Page 6 of Tropical Vice
Blake stepped over him carefully and entered. The air smelled of kaffir lime and something smoky, maybe the charcoal stove. The same chalkboard leaned drunkenly by the entrance, its lettering thinner, the looped Thai script trailing off like an afterthought.
He had dressed with more deliberation this time, though he’d deny it aloud. Rolled sleeves, no watch, slightly scuffed sandals. Nothing overt. Still, as he moved to the low table by the window, he felt Kit’s presence before he saw him, half-turned behind the counter, elbow deep in coriander, hair messilyknotted, brow furrowed as he measured something into a saucepan.
Kit didn’t look up. Blake sat anyway. Geng emerged from a corner, ambling over to curl up by the legs of his chair.
“Hi Geng,” he greeted. “I’m not a stranger anymore. Can I pet you now?”
Kit’s voice came with a hint of amusement, though he tried to hide it behind a flat expression. “If I were you, I wouldn’t take any chances.”
Blake grinned and folded his hands. “Understood. Boundaries.”
Kit glanced over at last. His face didn’t change. “You want the same?”
Blake considered, taking a quick glance at the menu board. “Unless there’s something better today.”
Kit wiped his fingers on a towel and disappeared into the back.
Blake exhaled, annoyed with himself for waiting for a reaction. He wasn’t here for anything besides work, or so he kept insisting.
The café had depth. Real texture. That was what he needed for the pitch, something less curated, more lived-in. But even as he looked around, noting the stacked crates and the haphazard shelf of dry goods near the till, his gaze slid back to where Kit had stood.
He left his hair down today, and it stopped just above his shoulders. This time, he wore more bracelets, and they jingled softly every time he moved.
When the lassi arrived, Kit set it down without comment.
“You always this talkative?” Blake asked, half-smiling.
Kit didn’t miss a beat. “Only when it’s mutual.”
Blake blinked. That one landed. He sipped. The lassi was tangier today, richer, as if the fruit had sat longer.
“So you run this place alone?” he asked.
Kit leaned back on the counter. “Sometimes my cousin shows up. That’s usually when something breaks.”
“And the dogs? What’s their story?”
Kit shrugged. “Chili came with the building. Dusty used to sit by the doorway scaring angry customers. Mango’s the smart one. He used to steal food. One time he actually paid me back a couple hundred baht. Miso randomly materialized one day. Geng I didn’t invite.”
Blake laughed. “You’re good at collecting strays.”
“I’m bad at getting rid of them.”
That caught Blake. The way Kit said it, quiet, resigned, suggested more than dogs. He watched Kit move, the grace of him, precise but never performative.
“Have you ever thought about expanding?” Blake asked. “Even just a sign people can read from the road?”
“I don’t want people from the road.”
“What about people like me?”
Kit looked at him directly then. His eyes were unreadable. “What are you?”
Blake opened his mouth, then closed it. That was the question, wasn’t it?
“I help shed light on things that deserve recognition,” he said instead. “Finding places that make people feel... human. Places like this.”
“Places like this?” Kit echoed.
