I woke up to the sound of something cracking in the bathroom. What the hell? Drunker than I had realized, I saw that I’d fallen asleep in my clothes. I walked to the bathroom, swaying a little. The sliding door opened to reveal Habibi collapsed by the toilet. I wasn’t sure if he had tried to throw up in it or was hugging it in his sleep, but it was a strange look. Thankfully I wasn’t met with anything unsightly in the toilet bowl, but there was a small crack in it now. Had he tried to get up by grabbing it? Wouldn’t the hotel put a huge charge on his bill? At least paying for a toilet would hardly put a dent in his finances. I managed to get his wet lettuce of a body on its feet and saw his face was covered in sweat or tears. Had he cried himself to sleep here in the bathroom? On the floor was his phone, its screen smashed but still revealing a chat with someone named Lu. A name that could be male or female. I skimmed the conversation, which was in a mixture of English and Chinese. I wasn’t absolutely sure, but it seemed like someone in his family had cancer and he needed to come back home as quickly as possible. Judging from the words and names, it looked like a Hong Kongese wife or husband. In any case, he clearly had a partner.

Despite my bad back, I managed to hoist up Habibi, who wasn’t exactly petite, and lay him on the bed. It felt strange to see him spread out where I had lain only moments before. I stripped him of his suit. Hugo Boss shirt, Burberry trunks, Missoni socks, my God. Such was the taste of a forty-something Ivy Leaguer, and the cliché of it all was enough to drain my spirit.

Why had he called me here?

◊

When I got up the morning after that strange night, I saw that Habibi had left a note on the nightstand. He was going to a conference and would be back at the hotel late at night. On the table was a plate of room service leftovers and five 1,000-baht bills. Since it seemed a little excessive to be a maid’s tip, I supposed he meant it for me. I pocketed it and ate one of the leftover chicken legs that were so skinny that I wondered if the chicken had been on a diet. It had gone cold and didn’t taste great. The receipt next to the plate said it was about 20,000 Korean won. Judging from the price of things in Bangkok and the mass of the chicken, it was a pricey bird. I sat on the sofa and rubbed my legs. What was up with my circulation? I wasn’t an old man yet.