“You don’t believe in us?” I whisper, and instantly regret how pathetic I sound.
“Believe in us, yes. Feel confident that it will last forever, no. Nothing does.”
“That’s a bleak outlook on life. Perhaps this time will be different,” I suggest, kissing her forehead. “And this is an awfully deep conversation to be having in the middle of our romantic getaway.”
She chuckles, eyes flicking to mine with shy hesitation.
“I believe in us,” I say. “And until you believe in us too, I’ll have plenty of faith for both of us.”
She sets my computer on the coffee table, then scrambles onto my lap, arms looping around me as she snuggles into my neck. We sit, not speaking, just being with one another. Time passes unchecked.
“Do you want to get some fresh air?” I murmur. Her head nods her agreement. “Come on, let’s wander up to the village. Maybe we can pick up some street food or something.”
“What? Like off the street? From one of those little stalls?” She looks horrified.
“Yes, street food off the street. Go figure.”
She scrunches her nose up and sticks out her tongue. “Right, get up.”
I bounce my knees. She wobbles on my lap, refusing to move.
“Amy, up,” I order.
She huffs loudly but wriggles off me, defeated.
“You look beautiful.”
She grimaces; it makes her even more endearing with her tousled hair and make-up-free face. “Still beautiful.”
“I’m going to get changed. Give me five minutes.”
She disappears into the bedroom, reappearing a few minutes later wearing a simple white summer dress and flat sandals. Her hair is still misbehaving, pulled it into a knot on top of her head.
“Ready,” she announces.
Our walk along the water’s edge is peaceful. Ten minutes later, the small village located on the edge of the beach appears. There are only a few rows of wooden houses on stilts, prepared for when the tide comes in a bit too far.
Small dirt tracks wind amongst them, and people wander around, carrying baskets of vegetables and fish. Children are playing with a ball, kicking it between themselves.
A young boy, maybe seven, kicks the ball hard, and it flies toward Amy. She stops it effortlessly with a sandaled foot, then passes it back. The children cheer. She takes a theatrical bow.
Further down the dusty road, an old woman stands at a large metal frying pan stirring rice. The smells alone make my mouth water.
“Shall we go see what she’s making?” I ask Amy, who looks at me skeptically in return. “I won’t force you to eat it, but it smells divine.” She shrugs then follows my lead to the small stall.
In the pan is white rice, shrimp, and what looks like broccoli of a sort. Taking a stab in the dark, I turn to the cook and smile before saying, “Khao Pad Goong?”
The woman nods, shuffling the rice around the pan. For a few coins, she heaps two ladles full into wooden bowls, popping a spoon in each, and passes them to us before pocketing the money.
Amy tentatively raises a spoonful to her lips. She inhales deeply before putting it in her mouth. Her eyes light up as thefood tickles her taste buds, and she goes straight back in for another mouthful.
“It’s delicious,” she mumbles, giving the old woman a beaming thumbs up. The woman grins, exposing gaps where teeth should be.
We sit on upturned crates stacked beside the stall to eat our meal. The conversation is relaxed, the angst of earlier gone. I still feel slightly deflated by her previous comments. Not that I should be surprised. Amy has had more than her fair share of heartache, and I know my reputation with women is less than shining. Her dubiousness is to be expected. Our relationship is new.
The rest of our afternoon is spent investigating the local area and swimming in the blue sea. Tomorrow, we fly back to London, returning to the reality of home and our daily lives.
In the evening, Amy sits at the kitchen worktop on a high stool, tapping away on my laptop. I place my hands on her shoulders, and peek at the screen.
