He again spoke of her, the girlfriend, as "Chinatown skin" and
drawing her from a deck of cards, the mosquito threw her. The card,
animated like an email greeting, clicked around as if on high heels.
The woman's form, detaching itself from the shell of the card, sang and
danced her dance. Jatupon and the mosquito both lusted for her. Jatupon
wanted to rush into the toilet the way he had seen a man in his early
twenties rush into the public restroom at the movie theatre, Major
Ciniplex in Ayuttaya, a week before his parents died. On that occasion,
or misadventure, Jatupon, who a minute later went to relieve himself in
an adjacent cubicle before going back to his cart of noodles, heard
pumping noises. Then on his side of the crack he faintly saw a shadow
of a hand stroking a penis on the tiles to the left of his feet. That
man had sought pleasure in marginal solitude; but for him, with a
mosquito staring him down with emotionless black eyes, there was no
privacy. His masturbatory time was limited by his hallucinations.
He tried to suffocate the thought of the Chinese Thai woman in an
imaginary pillowcase.
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