Ladyboy — Fiona

Fiona pauses. No one asks for her by name. They ask for “the pretty one” or “the tall one.” A name implies intimacy. A name implies a history that does not exist.

He laughs. It is a wet, broken sound. The first real laugh in six months. They walk to the Chao Phraya River as the sky turns the color of a mango. The temples emerge from the darkness, golden and serene. Monks in saffron robes begin their morning alms rounds. Ladyboy Fiona

“Ignore him,” Fiona says, applying a final coat of gloss. “He will tip the DJ and pass out by midnight.” Fiona pauses

“I have been beaten,” she says. “I have been loved. I have been worshipped and spat upon. I have paid for this face with money and pain. I do not regret a single baht.” A name implies a history that does not exist

Fiona stops at a shrine. She lights three incense sticks. She prays for her mother. She prays for the girls back at the Orchid. She prays, silently, for the boy from Bristol.

“You built things,” he says.