The Floating Market – Part 2: Side Channel

The boat drifted slowly under the palms, rocking in the wake of a distant motor. A heron stood motionless on a mud bank. The heat of the day lay over the river like a warm hand.

"I should say something properly," said Tuan.

"You can say it badly. I'll understand."

"I would like to kiss you. If you want."

"I want," said Maya.

His kiss was soft and tasted of pomelo. She slipped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer, and the little wooden boat tipped slightly, and they both laughed against each other's mouths. A drop of sunlight fell through the palms onto her shoulder, and he kissed it.

"Is this all right?" he whispered. "We can go back. We can go to the market."

"The market can wait."

The roof of the boat shaded a low platform with a mat and a thin cotton blanket. They sat, then lay, side by side, looking at the green canopy. Hands found hands. Fingers explored buttons and ties, slowly, laughing at hats and tangled straps. Everything was unhurried, tender and quiet, with the water lapping at the hull and the afternoon stretching on and on. Somewhere far down the river a radio played something sweet and old.

Later they ate cold noodles from a tin pot and watched the sun slide down behind the palms.

"I have to be in Ho Chi Minh City on Friday," said Maya.

"I know." Tuan traced a circle on her wrist. "I will take you to the bus. And then I will be on the river, and you will have a long ride to think."

"What should I think about?"

"If you would like to come back." He smiled. "I will leave the pomelo season unmarked."

On Friday, at the bus stop, she handed him a small folded piece of paper. It was the first page of her article, with a new title in her cramped handwriting: The Boatman Who Knew Everyone.

He read it twice, and put it in his shirt pocket.

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