She is really tall and a little dark. A pair of very long legs and a pair of very short shorts. She is so beautiful - hell, she is so perfect - when I saw her I thought she was a man.

Asia does that to a guy, I suppose.

She's sitting next to me, one thin leg dangling over the other, a slender-fingered hand on her knee waving a cigarette. The passing skytrain lights up beautiful little curls of smoke. The full harvest moon hangs exactly above us and lightning forks in the distant night behind her.

"He tried talking to me earlier," she said, about the big angry American with an inferiority complex. "I think he was drunk. But you know, so many times, so many times, men try to talk to me at bars. I don't know. I just learned to be snobby or something. It gets so boring."


She sighs out a long petal of smoke that washes across the Bangkok skyline. My heart goes out to her. People never think about what it must be like to be an ex-model.