​no​ ​one​ ​in​ ​the​ ​village​ ​needed​ ​one.​ ​Everyone​ ​simply​ ​called​ ​it​ ​the​ ​"​shohuey,​"​ ​an​ ​old​ ​corner​ ​shop,​ ​slightly​ ​slumped​ ​with​ ​age,​ ​where​ ​dusty​ ​shelves​ ​held​ ​cans​ ​of​ ​condensed​ ​milk​ ​alongside​ ​shampoo​ ​packets,​ ​and​ ​dangling​ ​plastic​ ​bags​ ​contained​ ​everything​ ​from​ ​rubber​ ​bands​ ​to​ ​salted​ ​fish.​ ​The​ ​walls,​ ​long​ ​faded​ ​to​ ​the​ ​color​ ​of​ ​old​ ​turmeric,​ ​bore​ ​posters​ ​from​ ​elections​ ​past,​ ​calendars​ ​warped​ ​by​ ​heat,​ ​and​ ​a​ ​shrine​ ​high​ ​up​ ​in​ ​the​ ​corner​ ​adorned​ ​with​ ​incense​ ​stubs​ ​and​ ​half-peeled​ ​marigolds.

As​ ​Sakkarat​ ​stepped​ ​through​ ​the​ ​screen​ ​door,​ ​the​ ​tinkle​ ​of​ ​a​ ​bell​ ​announced​ ​his​ ​arrival.​ ​The​ ​vendor,​ ​a​ ​weathered​ ​man​ ​of​ ​56​ ​with​ ​crow​'​s​ ​feet​ ​like​ ​split​ ​rice​ ​husks​ ​and​ ​a​ ​belly​ ​round​ ​as​ ​a​ ​half-filled​ ​water​ ​jar,​ ​glanced​ ​up​ ​from​ ​his​ ​stool​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​chipped​ ​wooden​ ​counter.​ ​He​ ​wore​ ​a​ ​singlet​ ​stained​ ​under​ ​the​ ​arms​ ​and​ ​a​ ​sinuous​ ​blue​ ​pha​ ​khao​ ​ma​ ​wrapped​ ​tightly​ ​around​ ​his​ ​waist.​ ​His​ ​dialect,​ ​unmistakably​ ​Lanna,​ ​came​ ​out​ ​thick​ ​and​ ​sing-song:

"โ้​!​ ​สัสี​า​เจ๊า​เ้​!​ ​เา​ะ​หั​๋า"​ (​Oh,​ ​hey​ ​there​!​ ​What​ ​do​ ​you​ ​want?)​  

Sakkarat​ ​scratched​ ​at​ ​the​ ​sunburnt​ ​line​ ​just​ ​below​ ​his​ ​ear,​ ​his​ ​voice​ ​more​ ​nasal,​ ​thick​ ​with​ ​the​ ​rhythms​ ​of​ ​Isaan​ ​as​ ​he​ ​adjusted​ ​the​ ​half-wet​ ​cap​ ​on​ ​his​ ​head.

"้า​!​ ​ข​ซื้​้ำั​ปาล์​จั​ห่​แ่​เ้​!​ ​เา​แค่​ครึ่​ข​ะ​ไ้​.​ ​เพิ​่​ใช้​าซื​้​่ะ​!"​ (​Brother​!​ ​Can​ ​I​ ​buy​ ​some​ ​palm​ ​oil?​ ​Just​ ​half​ ​a​ ​bottle​ ​is​ ​fine.​ ​Someone​ ​asked​ ​me​ ​to​ ​buy​ ​it.)​  

The​ ​vendor​'​s​ ​eyes,​ ​dark​ ​as​ ​overripe​ ​tamarinds,​ ​crinkled​ ​even​ ​further​ ​as​ ​he​ ​tilted​ ​his​ ​head.

"เป็​หั​เา​แค่​ครึ่​ ​จั​เา​ไป​ะ​หั​ิ​ั่"​ (​Why​ ​only​ ​half?​ ​What​ ​are​ ​you​ ​going​ ​to​ ​cook?) 

Sakkarat​ ​glanced​ ​down​ ​sheepishly​ ​at​ ​the​ ​floorboards,​ ​then​ ​back​ ​up.​ ​His​ ​lips​ ​formed​ ​a​ ​thin​ ​smile,​ ​boyish​ ​despite​ ​his​ ​thirty-six​ ​years​ ​and​ ​the​ ​weathered​ ​lines​ ​of​ ​his​ ​sun-baked​ ​face.

"่า​...​ั​ั่​ล่ะ​...​หู​ร.​"​ (​Ah...that​ ​is...crispy​ ​pork​ ​belly.)​  

The​ ​vendor​'​s​ ​laugh​ ​erupted,​ ​a​ ​wheezing​ ​bark​ ​like​ ​an​ ​old​ ​bicycle​ ​horn,​ ​and​ ​he​ ​leaned​ ​back,​ ​hands​ ​folded​ ​over​ ​his​ ​belly.

"ฮู้​่​่า​ ​ถ้า​จะ​ะ​หู​ร​,​ ​ซื้​เต​๋​ข​ไป​เล​จะ​ี่า​เ้​ ​จะ​ไ้​่​ต้​าซื​้​แห​ร" ​(​You​ ​know,​ ​if​ ​you​'​re​ ​going​ ​to​ ​make​ ​crispy​ ​pork​ ​belly,​ ​it​'​s​ ​better​ ​to​ ​buy​ ​a​ ​whole​ ​bottle.​ ​So​ ​you​ ​don​'​t​ ​have​ ​to​ ​come​ ​back​ ​to​ ​buy​ ​again.)​  

Sakkarat​ ​shrugged,​ ​the​ ​same​ ​way​ ​he​ ​did​ ​when​ ​Nueanai​ ​told​ ​him​ ​they​'​d​ ​have​ ​to​ ​skip​ ​meat​ ​that​ ​week​ ​because​ ​fertilizer​ ​costs​ ​had​ ​eaten​ ​into​ ​their​ ​savings.

"เิ​ผ​่​ป​ซื้​ั​ที่​เื้​่า​ไ้​ั่​​!​ ​ผ​ีเิ​ห่​เี"​ (​My​ ​money​ ​isn​'​t​ ​enough​ ​to​ ​buy​ ​what​ ​you​ ​suggested​!​ ​I​ ​only​ ​have​ ​a​ ​little​ ​money.) 

"ีเิ​เต้า​ใ"​ (​How​ ​much​ ​money​ ​do​ ​you​ ​have?)​  

"ร้​าท"​ (​One​ ​hundred​ ​baht) 

The​ ​vendor​'​s​ ​thick​ ​eyebrows​ ​climbed​ ​toward​ ​his​ ​thinning​ ​hairline,​ ​leaning​ ​over​ ​the​ ​counter​ ​like​ ​a​ ​schoolteacher​ ​about​ ​to​ ​deliver​ ​a​ ​lesson.

"โ้​!​ ​้ำั​ลิตร​ละ​เ้า​สิ​าท​ ​เ้า​สิ​าท​ ​ั​เหลื​เิท​ตั้​สิ​าท​แห่ะ​!​ ​สิ​าท​!"​ (​Oh​!​ ​Palm​ ​oil​ ​is​ ​ninety​ ​baht​ ​per​ ​liter.​ ​You​'​ll​ ​still​ ​have​ ​ten​ ​baht​ ​change​!​ ​Ten​ ​baht​!​)​  

Sakkarat​'​s​ ​face​ ​lit​ ​up,​ ​eyes​ ​wide​ ​with​ ​childlike​ ​surprise.​ ​He​ ​rubbed​ ​his​ ​callused​ ​hands​ ​together​ ​with​ ​a​ ​dry​ ​whispering​ ​sound​ ​and​ ​beamed.

"คั​ี​หลี​ติ​ ​ขคุณ​หลา​ๆ​ ​เ้​เื้​!"​ (​Really?​ ​Thank​ ​you​ ​very​ ​much,​ ​sister​!​) 

He​ ​cradled​ ​the​ ​plastic​ ​bottle​ ​in​ ​one​ ​arm​ ​as​ ​though​ ​it​ ​were​ ​a​ ​precious​ ​heirloom,​ ​nodding​ ​his​ ​thanks​ ​again​ ​before​ ​slipping​ ​out​ ​the​ ​screen​ ​door.​ ​Outside,​ ​the​ ​light​ ​had​ ​softened,​ ​and​ ​a​ ​breeze​ ​stirred​ ​the​ ​tamarind​ ​leaves.​ ​The​ ​shopkeeper,​ ​still​ ​grinning,​ ​watched​ ​him​ ​disappear​ ​down​ ​the​ ​dusty​ ​path​ ​toward​ ​home,​ ​where​ ​his​ ​husband,​ ​five​ ​years​ ​his​ ​senior​ ​and​ ​with​ ​a​ ​voice​ ​sharp​ ​as​ ​a​ ​bamboo​ ​split​ ​for​ ​skewering​ ​fish,​ ​was​ ​probably​ ​wondering​ ​what​ ​had​ ​taken​ ​him​ ​so​ ​long.

The​ ​golden,​ ​heavy​ ​afternoon​ ​light​ ​came​ ​through​ ​a​ ​misty​ ​layer​ ​of​ ​perspiration​ ​and​ ​rice​ ​chaff.​ ​Three​ ​figures​ ​bowed​ ​and​ ​ascended​ ​with​ ​rhythmic​ ​assurance​ ​in​ ​the​ ​center​ ​of​ ​a​ ​terraced​ ​paddy​ ​that​ ​cut​ ​its​ ​way​ ​up​ ​Phrae​'​s​ ​shallow​ ​slopes.​ ​Dense​ ​and​ ​sun-kissed,​ ​the​ ​mature​ ​rice​ ​swayed​ ​in​ ​clusters,​ ​its​ ​stalks​ ​rustling​ ​in​ ​a​ ​dry​ ​whisper​ ​against​ ​the​ ​slice​ ​of​ ​little​ ​sickles​ ​and​ ​the​ ​tug​ ​of​ ​gloved​ ​hands.​ ​The​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​chlorophyll​ ​and​ ​wet​ ​soil​ ​filled​ ​the​ ​air,​ ​occasionally​ ​disturbed​ ​by​ ​the​ ​distant​ ​cough​ ​of​ ​an​ ​old​ ​diesel​ ​tractor​ ​working​ ​somewhere​ ​down​ ​the​ ​slope​ ​or​ ​the​ ​call​ ​of​ ​a​ ​kingfisher.

With​ ​the​ ​gentle​ ​grace​ ​of​ ​long​ ​habit,​ ​Nueanai​ ​moved.​ ​His​ ​body​ ​was​ ​that​ ​of​ ​a​ ​41-year-old​ ​who​ ​had​ ​never​ ​really​ ​known​ ​rest,​ ​yet​ ​who​ ​had​ ​never​ ​once​ ​faltered.​ ​Every​ ​movement​ ​was​ ​precise,​ ​effective,​ ​and​ ​somewhat​ ​ceremonial:​ ​bending​ ​forward,​ ​cutting​ ​the​ ​yellow​ ​stalks,​ ​and​ ​tying​ ​them​ ​in​ ​a​ ​knot.​ ​Sweat​ ​pooled​ ​at​ ​the​ ​base​ ​of​ ​his​ ​spine​ ​and​ ​clung​ ​to​ ​the​ ​broad​ ​muscles​ ​of​ ​his​ ​shoulders,​ ​darkening​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of​ ​his​ ​short-sleeved​ ​cotton​ ​shirt.​ ​Most​ ​people​ ​couldn​'​t​ ​read​ ​his​ ​face​ ​because​ ​it​ ​was​ ​hidden​ ​by​ ​a​ ​wide-brimmed​ ​bamboo​ ​hat:​ ​quiet​ ​as​ ​a​ ​stone​ ​in​ ​a​ ​river,​ ​remote,​ ​and​ ​uninteresting.​ ​However,​ ​his​ ​hands​ ​betrayed​ ​him;​ ​they​ ​were​ ​always​ ​quick​ ​and​ ​accurate,​ ​never​ ​faltering​ ​even​ ​when​ ​people​ ​stopped​ ​to​ ​chat​ ​or​ ​take​ ​a​ ​breath.

Phan​ ​was​ ​laughing​ ​with​ ​hardly​ ​restrained​ ​joy​ ​to​ ​his​ ​left.​ ​Phan,​ ​who​ ​was​ ​ten​ ​years​ ​younger​ ​than​ ​Nueanai,​ ​was​ ​wiry​ ​where​ ​he​ ​was​ ​thick​ ​and​ ​boisterous​ ​where​ ​he​ ​was​ ​calm.​ ​He​ ​used​ ​his​ ​sickle​ ​for​ ​harvest​ ​as​ ​much​ ​as​ ​for​ ​show.​ ​His​ ​tank​ ​top​ ​was​ ​already​ ​sliding​ ​off​ ​one​ ​shoulder,​ ​exposing​ ​a​ ​tattooed​ ​arm​ ​and​ ​tanned​ ​collarbone,​ ​and​ ​it​ ​was​ ​blotched​ ​with​ ​drying​ ​sweat.​ ​Boom,​ ​stocky,​ ​sharp-tongued,​ ​and​ ​constantly​ ​squinting​ ​as​ ​if​ ​he​ ​were​ ​continuously​ ​viewing​ ​some​ ​half-formed​ ​joke​ ​on​ ​the​ ​horizon,​ ​was​ ​crouching​ ​next​ ​to​ ​him,​ ​dragging​ ​a​ ​sheaf​ ​into​ ​his​ ​lap.

Phan​ ​said,​ ​"​Ai​ ​Nuea,​"​ ​tossing​ ​a​ ​bundle​ ​atop​ ​the​ ​expanding​ ​pile​ ​with​ ​a​ ​thump.​ ​"​Mot​ ​mentioned​ ​that​ ​he​ ​would​ ​fry​ moo​ ​krob​ (​crispy​ ​pork​ ​belly)​ ​for​ ​us​ ​later,​ ​right?​ ​"

Nueanai​ ​didn​'​t​ ​raise​ ​her​ ​gaze.​ ​"​He​ ​did.​"

Through​ ​the​ ​straw​ ​in​ ​his​ ​teeth,​ ​Boom​ ​smiled.​ ​"​Then,​ ​where​ ​is​ ​your​ ​husband?​ ​Do​ ​you​ ​still​ ​feel​ ​like​ ​a​ ​stray​ ​buffalo​ ​wandering​ ​around​ ​the​ ​store?​"

The​ ​older​ ​man​ ​snorted​ ​quietly,​ ​but​ ​his​ ​mouth​ ​barely​ ​curled​ ​at​ ​the​ ​corner.​ ​Before​ ​responding,​ ​he​ ​repositioned​ ​his​ ​hold​ ​on​ ​the​ ​stalks​ ​and​ ​sliced​ ​straight​ ​through​ ​them.

"​He​ ​was​ ​sent​ ​by​ ​Mot​ ​to​ ​purchase​ ​oil.​"

 

"​She​ ​did,​ ​of​ ​course,​"​ ​Phan​ ​added,​ ​beaming.​ ​"​Like​ ​a​ ​dog​ ​to​ ​a​ ​monk,​ ​he​ ​listens​ ​to​ ​her.​ ​Are​ ​you​ ​certain​ ​that​ ​he​ ​is​ ​your​ ​husband​ ​and​ ​not​ ​hers?​"

Nueanai​ ​exhaled,​ ​although​ ​it​ ​wasn​'​t​ ​exactly​ ​a​ ​sigh.​ ​"​That​ ​was​ ​years​ ​ago.​"

"​It​'​s​ ​still​ ​funny,​"​ ​Phan​ ​continued.​ ​"​That​ ​wide-grinning​ ​sun​ ​boy​ ​from​ ​Khon​ ​Kaen​ ​shows​ ​up​ ​with​ ​his​ ​shirt​ ​half​ ​unbuttoned,​ ​as​ ​if​ ​someone​ ​just​ ​dragged​ ​him​ ​out​ ​of​ ​a​ ​nightclub,​ ​and​ ​you​'​re​ ​always​ ​so​ ​serious.​"​ ​He​ ​nearly​ ​made​ ​out​ ​with​ ​you​!​ ​"

Nueanai​ ​nastilly​ ​said,​ ​"​Of​ ​course​!​ ​He​'​s​ ​my​ fucking ​type​ ​to​ suck ​and​ ​want​ ​to​ ​get​ ​married​!​"

Boom​ ​and​ ​Phan​ ​chuckled​ ​a​ ​lot.

"​What​ ​a​ ​proud​ ​pervert​!​"​ ​interjected​ ​Boom.

A​ ​more​ ​pronounced​ ​smile​ ​that​ ​softened​ ​the​ ​severity​ ​of​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​jaw​ ​was​ ​drawn​ ​from​ ​his​ ​face​ ​by​ ​the​ ​mental​ ​image.​ ​He​ ​was​ ​always​ ​wrapping​ ​grains​ ​with​ ​his​ ​fingers:​ ​Sakkarat​ ​insisted​ ​on​ ​ironing​ ​his​ ​shirt,​ ​but​ ​he​ ​perspired​ ​through​ ​it​ ​before​ ​they​ ​had​ ​even​ ​left​ ​the​ ​house,​ ​as​ ​he​ ​vividly​ ​recalled​ ​that​ ​day.​ ​In​ ​the​ ​end,​ ​he​ ​dropped​ ​the​ ​pineapple​ ​he​ ​had​ ​insisted​ ​on​ ​bringing​ ​as​ ​a​ ​gift​ ​for​ ​the​ ​headman​ ​into​ ​a​ ​koi​ ​pond.​ ​Nueanai​ ​had​ ​never​ ​wanted​ ​to​ ​stop​ ​the​ ​man,​ ​who​ ​was​ ​a​ ​tornado​ ​of​ ​affection​ ​and​ ​mayhem.

"​He​ ​brings​ ​items.​ ​After​ ​a​ ​long​ ​silence,​ ​he​ ​said,​ ​"​Color.​"

Phan​'​s​ ​eyebrow​ ​went​ ​up.​ ​"​And​ ​today,​ ​oil.​"

Nueanai​ ​gave​ ​in​ ​to​ ​a​ ​silent​ ​giggle.​ ​"​That​ ​as​ ​well.​"

Phan​ ​ducked​ ​and​ ​yelled​ ​as​ ​Boom​ ​flung​ ​a​ ​sheaf​ ​at​ ​him.​ ​"​He​ ​had​ ​better​ ​move​ ​quickly.​ ​Mot​ ​got​ ​the​ ​pig​ ​belly​ ​this​ ​morning,​ ​I​ ​heard.​ ​new.​ ​We​ ​will​ ​just​ ​receive​ ​scraps​ ​if​ ​we​ ​arrive​ ​late.

With​ ​a​ ​dramatic​ ​groan,​ ​Phan​ ​threw​ ​himself​ ​back​ ​against​ ​the​ ​bundles.​ ​"​Oh​ ​no.​ ​I​'​ve​ ​been​ ​anticipating​ ​that​ ​crispy​ ​skin​ ​for​ ​the​ ​entire​ ​month.​ ​Delays​ ​will​ ​not​ ​be​ ​tolerated​ ​by​ ​the​ ​gods.

The​ ​sparkling​ ​sea​ ​of​ ​rice​ ​was​ ​covered​ ​in​ ​longer​ ​shadows​ ​as​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​sank​ ​lower.​ ​A​ ​warm​ ​breeze​ ​blew​ ​up​ ​from​ ​the​ ​valley,​ ​carrying​ ​the​ ​slightest​ ​hint​ ​of​ ​garlic​ ​and​ ​charcoal​ ​fire,​ ​and​ ​cicadas​ ​were​ ​starting​ ​to​ ​hum​ ​seriously​—​Mot​ ​must​ ​have​ ​already​ ​begun.

Sakkarat​ ​returned​ ​with​ ​light​ ​steps,​ ​a​ ​shirt​ ​soaked​ ​with​ ​sweat,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​faintest​ ​trace​ ​of​ ​rice​ ​chaff​ ​still​ ​clinging​ ​to​ ​his​ ​calves​ ​as​ ​the​ ​late​ ​afternoon​ ​sun​ ​disappeared​ ​behind​ ​the​ ​tamarind​ ​trees.​ ​The​ ​aromas​ ​of​ ​five-spice​ ​and​ ​garlic​ ​blooming​ ​in​ ​oil,​ ​as​ ​well​ ​as​ ​the​ ​more​ ​patient​ ​scent​ ​of​ ​pork​ ​belly​ ​slowly​ ​crisping​ ​over​ ​charcoal,​ ​filled​ ​the​ ​warm​ ​air.​ ​The​ ​soft​ ​rustle​ ​of​ ​packaged​ ​rice​ ​being​ ​stacked​ ​to​ ​dry​ ​blended​ ​with​ ​the​ ​village​'​s​ ​buzz​ ​like​ ​a​ ​lullaby​ ​in​ ​its​ ​throat​ ​as​ ​children​ ​ran​ ​past​ ​barefoot.

Mot​ ​was​ ​down​ ​on​ ​her​ ​haunches​ ​by​ ​the​ ​fireplace,​ ​her​ ​hair​ ​twisted​ ​in​ ​a​ ​haphazard​ ​knot​ ​at​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of​ ​her​ ​neck,​ ​sticky​ ​with​ ​perspiration,​ ​and​ ​her​ ​hands​ ​slippery​ ​with​ ​marinade.​ ​Beneath​ ​the​ ​metal​ ​pan,​ ​a​ ​layer​ ​of​ ​thick-cut​ ​pork​ ​bubbled​ ​beneath​ ​the​ ​embers,​ ​which​ ​hissed​ ​softly​ ​and​ ​spattered​ ​grease.​ ​As​ ​he​ ​walked​ ​up,​ ​bottle​ ​now​ ​empty,​ ​oil​ ​used,​ ​she​ ​glanced​ ​up​ ​at​ ​him​ ​and​ ​he​ ​gave​ ​her​ ​the​ ​remaining​ ​coins,​ ​cool​ ​and​ ​sparkling​ ​against​ ​the​ ​crimson​ ​sunset.

She​ ​smiled​ ​and​ ​said,​ ​"สิ​าท​เหร (​Ten​ ​baht?)"​ ​in​ ​a​ ​soft​ ​Lanna​ ​tone.​ 

Then,​ ​with​ ​ease,​ ​moving​ ​to​ ​fun​ ​and​ ​concise​ ​Central​ ​Thai:​ ​"​Oh,​ ​just​ ​put​ ​it​ ​there,​ ​Sakkarat​!​ ​Many​ ​thanks.​"

Wiping​ ​his​ ​hands​ ​on​ ​his​ ​thighs,​ ​he​ ​grinned.​ ​"​Welcome,​ ​Mot.​ ​In​ ​any​ ​case,​ ​it​ ​appears​ ​that​ ​our​ ​farmers​ ​are​ ​happier​ ​with​ ​the​ ​way​ ​the​ moo​ ​krob ​is​ ​cooked​ ​and​ ​presented.​"

With​ ​a​ ​chuckle,​ ​Mot​ ​returned​ ​to​ ​stirring​ ​the​ ​pan​ ​with​ ​a​ ​bamboo​ ​spatula,​ ​her​ ​mouth​ ​twisted​ ​in​ ​a​ ​knowing​ ​smirk.​ ​She​ ​winked​ ​and​ ​remarked,​ ​"​They​'​re​ ​more​ ​on​ ​food​ ​than​ ​labor.​ ​Since​ ​I​ ​chose​ ​to​ ​prepare​ ​these​ ​rather​ ​than​ ​harvest​ ​them,​ ​I​ ​would​ ​like​ ​to​ ​thank​ ​you​ ​for​ ​your​ ​labor.​"

The​ ​dust​ ​swirled​ ​momentarily​ ​from​ ​his​ ​trouser​ ​legs​ ​as​ ​he​ ​lowered​ ​his​ ​head​ ​slightly​ ​in​ ​that​ ​habitual​ ​gesture​ ​of​ ​humility.​ ​"​Don​'​t​ ​worry,​ ​sister​ ​Mot.​"

She​ ​glanced​ ​over​ ​her​ ​shoulder​ ​at​ ​him.

"​Don​'​t​ ​call​ ​me​ ​'​Sister​ ​Mot​'​!​ ​Only​ ​Mot.​ ​All​ ​right?​ ​"

He​ ​gave​ ​a​ ​bashful​ ​laugh.​ ​"​All​ ​right,​ ​Mot.​"

Then​ ​her​ ​voice​ ​grew​ ​slightly​ ​softer.​ ​"​You​'​re​ ​so​ ​lucky​ ​when​ ​you​'​re​ ​with​ ​Nueanai,​"​ ​she​ ​added,​ ​tapping​ ​the​ ​pan​'​s​ ​edge​ ​while​ ​revealing​ ​a​ ​deeper​ ​meaning​ ​beneath​ ​her​ ​voice.​ ​"​Your​ ​spouse.​"

Sakkarat​'​s​ ​stance​ ​momentarily​ ​stiffened​ ​and​ ​then​ ​relaxed​ ​as​ ​he​ ​blinked.​ ​Mot​ ​rarely​ ​expressed​ ​emotion,​ ​but​ ​when​ ​she​ ​did,​ ​it​ ​was​ ​spot​ ​on.​ ​She​ ​continued.

"​I​ ​initially​ ​believed​ ​you​ ​to​ ​be​ ​a​ ​filthy-rich​ ​individual.​ ​City​ ​boy,​ ​you​ ​know.​ ​Clean​ ​teeth.​ ​With​ ​a​ ​playful​ ​smile,​ ​she​ ​said,​ ​"​Pretty​ ​eyelashes,​ ​large​ ​body,​ ​who​ ​doesn​'​t​ ​do​ ​hard​ ​jobs.​ ​However,​ ​you​ ​later​ ​acknowledged​ ​that​ ​you​ ​are​ ​a​ ​low-class​ ​individual.​"

Now​ ​he​ ​rubbed​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of​ ​his​ ​neck​ ​and​ ​laughed​ ​out​ ​loud.​ ​"​Yeah,​ ​but​ ​I​ ​partied​ ​with​ ​my​ ​earned​ ​money​ ​at​ ​the​ ​time.​"

With​ ​practiced​ ​finesse,​ ​Mot​ ​turned​ ​a​ ​crisped​ ​chunk​ ​of​ ​pork​ ​with​ ​tongs​ ​and​ ​murmured,​ ​"​Ah,​ ​that​'​s​ ​why.​"​ ​She​ ​looked​ ​up​ ​at​ ​him​ ​steadily​ ​and​ ​unflinchingly​ ​and​ ​said,​ ​"​But​ ​you?​ ​You​ ​were​ ​at​ ​your​ ​best​ ​in​ ​terms​ ​of​ ​rice​ ​farming​ ​because​ ​of​ ​Nueanai.​"

More​ ​than​ ​the​ ​taunting,​ ​the​ ​words​ ​took​ ​him​ ​by​ ​surprise.​ ​He​ ​didn​'​t​ ​respond​ ​for​ ​a​ ​time,​ ​instead​ ​letting​ ​his​ ​gaze​ ​wander​ ​past​ ​her​ ​to​ ​the​ ​far​ ​field​ ​where​ ​he​ ​could​ ​barely​ ​make​ ​out​ ​Boom​ ​and​ ​Phan​'​s​ ​silhouettes​ ​as​ ​they​ ​loaded​ ​packages​ ​onto​ ​the​ ​truck​ ​bed.​ ​Among​ ​them,​ ​he​ ​considered​ ​the​ ​silhouette​ ​of​ ​Nueanai​—​firm,​ ​methodical,​ ​and​ ​consistently​ ​composed​ ​in​ ​his​ ​strides,​ ​as​ ​though​ ​each​ ​step​ ​had​ ​a​ ​connection​ ​to​ ​the​ ​ground​ ​that​ ​Sakkarat​ ​was​ ​still​ ​trying​ ​to​ ​comprehend.

Mot​ ​didn​'​t​ ​respond​ ​right​ ​away.​ ​She​ ​observed​ ​him​ ​for​ ​a​ ​moment,​ ​her​ ​expression​ ​unreadable​ ​in​ ​the​ ​flickering​ ​firelight.​ ​Then​ ​she​ ​nodded​ ​slowly,​ ​her​ ​lips​ ​forming​ ​a​ ​semblance​ ​of​ ​approval.​ 

"​Well,​"​ ​she​ ​began,​ ​"​it​'​s​ ​evident.​ ​You​ ​two​ ​shine​ ​together,​ ​like​ ​a​ ​sunrise​ ​over​ ​the​ ​rice​ ​paddies.​"​ 

At​ ​that​ ​moment,​ ​the​ ​wind​ ​shifted,​ ​bringing​ ​with​ ​it​ ​the​ ​rich,​ ​salty​ ​aroma​ ​of​ ​pork​ ​skin​ ​sizzling​ ​to​ ​perfection.

The​ ​day​'​s​ ​hue​ ​had​ ​started​ ​to​ ​gradually​ ​fade​ ​into​ ​amber​ ​by​ ​the​ ​time​ ​Sakkarat​ ​made​ ​his​ ​way​ ​back​ ​to​ ​the​ ​fields.​ ​Above​ ​them,​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​now​ ​leaned​ ​low​ ​against​ ​the​ ​western​ ​mountains,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​sky,​ ​striped​ ​with​ ​reddish​ ​gold,​ ​spread​ ​tenderly​ ​and​ ​wide.​ ​Over​ ​the​ ​chopped​ ​stubble​ ​and​ ​rice​ ​sheaves​ ​spread​ ​out​ ​on​ ​the​ ​ground​ ​like​ ​dozing​ ​children,​ ​it​ ​created​ ​long,​ ​gentle​ ​shadows.​ ​As​ ​if​ ​sensing​ ​the​ ​last​ ​of​ ​the​ ​sunny​ ​heat​ ​and​ ​singing​ ​to​ ​it​ ​while​ ​they​ ​could,​ ​the​ ​dry​ ​cicada​ ​drone​ ​became​ ​louder.

He​ ​was​ ​in​ ​the​ ​same​ ​half-harvested​ ​quadrant​ ​of​ ​the​ ​paddy​ ​as​ ​Boom,​ ​Phan,​ ​and​ ​Nueanai,​ ​where​ ​the​ ​bundling​ ​was​ ​almost​ ​finished.​ ​With​ ​his​ ​sleeves​ ​rolled​ ​up​ ​to​ ​his​ ​elbows​ ​and​ ​his​ ​forearms​ ​corded​ ​with​ ​muscle​ ​from​ ​the​ ​weeks​ ​spent​ ​outdoors,​ ​Nueanai​ ​stood​ ​in​ ​the​ ​middle​ ​of​ ​it.​ ​While​ ​Boom,​ ​kneeling​ ​like​ ​a​ ​weary​ ​toad,​ ​bundled​ ​the​ ​remainder​ ​with​ ​rope​ ​he​ ​kept​ ​tucked​ ​in​ ​his​ ​waistband,​ ​Phan​ ​was​ ​whistling​ ​some​ ​half-lewd​ ​folk​ ​tune​ ​and​ ​flicking​ ​his​ ​sickle​ ​idly​ ​through​ ​a​ ​few​ ​remaining​ ​stalks.

Beside​ ​his​ ​husband,​ ​Sakkarat​ ​settled​ ​into​ ​a​ ​beat,​ ​their​ ​bodies​ ​so​ ​accustomed​ ​to​ ​each​ ​other​'​s​ ​cadence​ ​that​ ​none​ ​of​ ​them​ ​talked.​ ​There​ ​was​ ​a​ ​rhythm​ ​to​ ​the​ ​simple​ ​task,​ ​the​ ​lean,​ ​the​ ​gather,​ ​the​ ​cut,​ ​as​ ​if​ ​they​ ​were​ ​beating​ ​time​ ​on​ ​the​ ​planet​ ​itself.​ ​Words​ ​weren​'​t​ ​necessary​ ​for​ ​them.​ ​Not​ ​here,​ ​not​ ​as​ ​the​ ​evening​ ​light​ ​illuminated​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​silent​ ​face​ ​and​ ​chiseled​ ​out​ ​the​ ​power​ ​in​ ​their​ ​shoulders.

Then,​ ​over​ ​the​ ​hum​ ​of​ ​insects​ ​and​ ​faint​ ​conversation,​ ​they​ ​heard​ ​Mot​'​s​ ​well-known​ ​voice​ ​rise​ ​from​ ​the​ ​direction​ ​of​ ​the​ ​tiny​ ​outdoor​ ​kitchen,​ ​which​ ​was​ ​merely​ ​a​ ​lean-to​ ​constructed​ ​on​ ​hardened​ ​soil​ ​and​ ​covered​ ​with​ ​corrugated​ ​metal.

"เ้า​!​ ​พ​่​!​ ​เรี​ทุค​า​เล​—​หู​ร​เสร็จ​แล้​! ​(Hey​!​ ​The​ ​pork​ ​belly​ ​is​ ​ready​!​ ​Call​ ​everyone​ ​to​ ​come​!​ ​That​'​s​ ​done​ ​for​ ​now​!)

Boom​ ​was​ ​so​ ​excited​ ​that​ ​he​ ​almost​ ​dropped​ ​his​ ​gift.​ ​He​ ​jumped​ ​up​ ​and​ ​whispered,​ ​"​Moo​ ​krob,​ ​baby.​ ​That​ ​is​ ​a​ ​divine​ ​summons.​"

Sakkarat​ ​quietly​ ​chuckled​ ​and​ ​pushed​ ​Nueanai​ ​with​ ​his​ ​elbow​ ​as​ ​Phan​ ​whooped​ ​and​ ​threw​ ​his​ ​sickle​ ​into​ ​the​ ​ground​ ​with​ ​a​ ​dramatic​ ​flourish.

Sakkarat​ ​remarked,​ ​"​She​'​s​ ​not​ ​even​ ​using​ ​a​ ​gong.​"

Nueanai​ ​said,​ ​wiping​ ​his​ ​hands​ ​on​ ​his​ ​trousers,​ ​"​She​ ​doesn​'​t​ ​need​ ​one.​ ​Men​ ​move​ ​more​ ​quickly​ ​than​ ​during​ ​harvest​ ​just​ ​by​ ​saying​ ​the​ ​word​ ​'moo​ ​krob'​.​"

When​ ​it​ ​was​ ​time​ ​for​ ​dinner,​ ​everyone​ ​assembled​ ​on​ ​woven​ ​mats​ ​around​ ​the​ ​fire,​ ​where​ ​trays​ ​of​ ​crispy,​ ​steaming,​ ​brown-edged,​ ​and​ ​glossy​ ​pork​ ​belly​ ​were​ ​placed​ ​on​ ​a​ ​low​ ​wooden​ ​table.​ ​There​ ​were​ ​bamboo​ ​baskets​ ​of​ ​sticky​ ​rice,​ ​sliced​ ​cucumbers,​ ​and​ ​dipping​ ​sauces​ ​full​ ​of​ ​chili​ ​and​ ​garlic.​ ​For​ ​a​ ​short​ ​moment,​ ​the​ ​fatigue​ ​of​ ​work​ ​vanished​ ​into​ ​the​ ​satisfaction​ ​of​ ​full​ ​mouths​ ​and​ ​cozy​ ​companionship​ ​as​ ​the​ ​laughter​ ​was​ ​loud​ ​and​ ​the​ ​chatter​ ​flowed​ ​as​ ​effortlessly​ ​as​ ​the​ ​lao​ ​khao​ ​Mot​ ​poured​ ​from​ ​a​ ​repurposed​ ​glass​ ​bottle.

Nueanai​ ​and​ ​Sakkarat​ ​walked​ ​home​ ​together​ ​under​ ​a​ ​faint​ ​canopy​ ​of​ ​stars​ ​long​ ​after​ ​the​ ​fire​ ​had​ ​subsided​ ​and​ ​everyone​ ​else​ ​had​ ​fled​ ​to​ ​their​ ​own​ ​houses,​ ​strewn​ ​across​ ​the​ ​paddies​ ​and​ ​gathered​ ​close​ ​to​ ​the​ ​edge​ ​of​ ​the​ ​forest.

Their​ ​house​ ​was​ ​a​ ​simple​ ​elevated​ ​wooden​ ​building​ ​with​ ​bamboo​ ​slats​ ​and​ ​a​ ​thatched​ ​roof​ ​made​ ​of​ ​rice​ ​straw,​ ​with​ ​no​ ​cement​ ​walls​ ​or​ ​ceramic​ ​tiles.​ ​As​ ​they​ ​stepped​ ​inside,​ ​their​ ​shadows​ ​dancing​ ​against​ ​the​ ​smoke-darkened​ ​walls​ ​and​ ​ancient​ ​woven​ ​rugs,​ ​it​ ​groaned​ ​beneath​ ​their​ ​boots​ ​to​ ​a​ ​familiar​ ​tune.

Nueanai​ ​took​ ​a​ ​deep​ ​breath​ ​through​ ​his​ ​nostrils​ ​and​ ​walked​ ​to​ ​the​ ​room​'​s​ ​corner.​ ​He​ ​peeled​ ​off​ ​his​ ​mor​ ​hom​ ​shirt​ ​without​ ​ceremony,​ ​lifting​ ​his​ ​arms​ ​and​ ​stretching​ ​till​ ​his​ ​joints​ ​creaked​ ​slightly,​ ​the​ ​movement​ ​pulling​ ​up​ ​his​ ​chest​ ​and​ ​revealing​ ​the​ ​sun-dark​ ​planes​ ​of​ ​his​ ​torso.

The​ ​clothing​ ​fell​ ​to​ ​the​ ​floor​ ​in​ ​a​ ​gentle​ ​heap,​ ​drenched​ ​through​ ​and​ ​dusty​ ​with​ ​the​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​fieldwork​ ​and​ ​smoke.

His​ ​broad-chested,​ ​waist-tight​ ​physique​ ​resembled​ ​a​ ​carved​ ​relic​ ​of​ ​some​ ​village​ ​deity;​ ​as​ ​he​ ​reached​ ​to​ ​hang​ ​the​ ​shirt​ ​on​ ​a​ ​hanger,​ ​the​ ​muscular​ ​rise​ ​across​ ​his​ ​back​ ​flexed​ ​slightly.​ ​Sakkarat​ ​had​ ​noticed​ ​his​ ​quiet​ ​ease​ ​of​ ​movement​ ​when​ ​they​ ​had​ ​first​ ​labored​ ​side​ ​by​ ​side,​ ​sharing​ ​a​ ​mattock​ ​and​ ​no​ ​words.​ ​He​ ​didn​'​t​ ​say​ ​anything.

Sakkarat​ ​gave​ ​his​ ​eyes​ ​a​ ​single,​ ​piercing​ ​glance​ ​over​ ​his​ ​husband​'​s​ ​body​ ​before​ ​turning​ ​away​ ​after​ ​blinking​ ​once​ ​and​ ​shaking​ ​his​ ​head​ ​slightly​ ​as​ ​if​ ​to​ ​shake​ ​off​ ​an​ ​idea.

The​ ​rice​ ​pot​ ​was​ ​still​ ​there,​ ​and​ ​he​ ​ducked​ ​inside​ ​the​ ​tiny​ ​side-kitchen​ ​area.​ ​"​Still​ ​warm,​ ​but​ ​needs​ ​reheating,​"​ ​he​ ​murmured,​ ​scowling​ ​as​ ​he​ ​lifted​ ​the​ ​bamboo​ ​lid.

He​ ​watched​ ​the​ ​steam​ ​rise​ ​slowly​ ​and​ ​gracefully​ ​as​ ​he​ ​scooped​ ​it​ ​into​ ​the​ ​small​ ​pan​ ​and​ ​placed​ ​it​ ​on​ ​the​ ​clay​ ​fire.​ ​Uninvited,​ ​however,​ ​his​ ​gaze​ ​strayed​ ​up​ ​to​ ​the​ ​open​ ​doorway​ ​where​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​shadow​ ​lay​ ​languidly​ ​against​ ​the​ ​wall,​ ​fingers​ ​slowly​ ​untying​ ​the​ ​waistband​'​s​ ​tie​ ​and​ ​creating​ ​tense​ ​lines​ ​over​ ​his​ ​hips.

Sakkarat​ ​let​ ​out​ ​a​ ​quiet​ ​breath​ ​through​ ​his​ ​nose​ ​and​ ​blinked​ ​once​ ​more.

He​ ​said,​ ​half-thinking,​ ​"​I​ ​thought​ ​there​ ​was​ ​another​ ​moo​ ​krob​ ​to​ ​cook.​"

Nueanai​'​s​ ​voice,​ ​dry​ ​yet​ ​tinged​ ​with​ ​laughter,​ ​floated​ ​in​ ​behind​ ​him​ ​like​ ​a​ ​gentle​ ​breeze.

"​Why,​ ​honey?​ ​Don​'​t​ ​you​ ​feel​ ​bloated​ ​after​ ​eating​ ​dinner​ ​recently?​"​ ​he​ ​inquired.

Sakkarat​ ​absently​ ​prodded​ ​the​ ​rice​ ​while​ ​muttering​ ​a​ ​laugh.

His​ ​lips​ ​quirked​ ​as​ ​he​ ​continued,​ ​"​Not​ ​from​ ​the​ ​pork,​ ​but​ ​from​ ​what​ ​comes​ ​after.​"

Although​ ​Nueanai​ ​took​ ​a​ ​while​ ​to​ ​respond,​ ​the​ ​little​ ​movement​ ​of​ ​the​ ​wooden​ ​planks​ ​behind​ ​him​ ​said​ ​more​ ​than​ ​words​ ​could.​ ​The​ ​house​ ​gave​ ​a​ ​soft​ ​creak.​ ​The​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​the​ ​rice​ ​intensified,​ ​blending​ ​with​ ​the​ ​tiniest​ ​hint​ ​of​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​skin​—​smoke,​ ​salt,​ ​and​ ​sun​—​as​ ​the​ ​frogs​ ​outside​ ​started​ ​their​ ​nocturnal​ ​symphony.

The​ ​night​ ​was​ ​going​ ​to​ ​be​ ​warm.​ 

The​ ​gentle​ ​clink​ ​of​ ​the​ ​spatula​ ​against​ ​the​ ​ancient​ ​metal​ ​pot​ ​fell​ ​into​ ​a​ ​leisurely​ ​rhythm​—​almost​ ​hypnotic​—​within​ ​the​ ​dark​ ​warmth​ ​of​ ​their​ ​straw-and-wood​ ​home,​ ​where​ ​the​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​reheated​ ​rice​ ​blended​ ​with​ ​hints​ ​of​ ​leftover​ ​pork​ ​and​ ​firewood​ ​ash.​ ​Outside,​ ​frogs​ ​were​ ​croaking​ ​in​ ​the​ ​night,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​whisper​ ​of​ ​wind​ ​along​ ​banana​ ​leaves​ ​occasionally​ ​interrupted​ ​the​ ​slow-breathing​ ​jungle​ ​hum.​ ​Long​ ​shadows​ ​were​ ​produced​ ​on​ ​the​ ​bamboo​ ​floor​ ​by​ ​the​ ​soft,​ ​low-flickering​ ​orange​ ​illumination​ ​from​ ​the​ ​hearth.

Already​ ​bare-chested,​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​strong​ ​form​ ​made​ ​a​ ​silhouette​ ​against​ ​the​ ​wall​ ​as​ ​he​ ​walked​ ​behind​ ​Sakkarat​ ​like​ ​a​ ​ghost​ ​of​ ​perspiration​ ​and​ ​determination.​ ​His​ ​voice​ ​was​ ​low​ ​and​ ​playful​ ​as​ ​he​ ​stepped​ ​close​—​too​ ​close,​ ​on​ ​purpose​—​and​ ​leaned​ ​in​ ​next​ ​to​ ​his​ ​husband​'​s​ ​neck.

He​ ​drewled,​ ​his​ ​lips​ ​within​ ​an​ ​inch​ ​from​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​cheek​ ​curve,​ ​"​but​ ​you​ ​looked​ ​so​ ​normally​ ​surprised​ ​when​ ​you​ ​saw​ ​the​ moo​ ​krob ​earlier...​ ​in​ ​front​ ​of​ ​you.​"

The​ ​steam​ ​curled​ ​up​ ​into​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​face​ ​as​ ​he​ ​froze,​ ​holding​ ​the​ ​rice​ ​spoon.

"​Well,​"​ ​Nueanai​ ​whispered​ ​nearer,​ ​"​what​ ​would​ ​you​ ​like​ ​to​ ​dip​ ​into?​"

Sakkarat​'​s​ ​ears​ ​immediately​ ​became​ ​red​ ​in​ ​response​ ​to​ ​that.​ ​As​ ​if​ ​to​ ​shoo​ ​away​ ​a​ ​mosquito​ ​that​ ​had​ ​developed​ ​arms​ ​and​ ​flirted,​ ​he​ ​gave​ ​his​ ​husband​ ​a​ ​little​ ​shove​ ​with​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of​ ​his​ ​shoulder​ ​and​ ​let​ ​out​ ​a​ ​short​ ​giggle​ ​through​ ​his​ ​nose.

"​Stop​ ​it,​"​ ​he​ ​snorted,​ ​his​ ​cheeks​ ​heating​ ​now​ ​as​ ​his​ ​gaze​ ​flickered​ ​to​ ​the​ ​rice​ ​and​ ​then​ ​to​ ​the​ ​side.​ ​"​As​ ​a​ ​result,​ ​we​ ​are​ ​already​ ​full.​ ​No​ ​more​ moo​ ​krob,​ ​I​ ​promise.​ ​Never.​"

Then,​ ​with​ ​a​ ​faint​ ​sneer,​ ​he​ ​turned​ ​and​ ​slowly​ ​and​ ​deliberately​ ​jabbed​ ​one​ ​finger​ ​into​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​chest.

"​Like​ ​yours.​"

Even​ ​though​ ​it​ ​was​ ​a​ ​playful​ ​jab,​ ​the​ ​heat​ ​behind​ ​his​ ​eyes​ ​suggested​ ​that​ ​much​ ​more​ ​was​ ​going​ ​on​ ​beneath​ ​the​ ​surface.

Nueanai​'​s​ ​face​ ​became​ ​artistically​ ​hurt,​ ​with​ ​her​ ​shoulders​ ​dropping​ ​and​ ​her​ ​lips​ ​parting​ ​in​ ​a​ ​dramatic​ ​sigh.

"​Oh?​"​ ​As​ ​his​ ​fingers​ ​untied​ ​his​ ​shorts​ ​and​ ​let​ ​them​ ​drop​ ​without​ ​a​ ​fuss,​ ​he​ ​spoke​ ​in​ ​a​ ​low,​ ​husky​ ​voice.​ ​Nothing​ ​stood​ ​between​ ​him​ ​and​ ​the​ ​evening​ ​air​ ​as​ ​they​ ​gathered​ ​about​ ​his​ ​feet.​ ​The​ ​shine​ ​of​ ​a​ ​long​ ​day​'​s​ ​work​ ​and​ ​the​ ​warmth​ ​of​ ​the​ ​hearth​ ​gave​ ​his​ ​skin​ ​a​ ​slight​ ​gloss.

He​ ​muttered,​ ​"​Well​ ​then,​"​ ​and​ ​took​ ​a​ ​slow​ ​step​ ​forward,​ ​his​ ​massive​ ​thighs​ ​moving​ ​with​ ​unhurried​ ​ease.​ ​How​ ​about​ ​this​ ​one?​ ​Hmm?​ ​"

He​ ​smiled,​ ​completely​ ​unafraid.​ ​"​Five​ ​inches.​ ​Juicy.​ ​All​ ​set.​"

He​ ​stood​ ​there​ ​with​ ​his​ ​chest​ ​bare,​ ​his​ ​body​ ​strong​ ​and​ ​sliced​ ​as​ ​if​ ​he​ ​had​ ​been​ ​honed​ ​by​ ​fieldwork​ ​and​ ​machetes.​ ​His​ ​muscles​ ​were​ ​substantial​ ​from​ ​the​ ​labor​ ​of​ ​harvesting​ ​rice,​ ​and​ ​his​ ​complexion​ ​was​ ​colored​ ​by​ ​the​ ​sun​ ​and​ ​perspiration.​ ​His​ ​cock,​ ​which​ ​was​ ​four​ ​inches​ ​long​ ​and​ ​half-roused​ ​between​ ​his​ ​legs,​ ​was​ ​as​ ​proud​ ​as​ ​any​ ​man​'​s,​ ​but​ ​he​ ​didn​'​t​ ​back​ ​down​ ​in​ ​response.​ ​Not​ ​once.

With​ ​a​ ​gleam​ ​in​ ​his​ ​eye,​ ​he​ ​cocked​ ​his​ ​head​ ​to​ ​face​ ​Nueanai.

"​Four​ ​inches,​"​ ​he​ ​informed​ ​me.​ ​"​And​ ​still​ ​more​ ​appealing​ ​than​ ​yours.​"

Nueanai​'​s​ ​ribs​ ​vibrated​ ​with​ ​a​ ​deep,​ ​breathy​ ​laugh​ ​at​ ​that.​ 

He​ ​whispered,​ ​"​I​ ​like​ ​party​ ​boys​ ​like​ ​you,​"​ ​before​ ​slicing​ ​forward​ ​and​ ​slamming​ ​his​ ​mouth​ ​onto​ ​Sakkarat​'​s.

It​ ​wasn​'​t​ ​a​ ​slow,​ ​soft​ ​kiss.​ ​They​ ​were​ ​crushed​ ​close,​ ​skin​ ​to​ ​sweat-slick​ ​skin,​ ​heat​ ​to​ ​heat.​Mouths​ ​pressed,​ ​teeth​ ​grabbed​ ​lips,​ ​hands​ ​wandered,​ ​arms​ ​locked​ ​behind​ ​backs,​ ​thighs​ ​moving​ ​for​ ​control.​ ​With​ ​a​ ​moan,​ ​Sakkarat​ ​dug​ ​into​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​lower​ ​back​ ​and​ ​drew​ ​him​ ​in​ ​until​ ​their​ ​cocks​ ​brushed​ ​against​ ​one​ ​other,​ ​quivering​ ​with​ ​desire​ ​and​ ​heat.

Forgotten​ ​now,​ ​steam​ ​still​ ​curled​ ​languidly​ ​from​ ​the​ ​adjoining​ ​rice​ ​pot.

Under​ ​them,​ ​the​ ​floor​ ​was​ ​warm,​ ​seasoned​ ​by​ ​the​ ​weight​ ​of​ ​years​ ​of​ ​walking​ ​barefoot​ ​and​ ​the​ ​heat​ ​from​ ​the​ ​adjacent​ ​hearth.​ ​As​ ​Nueanai​ ​and​ ​Sakkarat​ ​leaned​ ​toward​ ​each​ ​other,​ ​their​ ​mouths​ ​meeting​ ​with​ ​ravenous​ ​precision,​ ​their​ ​straw​ ​mat​ ​rustled​ ​beneath​ ​changing​ ​bodies.​ ​Their​ ​kiss​ ​was​ ​deep,​ ​trained,​ ​and​ ​urgent,​ ​not​ ​one​ ​of​ ​exploration​ ​but​ ​of​ ​remembering.​ ​Sweat​ ​slicked​ ​their​ ​skin,​ ​salt​ ​blending​ ​with​ ​the​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​cooked​ ​rice,​ ​fire​ ​smoke,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​earthy​ ​tang​ ​of​ ​bodies​ ​worn​ ​by​ ​labor,​ ​lips​ ​sliding​ ​and​ ​locking,​ ​tongues​ ​brushing​ ​with​ ​steady​ ​friction,​ ​and​ ​breaths​ ​hitting​ ​and​ ​dissolving​ ​into​ ​each​ ​other​'​s​ ​mouths.

Sakkarat​ ​arched​ ​beneath​ ​Nueanai,​ ​his​ ​calloused​ ​fingers​ ​clutching​ ​his​ ​husband​'​s​ ​nape​ ​while​ ​his​ ​back​ ​brushed​ ​the​ ​woven​ ​mat.​ ​As​ ​Nueanai​ ​moved​ ​his​ ​weight​ ​and​ ​slid​ ​between​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​open​ ​legs,​ ​they​ ​both​ ​still​ ​tasted​ ​the​ ​satisfaction​ ​of​ ​the​ ​after-dinner​ ​meal​ ​but​ ​were​ ​craving​ ​something​ ​completely​ ​different.​ ​A​ ​gentle​ ​groan​ ​of​ ​contact​ ​sounded​ ​between​ ​them.​ ​Greedily,​ ​hands​ ​moved​ ​over​ ​solid​ ​chests,​ ​down​ ​the​ ​familiar​ ​ridges​ ​of​ ​each​ ​other​'​s​ ​torsos,​ ​and​ ​over​ ​the​ ​broad​ ​curves​ ​of​ ​thighs​ ​until​ ​they​ ​were​ ​unable​ ​to​ ​remain​ ​horizontal​ ​any​ ​longer.

Breathless​ ​from​ ​the​ ​kiss​ ​and​ ​the​ ​weight​ ​of​ ​everything​ ​that​ ​had​ ​been​ ​building​ ​since​ ​the​ ​field,​ ​the​ ​meal,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​kitchen,​ ​they​ ​stumbled​ ​to​ ​their​ ​feet​ ​in​ ​a​ ​desperate​ ​tangle​ ​of​ ​limbs​ ​and​ ​half-choked​ ​laughter.​ ​As​ ​Nueanai​ ​pressed​ ​against​ ​Sakkarat​ ​once​ ​more,​ ​his​ ​back​ ​collided​ ​with​ ​the​ ​wall,​ ​and​ ​they​ ​were​ ​pulled​ ​into​ ​the​ ​living​ ​room,​ ​where​ ​the​ ​wooden​ ​planks​ ​groaned​ ​under​ ​their​ ​bare​ ​feet.​ ​Every​ ​feature​ ​of​ ​their​ ​bodies​—​broad​ ​hips,​ ​broad​ ​shoulders,​ ​and​ ​muscular,​ ​hot-dogged​ ​bellies​—​was​ ​captured​ ​in​ ​the​ ​shadows​ ​of​ ​the​ ​flickering​ ​lantern​ ​light.

Except​ ​for​ ​a​ ​low​ ​bench​ ​and​ ​an​ ​old​ ​cushion​ ​that​ ​Nueanai​ ​scuffed​ ​aside​ ​with​ ​a​ ​thoughtless​ ​foot​ ​sweep,​ ​the​ ​living​ ​room​ ​was​ ​spacious​ ​and​ ​largely​ ​barren.​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​fingers​ ​held​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​hips,​ ​pulling​ ​him​ ​in​ ​and​ ​shifting​ ​his​ ​weight​ ​backward​ ​until​ ​he​ ​was​ ​lowered​ ​to​ ​his​ ​knees,​ ​thighs​ ​split​ ​wide​ ​and​ ​ready,​ ​and​ ​they​ ​knelt​ ​there,​ ​face​ ​to​ ​face,​ ​cock​ ​to​ ​cock,​ ​heat​ ​coiling​ ​between​ ​them.

Sakkarat​'​s​ ​cock​ ​rose​ ​thick​ ​between​ ​his​ ​legs,​ ​hot​ ​and​ ​quivering​ ​as​ ​his​ ​breath​ ​shook​ ​out​ ​of​ ​him.​ ​He​ ​paused​ ​at​ ​the​ ​dip​ ​between​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​collarbones​ ​and​ ​reached​ ​up,​ ​running​ ​a​ ​finger​ ​over​ ​the​ ​contour​ ​of​ ​his​ ​chest.

"​Take​ ​it,​"​ ​he​ ​said​ ​in​ ​a​ ​raspy,​ ​strained​ ​voice.​ ​"​You​'​re​ ​winning​ ​this​ ​evening.​"

Nueanai​ ​responded​ ​under​ ​pressure​ ​rather​ ​than​ ​with​ ​words.​ ​His​ ​thick​ ​cock​ ​was​ ​already​ ​slicked​ ​from​ ​their​ ​grinding​ ​and​ ​eager​ ​against​ ​the​ ​cleft​ ​of​ ​his​ ​husband​'​s​ ​ass,​ ​so​ ​he​ ​clutched​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​thigh​ ​and​ ​lifted​ ​and​ ​shifted.​ ​He​ ​aligned​ ​himself​ ​with​ ​one​ ​hand,​ ​his​ ​head​ ​grazing​ ​that​ ​painfully​ ​tight​ ​entrance,​ ​and​ ​he​ ​pressed​ ​in​ ​with​ ​a​ ​steady,​ ​breath-stealing​ ​push.

Sakkarat​'​s​ ​harsh,​ ​throaty,​ ​and​ ​desirous​ ​gasp​ ​echoed​ ​around​ ​the​ ​room.​ ​With​ ​his​ ​hands​ ​on​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​shoulders,​ ​he​ ​braced​ ​himself​ ​as​ ​his​ ​body​ ​spread​ ​out​ ​over​ ​that​ ​thick,​ ​pulsating​ ​length.​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​voice​ ​was​ ​almost​ ​respectful​ ​as​ ​he​ ​hissed​ ​deep​ ​in​ ​his​ ​throat.

"​So​ ​fucking​ ​tight.​"

He​ ​started​ ​to​ ​move​ ​deeply,​ ​not​ ​quickly,​ ​not​ ​at​ ​first.​ ​Every​ ​thrust​ ​had​ ​a​ ​purpose,​ ​was​ ​steady,​ ​and​ ​had​ ​the​ ​rhythm​ ​that​ ​comes​ ​from​ ​total​ ​control​ ​and​ ​experience.​ ​The​ ​sound​ ​of​ ​slow,​ ​purposeful​ ​slaps​ ​of​ ​skin​ ​mingled​ ​with​ ​breathless​ ​whispers​ ​and​ ​sighs.​ ​With​ ​every​ ​grind​ ​of​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​hips,​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​back​ ​arched,​ ​his​ ​body​ ​adapting​ ​and​ ​receiving,​ ​his​ ​cock​ ​pouring​ ​across​ ​his​ ​belly.

It​ ​wasn​'​t,​ ​however,​ ​one-sided​ ​for​ ​very​ ​long.​ ​As​ ​their​ ​tempo​ ​increased,​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​legs​ ​locked​ ​around​ ​his​ ​husband​'​s​ ​waist​ ​and​ ​pulled​ ​him​ ​in​ ​deeper​ ​and​ ​harder.​ ​As​ ​Sakkarat​ ​repeatedly​ ​smashed​ ​into​ ​Nueanai,​ ​sweat​ ​trickled​ ​from​ ​his​ ​brow​ ​onto​ ​his​ ​chest.​ ​They​ ​were​ ​both​ ​panting​ ​at​ ​this​ ​point,​ ​the​ ​tempo​ ​rutting​ ​and​ ​wild​—​buffalo​ ​sex,​ ​raw​ ​and​ ​earthshaking.​ ​They​ ​moaned,​ ​cursed,​ ​bit​ ​into​ ​skin,​ ​rolled,​ ​and​ ​ground​ ​as​ ​if​ ​the​ ​universe​ ​were​ ​constricting​ ​to​ ​the​ ​sea​ ​of​ ​need​ ​between​ ​them;​ ​they​ ​didn​'​t​ ​talk.

Nueanai​ ​stooped,​ ​her​ ​teeth​ ​grazing​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​jaw.​ ​"​Don​'​t​ ​you​ ​enjoy​ ​taking​ ​it​ ​from​ ​me?​ ​"

With​ ​a​ ​cock​ ​squeezed​ ​between​ ​their​ ​bellies,​ ​Sakkarat​ ​responded​ ​by​ ​grinding​ ​up​ ​to​ ​meet​ ​him.​ ​He​ ​muttered​ ​into​ ​his​ ​ear,​ ​"​Fuck​ ​yes.​"​ ​However,​ ​don​'​t​ ​assume​ ​I​'​m​ ​finished.​ ​Next​ ​time,​ ​I​'​ll​ ​flip​ ​you.​"

Nueanai​ ​laughed​ ​deeply​ ​and​ ​completely​ ​at​ ​the​ ​threat,​ ​then​ ​gave​ ​Sakkarat​ ​a​ ​firm​ ​kiss​ ​and​ ​pressed​ ​in​ ​even​ ​closer,​ ​pursuing​ ​the​ ​edge​ ​that​ ​was​ ​so​ ​close​ ​for​ ​them​ ​both.

And​ ​when​ ​they​ ​arrived,​ ​it​ ​was​ ​unmanageable,​ ​violent,​ ​and​ ​like​ ​the​ ​conclusion​ ​of​ ​the​ ​monsoon.​ ​As​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​body​ ​clasped​ ​beneath​ ​him​ ​and​ ​hot​ ​pulses​ ​of​ ​seed​ ​spilled​ ​between​ ​them,​ ​Nueanai​ ​buried​ ​himself​ ​in​ ​the​ ​hilt.​ ​Both​ ​of​ ​them​ ​were​ ​sticky,​ ​exhausted,​ ​and​ ​completely​ ​satisfied​ ​as​ ​they​ ​held​ ​each​ ​other​ ​through​ ​it,​ ​cocks​ ​jerking​ ​and​ ​breathing​ ​tangling.

Above​ ​the​ ​silent​ ​rice​ ​paddies,​ ​the​ ​stars​ ​shone​ ​brightly.

Their​ ​breaths​ ​finally​ ​slowed​ ​in​ ​time​ ​as​ ​they​ ​lay​ ​together​ ​on​ ​the​ ​creaky​ ​wood​ ​floor,​ ​entangled​ ​in​ ​their​ ​perspiration,​ ​sperm,​ ​and​ ​silent​ ​aftershocks.

Except​ ​for​ ​the​ ​dim,​ ​flickering​ ​lantern​ ​light​ ​that​ ​painted​ ​their​ ​limbs​ ​in​ ​gradual​ ​shadows,​ ​the​ ​room​ ​was​ ​now​ ​completely​ ​dark.​ ​Through​ ​open​ ​slats​ ​in​ ​the​ ​wall,​ ​the​ ​noises​ ​of​ ​the​ ​rural​ ​night​ ​could​ ​be​ ​heard,​ ​including​ ​the​ ​distant​ ​hoot​ ​of​ ​a​ ​nightjar,​ ​the​ ​constant​ ​croak​ ​of​ ​frogs​ ​in​ ​the​ ​paddies,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​chirr​ ​of​ ​crickets.​ ​The​ ​air​ ​was​ ​heavy​ ​with​ ​the​ ​lingering​ ​traces​ ​of​ ​sex,​ ​smoking,​ ​and​ ​perspiration.​ ​Their​ ​bodies​ ​lay​ ​intertwined,​ ​wide​ ​and​ ​shiny,​ ​on​ ​the​ ​mat​ ​in​ ​the​ ​center​ ​of​ ​the​ ​living​ ​room​ ​floor,​ ​their​ ​breaths​ ​slowly​ ​synchronizing​ ​with​ ​one​ ​another​'​s​ ​heartbeats.

The​ ​steady​ ​rise​ ​and​ ​fall​ ​of​ ​a​ ​belly​ ​still​ ​taut​ ​with​ ​the​ ​afterglow​ ​of​ ​movement​ ​was​ ​evident​ ​as​ ​Nueanai​ ​shifted,​ ​his​ ​large​ ​arm​ ​stretched​ ​possessively​ ​over​ ​Sakkarat​'​s​ ​torso,​ ​fingertips​ ​following​ ​the​ ​curve​ ​of​ ​a​ ​rib.​ ​He​ ​spoke​ ​in​ ​a​ ​low,​ ​gentle,​ ​raw-edged​ ​voice​ ​that​ ​was​ ​more​ ​personal​ ​than​ ​any​ ​whisper​ ​could​ ​have​ ​been.

He​ ​whispered,​ ​"​We​'​ve​ ​always​ ​been​ ​this.​ ​One​ ​body.​ ​One​ ​heart.​"

In​ ​the​ ​darkness,​ ​Sakkarat​ ​turned​ ​to​ ​face​ ​him,​ ​his​ ​lips​ ​slowly​ ​forming​ ​a​ ​smile.​ ​Gripping​ ​Nueanai​'​s​ ​shoulder,​ ​his​ ​fingers​ ​moved​ ​up​ ​its​ ​thick​ ​flesh​ ​to​ ​secure​ ​them​ ​together.

Sakkarat​ ​replied,​ ​"​One​ ​heat,​"​ ​in​ ​a​ ​voice​ ​full​ ​of​ ​the​ ​reverence​ ​that​ ​only​ ​comes​ ​after​ ​the​ ​soul​ ​has​ ​been​ ​cleansed​ ​by​ ​sweat.​ ​"​One​ ​hunger.​"

Their​ ​eyes​ ​met,​ ​full​ ​of​ ​unspoken​ ​things,​ ​soft​ ​in​ ​the​ ​darkness,​ ​and​ ​darker​ ​than​ ​oil.​ ​They​ ​had​ ​shared​ ​food,​ ​air,​ ​and​ ​struggled​ ​together,​ ​ploughed​ ​the​ ​same​ ​field,​ ​and​ ​broken​ ​their​ ​backs​ ​to​ ​the​ ​same​ ​soil.​ ​In​ ​their​ ​quiet,​ ​it​ ​was​ ​a​ ​language​ ​of​ ​marriage,​ ​uncivilized​ ​and​ ​revered:​ ​not​ ​words,​ ​but​ ​hurts​ ​and​ ​desires.

The​ ​two​ ​Herculean​ ​buffaloes,​ ​bound​ ​by​ ​affection,​ ​lust,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​unavoidable​ ​sense​ ​of​ ​belonging,​ ​rolled​ ​toward​ ​one​ ​another,​ ​bare​ ​skin​ ​to​ ​bare​ ​skin.​ ​Nueanai​ ​leaned​ ​in​ ​and​ ​kissed​ ​Sakkarat​ ​once​ ​more,​ ​this​ ​time​ ​more​ ​slowly,​ ​deeply,​ ​and​ ​intensely,​ ​carrying​ ​a​ ​weight​ ​that​ ​went​ ​beyond​ ​desire.​ ​A​ ​kiss​ ​that​ ​seals​ ​the​ ​deal.​ ​A​ ​statement.

Not​ ​another​ ​word.​ ​Quiet,​ ​anchored,​ ​immersed​ ​in​ ​heat​ ​and​ ​silence,​ ​they​ ​curled​ ​into​ ​one​ ​another​ ​like​ ​straw​ ​into​ ​mud​ ​till​ ​they​ ​fell​ ​asleep​ ​under​ ​a​ ​frayed​ ​mosquito​ ​net​ ​and​ ​the​ ​sound​ ​of​ ​nighttime​ ​lullabies.

Light​ ​leaked​ ​across​ ​corrugated​ ​rooftops​ ​and​ ​between​ ​palm​ ​fronds​ ​as​ ​dawn​ ​broke​ ​over​ ​Phrae​ ​in​ ​a​ ​subdued​ ​gold.​ ​Down​ ​a​ ​tiny​ ​dirt​ ​road,​ ​where​ ​dust​ ​rose​ ​beneath​ ​the​ ​constant​ ​rumble​ ​of​ ​a​ ​tuk-tuk​'​s​ ​worn​ ​wheels,​ ​came​ ​the​ ​smell​ ​of​ ​rice​ ​boiling​ ​somewhere.

As​ ​the​ ​three-wheeled​ ​motorcycle​ ​rolled​ ​over​ ​the​ ​ruts​ ​in​ ​the​ ​ground,​ ​Piraphap​ ​held​ ​onto​ ​the​ ​handlebars​ ​lightly​ ​with​ ​one​ ​thick​ ​hand​ ​while​ ​the​ ​other​ ​rested​ ​against​ ​the​ ​frame.​ ​Even​ ​sitting,​ ​his​ ​body​ ​was​ ​enormous​—​Herculean,​ ​hardened​ ​by​ ​a​ ​life​ ​that​ ​had​ ​molded​ ​him​ ​not​ ​of​ ​straw​ ​but​ ​of​ ​steel​ ​and​ ​smoke.​ ​Every​ ​bump​ ​in​ ​the​ ​road​ ​caused​ ​his​ ​shoulders​ ​to​ ​move​ ​like​ ​coiled​ ​muscle​ ​beneath​ ​his​ ​sleeveless​ ​shirt,​ ​which​ ​clung​ ​to​ ​his​ ​back.​ ​Dark,​ ​shining,​ ​and​ ​inscrutable,​ ​his​ ​obsidian​ ​eyes​ ​patiently​ ​and​ ​detachedly​ ​studied​ ​the​ ​roadside.

He​ ​had​ ​no​ ​set​ ​routine.​ ​People​ ​with​ ​clocks​ ​and​ ​appointments​ ​needed​ ​schedules.​ ​Time​ ​passed​ ​here​ ​in​ ​Phrae​ ​in​ ​unison​ ​with​ ​the​ ​weather,​ ​the​ ​birdsong,​ ​and​ ​whoever​ ​offered​ ​a​ ​hand​ ​to​ ​someone​ ​in​ ​need​ ​of​ ​a​ ​lift​ ​at​ ​the​ ​side​ ​of​ ​the​ ​road.​ ​When​ ​the​ ​fares​ ​arrived,​ ​he​ ​accepted​ ​them.​ ​When​ ​they​ ​didn​'​t,​ ​he​ ​took​ ​a​ ​nap.

A​ ​lone​ ​guy​ ​emerged​ ​from​ ​the​ ​shadow​ ​of​ ​a​ ​jackfruit​ ​tree​ ​as​ ​he​ ​turned​ ​at​ ​a​ ​peaceful​ ​crossroads​ ​close​ ​to​ ​the​ ​old​ ​marketplace.​ ​A​ ​man,​ ​not​ ​necessarily​ ​a​ ​stranger,​ ​but​ ​unfamiliar​ ​to​ ​him.​ ​The​ ​figure​ ​exuded​ ​a​ ​hush​ ​that​ ​pressed​ ​out​ ​like​ ​heat​ ​before​ ​a​ ​storm,​ ​a​ ​stillness.

With​ ​a​ ​dry​ ​squeak,​ ​Piraphap​ ​applied​ ​the​ ​brake​ ​while​ ​squinting​ ​against​ ​the​ ​sun.​ ​With​ ​a​ ​rattling,​ ​the​ ​tuk-tuk​ ​came​ ​to​ ​a​ ​stop.

The​ ​man​ ​took​ ​a​ ​step​ ​forward,​ ​his​ ​face​ ​unreadable.​ ​Piraphap​'​s​ ​sense,​ ​which​ ​was​ ​buried​ ​in​ ​him​ ​from​ ​the​ ​asphalt​ ​warzone​ ​of​ ​Bangkok​'​s​ ​back​ ​alleys​ ​rather​ ​than​ ​the​ ​pastures​ ​of​ ​Phrae,​ ​was​ ​threatened​ ​by​ ​something​ ​in​ ​his​ ​posture​—​too​ ​cautious,​ ​too​ ​poised.

He​ ​was​ ​aware​ ​of​ ​that​ ​posture.

He​ ​had​ ​seen​ ​it​ ​once​ ​before,​ ​years​ ​ago,​ ​shortly​ ​after​ ​leaving​ ​the​ ​city​ ​and​ ​its​ ​shadowy​ ​fights.​ ​That​ ​was​ ​just​ ​before​ ​blood​ ​struck​ ​the​ ​concrete,​ ​and​ ​the​ ​sound​ ​of​ ​feet​ ​on​ ​shattered​ ​pavement​ ​dragged​ ​him​ ​into​ ​a​ ​battle​ ​he​ ​barely​ ​made​ ​it​ ​through.

Once​ ​more,​ ​it​ ​appeared,​ ​shrouded​ ​in​ ​quiet​ ​and​ ​a​ ​slight,​ ​unnatural​ ​calm.

He​ ​felt​ ​the​ ​hairs​ ​on​ ​the​ ​back​ ​of​ ​his​ ​neck​ ​stand​ ​up.​ ​He​ ​clenched​ ​his​ ​jaw.

He​ ​asked​ ​without​ ​blinking,​ ​"​Where​ ​to?​ ​"

The​ ​stranger​ ​grinned.​ ​Not​ ​very​ ​broad.​ ​Unfriendly.

"​Anywhere​ ​far​ ​enough.​"

And​ ​suddenly,​ ​as​ ​silently​ ​as​ ​these​ ​things​ ​often​ ​occurred,​ ​the​ ​second​ ​threat​ ​of​ ​his​ ​new​ ​life​ ​sprang​ ​to​ ​life.