Bangkok

Mopeds weave between the traffic and a tuk-tuk lunges forward, blonde girl in its cab throwing her head back laughing. Droplets bead across my skin as the humidity rests thick in my lungs. I can feel the heartbeat of the city pulsing from the bundled, sagging power lines. Bright lights lead my vision upward to skyscrapers and rooftop bars and the promise of good times, distracting from the smell of damp and sewage, which now retreats to the back of my mind. I step onto the road and cross without looking, pace steady as the world moves around me, making me feel at the centre of it all. Rows of pretty girls line the storefronts. I stop at the one where the woman is older, beyond her youth, inspecting the options on the menu. "How you like?" When I indicate firm, she points at the selection and leads me to a dark room to undress. Her hands tell the story of her life, hard, almost brutal. As she moves across my body, I feel the places that will bruise later. I think about asking her to go softer, but I don't want to appear weak. Surely I can glimpse an hour of her life, walk in her shoes; all I need to do is breathe. When she climbs atop of me, legs straddling my waist, kneading into my back, my mind wanders to the pretty girls and how many men will pass through their doors before their fingers harden too. A final twist and crack of my spine and I am freed to traverse the uneven sidewalks and nightmarket stalls. Maybe I'll head back to my room, draw a long hot bath and stare across the city landscape. But my phone pings: a picture of a row of tequila shots with the caption, Cafe Patron. Rooftop. Now! I rub the echo of last night's hangover from my forehead as I make my way skyward, 42 storeys above the world. What is it they say? "One night in Bangkok..."