American Impostor

Of Sky

There's a memory I've revisited many times over the years, but I'm not sure if it's a memory, at least a wholly true memory. It becomes more and more vivid each time I revisit it, so I think I must be adding details each time. It comes to mind whenever I think about the future, which is funny because it's something that happened years ago, with a person I won't see again, in a country I can't go back to, at least not without a lot of risk and a fake passport, and I'm done with a life of risk and fake passports, at least for the foreseeable future.

In the memory I'm laying in the bed of Fa's high-rise. The air is humid and hot, even for how high up we are. I watch her silhouette smoke on the narrow Juliet balcony outside. She's long-legged and skinny, with wide hips. Her skin is a color I don't see on the billboards and tv shows here, except for maybe the "before" side of a whitening cream ad. She doesn't hide it. The photos she posts to Instagram don't filter out the latte color in her skin, at least until I scroll to ones from years ago. I can't imagine preferring her any other way, but I have to remind myself beauty is subjective to societies. The fact that her beauty is under-appreciated makes me feel even closer to her.

She comes back from her cigarette and kisses me on the cheek. I savor the smell of smoke on her breath as she takes off her bra and crawls up next to me. It contrasts with the smell of her hair, a sweet-smelling strawberry scent.

Her mattress is extremely firm, like most beds in this country, though I've become accustomed to her mattress over the months I've spent here. I've grown accustomed to her silk sheets, even though we don't use them on hot nights like these, and I wonder if I'll miss them when I leave. If I leave.

Fa has a tattoo of a koi fish below her breastbone. It's drawn in red-and-black ink, with splotches to imitate a Japanese ink-brush painting. It's her only tattoo. I trace my finger around the figures of the fish. It feels intimate to touch, a part of her hidden away for only me to see.

"I was thinking of getting a tattoo like yours," I tell her. "Of Koi fish."

"Jing lor?" she asks with a laugh. Really?

She and her friends have taught me some phrases over the last few months. I can count in Thai and name some colors– si khao is white, literally meaning rice-colored, si fa is blue, sky-colored (I AM SUBTLY TELLING YOU FA MEANS SKY AND IN ASIAN LANGUAGES, SKY ALSO MEANS HEAVEN. THIS IS IMPORTANT LATER). The longest phrase she's taught me is Chan pen guhrt America tae wa paw mae khon jiin — "I was born in America but my parents are Chinese."

"Jing jing," I reply. Yes, Really.

She giggles, like she often does when I speak in Thai. "Same place?" She asks. When she speaks in English her voice is breathier and deeper. She speaks carefully to avoid mistakes, except when she's flustered or angry.

"No." I press my hand under her collarbone. "I think here."

"Here is better." She says as she moves my hand under her breast.

I begin to massage it with my thumb and forefinger. "Mine aren't big enough to fit a tattoo underneath." I don't think yours are either. I whisper.

She takes my hand off and glares at me.

She pinches my arm hard as retribution, before moving my hand back on her chest.

I begin to trace her tattoo again with my finger.

"Did you know koi fish are originally from China, not Japan?" I ask.

"Mai luu," she says. I don't know. I use this phrase often in streetside restaurants hawking hainanese chicken or papaya salad or the less touristy markets and malls that Fa has recommended I go to for clothes-shopping or used camera equipment.