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Wrapped up to the breast in a pakhamaa she washed herself. Sluicing her body with clear water that splashed on already glistening skin. Water that trickled refreshingly into the large blue plastic bowl. Her black black hair hung still streams moving through its velvet flow. Squeezing the hair like a sponge cloudy white liquid slipped through the gaps in her fingers coursing down the back of her hand and her arm. Her pakhamaa came loose and she swiftly retied it dampening the patterned fabric so dark patches of liquid enlarged like ink on blotting paper. And where the fabric was wet it clung to her skin.

The previous night I'd been in Patpong with friends. In Patpong where women no less beautiful than this danced nakedly through the night. Yet there was something about this simple daily act of washing that held me hypnotised.

She threw back her hair and it seemed to lash the bare skin of her shoulders. Then her eyes caught me. I almost looked away but I didn't. And she didn't either. She wasn't shy. She held me in her eyes for a few moments in a look that neither played with me or rejected me. It was the look with which a cat who has never seen you before can hold you in. It was a look with no reason, no desire and no fear. A look whose only quality was beauty. For a fraction of a second this look changed and a smile darted across her face. Someone called to her from inside. She lost her interest in me to address the speaker... Then she went inside and she was gone.

It's funny the shit you remember.