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Chapter 1 - Rith

A/N: Pou (pronounced pooh) is the Khmer (Cambodian) word for uncle! :D When it's Rith's POV, I may use words in Khmer. Either the meaning will be obvious via context, or the meaning will be written in little A/N's up here or in in-line comments if there are a lot. 

Happy reading! :D

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STUMBLING ON THEIR HEELS while giggling like highschool primadonnas, a pair of dolled-up wrinkles narrowly miss the plate of chips I'm carrying. If they'd hit me, a nice, beady-eyed group of seagulls would get dinner and I'd get a backhand from my Pou.

Thankfully, the women twirl away toward the bar where my uncle makes them another espresso martini, plastering a fake smile on as they tell him how exotic he looks for the nth time. Oh my god, your skin is such a nice tone! How do you look so young? I don't usually date Asians, but I'd love to take you out sometime!

Smirking as I serve the plate of deep-fried carbs to a pudgy woman, I watch as Pou is forced to listen to another one of the women's tales of sleeping with an Asian man as he pours the caffeinated drink in wide Y-shaped glasses. Grabbing a few empty beer glasses from an adjacent table, I weave through throngs of tipsy rich-looking twenty-somethings and place my tray of dirty dishware onto a sink, sighing in relief. 

People envy this job, and I can't tell you why, because I hate it here. 

People in my university classes always ooh and ahh whenever I tell them I'm a bartender along the Gold Coast. There's just something about pouring and serving alcohol that gets every late teen something to gawk about. Is the sunset nice? You must get a lot of surfer chicks in, hey? Could you chuck in a good word with your boss, get me a job maybe? 

Me? I hate it here. Everything about this place makes me want to slam my face onto one of the searing-hot woks in the back kitchen. If the horny racist wrinkle girls weren't an obvious deterrent for the job, then I don't know what to tell you. 

I look at a nearby anchor-themed clock as I put the last dirty dish into the dishwasher. One hour to go. Great. 

Sighing, I turn toward the bar, preparing a wet cloth in the sink and swirl it around on the shiny mahogany wood, mopping and wiping up dew rings and spills from both old and new pint glasses. As much as I hate the people I serve here, I can't wait to be one of them one day. I can already see it; I've just graduated, my novel has hit the shelves, and I'm one of the first Khmer authors to have broken the western world with my fantasy-romance books. I'll be sitting in a back booth, boys upon boys begging for my attention as I sip on a Midori with my dear friend J.K Rowling or J.R.R Tolkien-

I stumble and nearly spiral onto the floor. Refocusing, I faintly whistle and continue to wipe at the bench in a vain attempt to cover my burning cheeks and bubbling embarrassment. 

Nobody bats an eye. Phew. I'm good. 

That daydream's great all right, but it'll take time. And patience. And a hell of a lot of self-confidence. I can't take over the world if I've only got three dedicated readers and only half a degree done. 

As I finish, Pou calls me to the bar, and I come. "Can you please watch the bar? I gotta go out for a smoke."

Fourth one this shift? Fuck's sake. "Yeah, go for it. I'll be here."

He flicks me a thumb's up and ducks towards the kitchen, the familiar fly-screen door squeak sounding as he rushes outside. I sigh and lean back, overlooking the entire restaurant, the coffee-like scent of the espresso martini still wafting in the air. It's the final hour of work, and everyone's about to go home. There are a few couples milling about, sipping champagne glasses as they discuss politics and sex, and one person left at the bar. She's on her phone, clearly drunk, and probably ordering a cab home.