“Are you a time traveler?” Ollie asks the young man sitting in front of him at the train station. “Do you have a TARDIS just hanging out somewhere?”

“Time traveler…?” Matt responds, catching the Doctor Who reference. “Well yeah, I guess so, but I can only go forward and only one day at a time, just like everyone else.” Matt had just folded a set of terriers for Ollie and his friend and it seemed to be going over pretty well. Really well, actually. Time Traveler, he’d never gotten that one before.

The young Irish Ollie isn’t deterred. He’s an aspiring photographer and his wide, wild eyes seek to capture all of the world around him. At the moment, he’s focused on the American. “Santa Claus, then? Are you a young Santa Claus?”

“Ummm,” Matt’s confused. Then he remembers the bushy beard on his face. Sometimes it’s almost all he’s aware of, like when he twirls the corners of his mustache, just now long enough to begin creating that classic Hollywood villain look. Other times, like this one, he’s caught off guard at the reference. He’s planning to grow the beard out for several months more, so he’d better get used to this kind of treatment. “No, no, I just like sharing my origami.”

Ollie’s buddy Curtis, an aspiring cricket player from Bristol, stands nodding beside his friend. Curtis tries engaging Matt with sports. “You like sports, mate? Pretty much any kind will do, I like them all.”

This is swiftly, but jovially put down. “Nah, I don’t watch sports. Or own a TV for that matter.”

This reaction stumps Curtis, but only serves to embolden Ollie, who won’t give up the inquisition until Curtis nearly drags him off to catch their train. Matt watches them depart from his seat at the Chiang Mai train station.

They’d only known each other for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if you’re generous with your timekeeping, and they had felt comfortable enough, compelled even, to understand their fellow traveler. It’s usually comforting meeting someone from the same hometown or background (kind of like finding a twenty dollar bill in a just-washed pair of jeans), but it’s even more fun to meet people diametrically opposed to your normal world. The look on Curtis’ face when he heard Matt didn’t even own a TV: priceless.

The Santa look-a-like strokes his beard and smiles.

After boarding his train destined for Bangkok, he travels forward through time by several hours using his usual method: waiting. The landscape outside of the sleeper train windows has faded through darker and darker shades of green until only the blackness of a rural night remains. Matt is shifting in his seat on the train. Sitting and writing for two hours solid makes interruptions welcome.

“Excuse me,” the tall young man sitting on the other side of the aisle says, “but do you know any fun card games?”

His voice is reminiscent of the Swedish Chef from The Muppets, which makes sense, since the young man is from Sweden. His pointed chin is hidden beneath a small mustache and goatee that really ties his face together. His muscular left arm, revealed by his tank top, has tattoos running down the length, almost enough to be considered a sleeve, each piece depicting playing cards, poker chips, and roses.

“Hmmm…” Matt considers and shuts his laptop. “Have either of you heard of the game ‘Egyptian ratscrew’?”

Both the Swede and his companion, a dark red-headed young man, shake their head.

“Alright, give me the cards for a sec. By the way, my name is Matt.”

“Jens,” the Swede says, pronouncing it ‘Yens’.

“Dan,” the Brit adds, handing over the cards.

“Awesome. You’re gonna love this game.”

An hour later the Swede is grinning. “I love this game!” he declares.

Dan merely groans. He hasn’t won once.

They play while Matt sits in his recently-unfolded train bed. From the berth up above he can hear the telltale slap-slap! of two people playing ratscrew in earnest.

“Okay fine, we take a break,” Jens relents. “I need a cigarette.” He hops down from the top bunk.

“I think you can smoke outside, in between the cars,” Matt suggests.

“You think this is allowed?”

“That girl did.” He points to the hippie woman who has just walked past them.

One half of her head is shaved down to a fine fuzz, the other half is full of long, twisted dreadlocks. Butterflies, skulls, barbed wire, and calligraphy tattoo her bronze legs, arms, and exposed shoulder blade. As she walks, her legs ripple with hardened musculature. She probably rock-climbs, does yoga, or both (and then some).

“Her? She looks like a wildcard and could do anything, you know?” Jens weighs his chances and decides to wait until the train comes to a stop before lighting up.

He’s had a long time to hone his skills in risk-versus-reward.

* * *

The Swedish boy sits in his room amid the empty bottles of soda and mostly-eaten bags of snacks that litter his long desk and fill his trashbin. He’s sixteen years old and while skinny, already possesses the lankiness and width of frame that’ll fill in once puberty has finally left. The snacks and crumbs have been swept aside to make room for computer monitors. The boy has three already and is planning for a fourth.

A second teenager sits on the other side of the burdened desk, having arranged his own set of computers and monitors weeks ago. He practically lives here in his friend’s room, going home only when absolutely necessary. Like for more spending money. He stops clacking on his keyboard and turns to his friend, “Hey Jens,” the second boy asks the first, “you still have your dad’s credit card?”

“Yes, why? You need it again?”

“Yeah. Some guy is offering to bankroll us for the next month.” The boy licks his lips. “A thousand Euro.”

“Andreas…” Jens raises his eyebrows. “The split?”

“He keeps the original thousand and we split any profits with him, fifty-fifty.”

The pair have been playing online poker since they finished high school (which ends at sixteen in Europe), Jens having snagged one of his parents’ credit cards to register with the gambling site. Each account needs some collateral. And while it had been slow-going at first, with the boys doubling down on losses that could not hit Jens’ dad’s bill, they managed to break even before anything was taken from the account. Eventually, they reached a point where they reliably earn 300 or 400 Euro a month, though that requires a game going on each monitor and taking only perfunctory breaks for bathroom, food, sleep, and Diablo II. Diablo II is fun, but it doesn’t pay nearly as well as poker.

“Tell him we’ll do it.”

Jens and Andreas spend every day playing on the funded account in shifts. They stare at the statistics that the software they purchased tells them about every opponent they face: what percentage of the time each digital player folds, raises, wins a showdown, everything the two teens need to get the edge over the wealthy Swedes who populate the high-stakes tables. Those Swedes are new to poker, just eager for the thrill of the game. On the other hand, cards and gambling are the boys’ new religion, and their alternating schedule serves to confuse any similar poker-helper programs. Jens doesn’t play in quite the same way as Andreas, so the statistics about their account act to mislead other players more than help them.

Over the next four weeks, the teens go on to more than triple the 1,000 Euro seed money.

* * *

“So you play poker professionally?” Matt asks Jens in Molly Mallone’s Irish Pub.

It had been tough to find a bar at all. They’d decided to stick together after the train, and where better to kill time than at a bar? On the way from the Bangkok station they asked locals and expats alike.

“A pint? At this hour?” a British gentleman had responded, shocked.

Granted, they’re aiming to start drinking at 10am, but such is the life of the unemployed backpacker.

“No,” Jens answers Matt, “I don’t play so much anymore. Now I am a supervisor in a brewery.”

It’s a pretty excellent station in life for someone who’s just twenty-four years old. But his charm and quick wit quickly explain the anomaly.

“T’ree Tiger Beer. Okay. You want order food?” their waitress asks.

“Food? At this hour?” Jens asks in mock affront.

By the time the drinks arrive, Matt and Jens are already bonding over the scars of misspent youth.

“College, I mean University when I say that, was fun, but I mostly played World of Warcraft for the first two years,” Matt admits.

Jens quickly finishes his gulp of beer. “Ah, me too!”

Matt hastily finishes his own sip to add, “Oh, I mean I was playing like every day. I was the Main Tank of the guild.”

“Me too!”

“Really? I was a protection Warrior.”

“Figures. I was a guardian Druid.”

“You fucking bear tanks!”

“I have no idea what the hell you two are talking about.” Dan shakes his head. “Can’t you talk about something normal, like football?”

Dan is interested in bringing a greater level of digital marketing to the Manchester United franchise back home. It’s an ambitious project, especially given that it’s not his job yet, and so he’s taking a few weeks to recharge in Thailand before going home and embarking on that journey. While doing a group hike through the jungles of Pai (even further north than Chiang Mai), he met Jens and was casually swept into the young man’s orbit. Dan has decided to spend the remainder of his trip by the Swede’s side as he travels south to the eastern Thai islands.

“Let’s get out of here and find some pool, yeah?” Jens suggests.

Matt nods. “Sure, but lemme drop my bag off at my hostel first.”

They finish their beers and on the way out Jens slips a few coins extra onto the tab, maybe twenty or thirty baht (60-90 cents).

“Nobody tips around here, you know,” Matt notes.

“Oh? Maybe, but I still want to do it.”

“They’re gonna think you’re crazy, just overpaying for nothing.”

“Then I overpay for nothing! But it’s my money and I always tip.”

Matt shrugs. It’s not a trivial maneuver with his 65-liter travel pack.

“How’re we going to get around?” Jens asks as they walk out into the humidity of the city. “Walk?”

“We can do a tuk-tuk, and if you’re down to kill like forty-five minutes, we can just waste some suit salesmen’s time.” Matt is a font of backpacking wisdom. “The drivers get gas coupons for bringing people to the stores. So as long as we spend at least ten minutes in each shop, we can probably bargain for a free ride. My hostel’s just down the road. I can check-in and we can grab a driver near there.”

Half an hour later, they’re standing in the first of the agreed-upon-two stores that the tuk-tuk has brought them to.

Jens feels one of the many bolts of fabric crammed into the store shelves and asks Matt something in Swedish. They’re pretending he doesn’t speak English to give Matt and Dan the lead on this one.

Since Matt doesn’t speak Swedish, he responds in a bork-bork-bork-accented Spanish. “Creo que esto es como una casa. ¿Quieres un perro o un gato? [I think this is like a house. Do you want a dog or a cat?]” It’s been almost a decade since he got a 3 on his AP Spanish exam and time has not been kind to his memory of the language.

Jens plays along and responds in more Swedish.

Matt nods. “Mmhmm. You’re right.” He turns to the salesman. “My friend here wants to know what you would say your best fabric is.”

“My friend!” the portly Indian man in an ill-fitting suit says and spreads his arms. “We have the finest silk and the finest cashmere wool! We can make any suit in any style you want!”

“Right, so which would you say is your best? Among your best?”

“All of my fabrics are wonderful.” His voice is as greasy as his slicked back hair.

“Do you do double-breasted suits?” Dan asks.

“Double-breasted! Why would you want a double-breasted! Nobody wears that.” the man looks gracious, “but if you want one, I can make it for you, no problem.”

“I don’t want a double-breasted suit, you’re right.” Dan assays the half-dozen other salesmen.

They’re standing in a semi-circle around them, smiling and watching. The silent majority, just watching.

Dan turns back to the man, a bit disconcerted. “Can you… um, tell me a bit about the cuts you use?”

“Any cut you like! We can do that double-breasted suit, yeah?”

It’s a frustrating ten minutes and a blessing when Matt glances at his watch and finds that their time is up.

“Why you no buy a suit?” their driver asks as the three walk out of the shop.

“Oh be quiet, you know we’re not here to buy anything,” Matt waves the driver into a smug silence.

“That was so uncomfortable!” Jens sighs, sitting in the tuk-tuk as the motor starts.

“Yeah, but you get used to it,” Matt admits. “Just let me handle the next one, I’ll do all the talking.”

“We should ask them if they have Savile Row suits,” Dan adds. “That’ll burn some time, surely.”

“What the hell is Savile Row?”

The Brit is shocked at the American’s ignorance. “You don’t know Savile Row?! It’s where the best suits in the world are made.”

He brings it up fifteen minutes later as they sit in the upstairs gallery of yet another scam suit shop. “Have you got any Savile Row suits?”

“Sure, sure!” the salesman sitting across from them says. Same voice, different face. “We can cut it however you like!”

“Oh, okay.” Dan looks over imploringly.

Matt rolls his eyes. “Show me a sample suit. Show me something you’ve made so I can see the quality of the tailoring and not just the fabric.”

“Certainly, sir!” The man hops up and brings over a navy suit jacket from one of the display stands. “You see here, the lining is the softest silk!”

“Are you serious?” Matt runs his hands over the lining’s seam. “He’s serious, isn’t he? These stitches are huge! Disgusting! This is the quality you show me as an example?”

“The stitches are fine!” the salesman sputters.

“Fine? I’m from New York City, my uncle works at Nordstrom there, and he’d never sell anything with stitches so large and ugly.” Technically this was true, since working in the shoe department meant Uncle Michael wouldn’t sell any suit jackets, ugly stitching or no.

The salesman searches the room, tapping his colleague across the chest with the back of his hand to get his attention. “Of course, of course! I’ll show you a better one!” They rush off for something more suitable. “The best suit for the best customer!” he calls back.

The salesman returns with a gaudy checkered-pattern suit. Matt frowns as he inspects the garment.

“You see? The stitching is much finer here. Our suits are the best!”

“This is your best? The stitching is smaller, yes, sure, but the edge is uneven! It should be smooth, smooth,” Matt traces the sinuous seam. “It should be a smooth curve here, not this… this wobbledy-gook. And this corner is already coming undone!” He points to the front left corner of the bottom of the jacket where the layers of fabric are separating around frayed thread.

“No, no, it’s supposed to be loose there. That’s how suits are made.” To his credit the salesman sounded rather convincing.

“Maybe I believe you. Then why is the other side stitched so tightly? Which one of the sides is done incorrectly?”

Another half an hour later and the three are standing around a pool table in the Patpong district.

“This guy was brilliant,” Dan tells Jens, who had been separated from them in the second shop. “Just went off on the suit quality and they even tried to give us some beers to calm down.”

Jens grunts in affirmation as he leans over the green felt to line up a tight shot. This reveals the inside of his right arm and a tattoo that reads ‘It’s better to burn out’ in neat calligraphy.

Crack!

The cue-ball spins gently on the felt. There’s one less ball on the table than there was a minute ago.

“Hello!” a female voice calls in from the street. “You want massage?”

The bar’s entirely open front face allows anyone walking by to peek in and join in on the alcohol-soaked fun. And at 2pm on a Saturday, the prostitutes are starting to feel out their midday business.

“No, thank you,” Jens calls back. He’s smiling.

It’s Matt’s turn and he lines up a shot, taking his time. He can count the number of games of pool he’s played on his hands. “You meet a lot of pretty girls out here…” he says.

Dan watches the young woman go. “Yeah, but what am I going to do about it? I’m not like this guy.” He points to the rugged Swede. “You must get loads of girls!”

Jens looks pensive. “One time, I went to a music festival with my friend Pontus, he is good with the ladies. We had a bet to see who could sleep with the most girls when we were there. On the fourth day, I think we are tied, so I only sleep with one more woman. But I was wrong, and he beats me.”

“What was the score?”

“Seven to eleven.”

Dan gapes. Matt shoots and misses the shot.

Jens smiles as he takes the cue. “That’s nothing, man.”

* * *

Jens is still riding high from the just-passed summer. Though he’d lost the bet with Pontus, life is still very good. He’s eighteen, healthy, and wandering the streets of Helsinki, Finland.

Two weeks ago Stefan had talked him into spending his driver’s license money on two cruise tickets for them (licenses in Sweden are exorbitantly expensive). Three days on the slightly chilly autumn water, from Stockholm to Helsinki and back, on one of the newest vessels that Scandinavia had to offer. Jens couldn’t refuse. And besides, Stefan knows how to have fun.

Stefan is six years older, a friend of Jens’ brother. The pair met only four months prior and had gotten on famously. The tall, blonde Swede is a magnet for lust and adventure, partying and carousing like his life depends on it. Maybe it does. Tattoos swirl around his pale skin that contains a body repeatedly wracked by drugs and alcohol. Quitting cold turkey might very well kill the man.

Stefan’s problems, however, are inextricably tied to his charm, the fruits of which Jens hopes to capitalize on during this trip. It’s hard to find a good wingman. So he’d funded both tickets.

But the trip to Helsinki wasn’t quite what he had expected. Yeah, there had been girls, and yeah, Stefan had seduced two of them, but the older guy had ‘gotten dibs’ on the cuter girl, leaving the less attractive one to his younger companion. All for the good of the cause, Jens supposed, but thus far, it seemed like he’s been getting the short end of the stick.

But tonight will be different! Tonight is Friday night and the nightclubs and bars will be in full swing! They’ll have their pick of the club! They’ll party and drink all night! They’ll–

“Need to be 20 to get in, eh?” Stefan reads on the fire-motif sign in front of Inferno Bar & Nightclub.

Jens clicks his tongue and sighs, but Stefan shushes him.

“Relax man, just do what I tell you.”

A two minute wardrobe montage later, Jens has his hoodie up, a pair of sunglasses on, and the most bored expression he can muster on his face. He’s walking up to the reverberating nightclub facade.

“Oh my god!” Stefan, who is standing in the entrance queue, starts pointing and getting excited. “It’s DJ Blackjack!” He gets the attention of the girls waiting in line with him. “Do you see this guy! DJ Blackjack is here tonight! I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”

The girls tune in to watch while Jens holds up a perfunctory wave and keeps walking. The casual dismissal ignites their curiosity and they start jostling into those around them to get a closer look.

Fanboy Stefan is on a roll. “Hey! Autograph! DJ Blackjack, autograph!” Stefan lurches forward to get to his idol. “Can I get an autograph, my man?”

The bouncer who has been standing stoically by the door springs into action. With one meaty arm he stiff-arms Stefan who goes stumbling back onto the pavement. With the other he gently but firmly grabs Jens and guides him inside. They make eye contact and the bouncer nods with respect to his club’s talent for the evening.

Jens nods back and takes in the flame-themed interior of Inferno. He’s grinning like a demon under his hood. He’s in.

Stefan is reunited with his friend inside shortly, but is quickly preoccupied with an attractive but vapid, blonde Russian girl. His favorite. Jens knows when he’s on his own and dumps himself onto a barstool, raising his hand to get the bartender’s attention.

The bartender is laughing and doesn’t notice Jens at first, but when the guffaws subside, he turns to the secretly-underage patron, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “What can I get for you?”

The youth pauses, eyeing the man in the stool next to him, the man who had made the bartender laugh so hard. The man’s older, maybe thirty-five or forty, with clean black hair falling straight past his metallic glasses down to his shoulders. He’s just smiling to himself, contented with having spread some joy.

“I’ll have a pint, whatever you’ve got as long as it’s dark.” Jens finally decides. “And one for the funny man here.”

This gets the black-haired man’s attention. “Nah, you don’t have to, man. I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry about it. You seem like a nice guy, let me buy you a drink.”

The man wobbles his head in indecision before caving. “Alright, one drink.”

Three drinks later, they’re leaving the bar together. No, not in that way. With them are two other guys and a rather attractive woman to round out the posse. She’s a bit too old for Jens, but then again, all of the people he’s with right now are almost twice his age, so who’s he to be so picky? He wanted to take Stefan with him, but has lost track of the smiling young man and the blonde who was playing with her hair as she talked to him. He’ll be fine.

They pile in a limo waiting outside and head off to a posh house, more of a mansion really. When Jens steps inside he first notices the abundance of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Shortly thereafter, very shortly, he notices the women. God, the women! They’re sitting around on the couches, laughing with the men telling animated stories, or coming down the stairs rubbing their perfectly sculpted noses. What was this place? There are records and musically-themed posters all around the place. Did the man do something in the music industry?

The black-haired man grins, handing Jens a tumbler of rum or whiskey, and beckons him to one of the comfy-looking couches. They plop down and sink slowly into the cushion. They’re comfier than they had looked from the door! Three of the women crowd over and immediately put their arms around the new arrivals. The women feel exactly as comfy as they had looked.

“Cheers!” the black-haired man toasts, raising his tumbler.

Jens meets his glass and takes a long drink from his glass.

The next morning he’s in a limousine, reeking of sweat and alcohol, with both seeping from his pores. The impossibly attractive woman next to him (Irina? Joline? What was her name again?) wasn’t smiling like she had been the night before. Last night she’d been smiling for sure, and more, Jens remembers, and all for him. Just the two of them in a spare bedroom in the music-man’s house…

“Here,” she says, her voice all business. “Six hundred euro,” she reminds him.

He hadn’t forgotten. The limo has stopped in front of an ATM, the pale morning light shining into its plexiglass stall. Jens gets out, punches in his PIN and comes back a minute later. He’d never done this before. He hadn’t known he’d have to until he woke up this morning to the demanding (and oddly threatening) pretty woman.

He hands the prostitute her money. She smiles, gives him a kiss on the cheek, and gets out of the vehicle to go to places unknown.

* * *

“I knew she’d be a prostitute!” Matt brags. “Didn’t I say that? I said she’d be a prostitute as soon as you walked into that party.”

“Shhhh!” Dan shushes, looking around the dining area. “They might kick us out!”

“Oh please.”

They’re in the seating area of the Patpong district Burger King, drunk at 5pm. They’d just devoured some burgers and are kind-of-sneakily pouring cheap rum into their soda. None of the other patrons so much as glance at the rowdy trio.

“And that’s not even the craziest part!” Jens announces.

* * *

“Finally!” Jens is exasperated.

The Swede and the limo driver have been making trips around the city in search of Jen’s hotel. This was their third stop, finally concluding the saga.

“Two-hundred euro, sir,” the driver quotes.

The youth forks over the cash from his nearly-spent stash and makes his way inside. Overly cheerful Hilton staff greet him, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He needs to figure out a good excuse to tell his dad for all of the money he’s spending. He just needs to get to his room, get to sleep, and–.

Jens sighs. Upon opening his room’s door he discovers Stefan and the Russian from last night having some non-PG-13 fun on the beds. The twin mattresses have been pushed together.

“Oh, hey bro!” Stefan pauses thrusting and greets the new arrival. “We’re cool, yeah?”

“Yeah, fine,” Jens averts his eyes. “Just stay on your side of the bed.”

But Stefan couldn’t even do that. Time and again the young woman’s head kept being pushed-pushed-pushed into Jens’ side. After correcting them once to no avail, the younger Swede has had enough.

He shoves Stefan off the bed. “Come on, man! Do whatever you want, but don’t do it in my bed!”

“Ahhhh!” Stefan’s eyes are wild and they don’t recognize Jens. “He’s dangerous! He’s violent! He…” Stefan scrambles on the carpet for a weapon. He comes up empty handed, but continues to hurl accusations. “He has a knife!” he warns his lover.

The woman pulls up the sheets to her neck, lust turning to alarm in an instant.

Jens rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a knife, come on. And can you please put on some pants?” Jens gestures at Stefan’s boner.

Stefan doesn’t look down and his arms are up, ready to grapple. He’s drunk or high or something in between and in this state he dives for Jens. The younger Swede, though more heavily built, topples backwards at the collision. They collide into the mini-bar and then stumbling over each other, into the room’s full length mirror.

Crash! The glass shatters and the young woman screams. Nothing too crazy, nothing that might curdle your blood, but it’s a scream nonetheless.

The sound shocks Stefan back to his senses. Or maybe it’s the gash in his elbow that’s begun to trickle blood down his arm. Whatever the reason, Stefan disentangles himself, flings open the main door, and runs down the hallway, trailing splotches of crimson behind his naked body.

A minute later, he’s back, still naked, still bleeding, still with the boner, but now he has two hotel guards with him. “Watch out, he has a knife!” Stefan yells from beyond the threshold and behind the guards.

“I don’t have a knife!” Jens manages to get out before one of the hotel muscle tackles him to the ground. “I don’t… have a knife!” he growls from the carpets.

The guards soon let him up and the situation is explained. In the end, Jens only has to pay an extra hundred-and-twenty euro for a spare room and to fix the mirror.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Stefan apologizes the following morning on the cruise ship back to Sweden. “Let me get you another drink.”

Several drinks later, Jens is leaving the ship’s bar to find his room. Stefan is already there, waiting for him down below. If only Jens knew where their room was! Everything looks the same in these halls…

Thinking he’s found his room, he opens the door. “Stefan, you won’t believe how difficult–”

Sitting on the bed in the room is a cute redheaded girl. She’s pale and freckled.

“Hi there,” Jens smiles, “my name is Jens.”

She smiles back shyly. “Emilie.”

He winks at her and slowly closes the door behind him. This isn’t his room, but Stefan can wait a little bit longer.

* * *

Their waiting has come to an end. It’s 7pm in Bangkok and they’re at Hua Lamphong Station.

“Our train leaves in thirty minutes,” Dan says, all packed up and ready to board their sleeper train to the south. “You sure you’re staying here?”

“Yea man,” Jens adds, “you don’t want to see the islands?”

Matt waves them off. “As much fun as spending all day drinking with you guys has been, I have my own plans. I’ve got a plane to Vietnam to catch, and I’m gonna be in southern Thailand in a month or two anyways. Maybe see you around later on your trip?”

They nod, having shared WhatsApp info earlier. This is how backpacking connections go. You spend varying lengths of time with strangers and then you don’t anymore. Maybe they’ll see each other again?

The trio breaks into it’s component parts and a pair of young men and a lone traveler go their separate ways.

* * *

Matt is alone in the Lub D Hostel – Silom main room except for a French Belgian woman sharing a couch with him. She’s sitting properly while Matt is sprawled on his back over one of the armrests.

“You might think origami is harder to do upside down,” Matt slurs. His hands flip and fold the dollar in his hands. “But it’s pretty much the same thing,” he reconsiders, “everything is just… upside down.”

It’s almost midnight and he’s been out drinking with new hostel friends since leaving Jens and Dan, before ultimately making his way back to his hostel. Which is where he is now, aimlessly flirting with Lucy the French-Belgian.

“So what sorta stuff do you look for in a guy?” Matt holds in a hiccup and hands over the now-finished terrier.

“He has to be smart,” Lucy starts slowly, accepting the gift, “and he has to be… I do not know this in English. Talentueux?” She consults her phone’s translator. “Talented?”

“Oh man,” Matt says swinging himself right-way-up, “are you gonna be disappointed, Luc’. I’ve got talent comin’ out of my ears!” He holds his head more from the sudden movement than from gesturing to his own ears. “Origami, cross-stitching, costuming, I write a bunch, and I’m pretty good at telling stories too! I could stand to be better at pool,” The drunk considers for a moment, “Better at pool for sure.”

Lucy smiles at him.

“I’m the guy you’ve been waiting for! But alas,” Matt clasps his hands over his heart. “I have a girlfriend already!”

Lucy gets up slowly. “So I’m going to the bathroom upstairs…” She gets to the stairwell door before looking back. “Maybe see you later?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Matt smiles and collapses onto the couch.

An incredibly large bell in the temple overlooking Chiang Mai, Wat Phra That Doi Suthep