Lyndane Yang
Marion paused, recalling how Win Hla had locked her up. Something ached within her, but she ignored it. Slowly, deliberately, she began to speak. After Marion greeted Steve at the airport, they took a taxi to the hotel and spent hours sipping drinks from the mini-bar, catching up on their lives. Steve had booked an old riverfront hotel with views from its rooftop and balconies. “Jesus, Marion, why didn’t you immediately tell the authorities?” Steve said, frowning, “Or get a restraining order? This guy sounds positively psycho.” He wandered across the wooden floors, opening the closet to search for hangers. His sandy hair was shorter, his beard trimmed neatly like a professor’s. Even so, he acted the same way—opinionated, bossy, and vocal. “Not so simple,” she replied. “This is a different system. Would you want someone’s beating, or worse, on your conscience?” she added. “I didn’t. I couldn’t face that possibility.” Steve said she was justified complaining to the police, just to protect herself. Why, if she could tell off strange men pestering her on the streets back home, he asked, was it such a crisis here? It was easier to dismiss strangers, Marion replied, harder with someone who was once a trusted ally. And she had to be sensitive to the local culture, didn’t she? “Like I said at the airport,” Steve said, “you’re welcome to stay here for the time being. It’s better than going back there and worrying that he’ll return.” “Well, maybe.” Glancing at the two beds in the room, she considered his offer. She probably had nothing to worry about. The dark fruity undertones of merlot teased her tongue, making her feel giddy and peaceful. She hadn’t had alcohol since she began meditation. How many more rules would she break? Steve’s voice dropped to a murmur. Louise had asked for time apart, he said. A time-out, since they’d been together three years, but couldn’t agree about the future—whether they had one together. Marion nodded. Then he asked about her red sarong. Earlier, at the airport and during their taxi ride, he had admired it. He’d agreed that this batik looked like crushed chili peppers. As though the skins were flattened out, he said, the juices flowing. Could she help him find one exactly like hers for Louise? Marion hesitated. She hated to imagine Louise 146 ◆ Crab Orchard Review