The Reserved Weekend

At seven on Saturday, Bow had one eye made up, one eye unfinished, and three conversations open on her phone. The man she actually wanted to see had not replied. The man who had booked dinner was asking whether she preferred a car or a motorbike.

She told him she was still at work.

Bow worked at a bar in Patong. Tonight was her night off, a detail she had temporarily removed from circulation. On the bed beside her lay a black dress she had bought for a beach-club invitation that was still, technically, a voice note saying, “Maybe Saturday.”

Daniel had made the mistake of being specific. Restaurant. Time. Pick-up. He had even asked about food she liked, which was thoughtful but left very little room for interpretation.

The other man, Hugo, had sent a photograph from a boat. There were sunglasses, an ice bucket and the corner of somebody’s thigh. Bow had enlarged the photograph twice, then decided the thigh was irrelevant.

Daniel sent another message. No pressure. They could make it later.

She liked that about him. He was understanding. It was a useful quality in somebody being asked to understand a situation he had not been given.

At eight, she said the bar was busy. At half past eight, she sent a tired-face emoji. Then she put both earrings in and waited for Hugo to remember the evening he had mentioned on Thursday.

Her friend Ning called from outside a noodle shop.

“Go to dinner,” Ning said.

Bow explained that she did not want to use Daniel. She could not go out with one man while thinking about another. This sounded principled until Ning asked why she was keeping the first man waiting outside his hotel.

“He isn’t outside,” Bow said. “I told him to wait.”

By nine, Daniel had stopped asking questions. His last message said he was going to eat. Bow felt a small irritation at the change in tone, although the tone had not changed. The availability had.

Hugo finally replied at ten seventeen. They had gone somewhere else. He was with friends. Maybe tomorrow.

Bow stared at “tomorrow” for a while. Then she opened Daniel’s chat and wrote that she had finished early.

He replied with a photograph of a table. Two plates. A woman’s hand reaching for the chilli sauce.

Bow asked who he was with.

A friend from the hotel, he said. She had been hungry too.

There was nothing in the photograph that proved a date. Bow examined it with the concentration she had refused to give the thigh on the boat. The hand had a ring. Wrong finger. The second glass might have been beer or tea. She decided he was trying to make her jealous.

She typed, “You move on very fast.”

Daniel’s reply came while Ning was knocking on the door.

“I moved dinner.”

Bow read it twice. Then she took off the earrings, kept the dress on, and went downstairs for noodles.

Ning had already ordered. One bowl, one spoon.

“I didn’t know if you were coming,” she said.