Thai Fantasy #4

Mama San had mentioned the open-air bars up at Paradise Complex as a good place to start the night, maybe catch the show in one of the go-go bars next door, and of course come back to see her afterwards. Paradise is just up the road, easy to find, it towers over the rest of the place even though its only four floors high. It's a collection of identical buildings, white, shopfronts with apartments above, busy with balconies and archways, each building separated by a walking street. The open bars fill one of the walking streets, and of course I'm early, some of them are not even open yet. The third one up is open, and looks promising. It already has a couple of people sitting there, and the barman is cute.
Its a square of counter, stools on each side, barman inside. He's well in control of his territory, talking to one of the guys seated at the bar, but seeing everything. He looks and smiles at me, brushing thick dark hair off eyes that flash and crinkle as the smile broadens when he sees I'm coming over. Its standard procedure, professional, I'm not that much of a fool. He leans his head slightly towards one of the stools, hair tumbles back over his face and this time a quick flick of his head clears it away. The smile shifts, slightly cheeky, he turns to face my stool, fists on the bar, not palms, strong arms straight out in front. He watches me sit, then leans forward. He's close, so close I get a a faint clean smell of soap, and he asks what I would like to drink.
It was only a short walk, but its hot, and I'm outside, and there's no question of drinking anything but beer. Singha Gold, the excellent local brew. Suddenly what I thought were customers sitting at the bar are on their feet. Coaster, napkin, peanuts all miraculously appear in front of me. Someone is kneeling at my feet. A mosquito coil is lit, and placed under the stool. The barman has his back to me, I take in the broad shoulders and the slim waist, the cute buns. He turns and puts two beers in front of me.
"I always drink with the first customer."
OK.
He stays behind the bar. That's a little frustrating.I don't like the barrier. But I'm fooling myself. He's a barman, its his job. I'm a sucker for barmen, always have been. Waiters too. Always figured it was to do with the white shirt and bow tie, but this guy is in jeans and a t-shirt.
We talk. He manages the bar, he comes from the North, learnt English at school, lived in Australia for a while, Sydney, there was a boyfriend, it didn't work, he was treated badly. Yes, he came to Melbourne, and yes, he liked it, a lot. He manages the conversation as well as he manages the bar, and at the same time. He doesn't miss a trick, orders to his staff intersperse the conversation. A few more customers come and sit at the bar. They seem to be regulars, he knows them by name, exchanges a few pleasantries, indicates which of his staff should look after them. He knows their favourites, everyone looks happy. He stays talking with me.
A few beers later and he moves out of the bar, circles round, a few words to each customer, a gentle hand on the shoulder to one, a quick hug to another. One moves to kiss him, he turns it into an air-kiss, laughing away any awkwardness at the rebuff. Then he's sitting next to me. The barrier is gone, his voice is lower, more intimate. I've been flirting, I know, but this was not expected. He is flirting back, there is no doubt. His hand rests on my knee to emphasise the point he's making. Rests there longer than necessary as he stops talking and just looks at me, dark eyes boring into mine. He breaks the moment, a laugh and that toss of the head. Something is going on the other side of the bar, he goes over, sorts it out, stops to talk to one of the other men,sitting alone over a whisky. The conversation is serious, business-like.
He comes back over as I finish my drink, and stands behnd me, hands on my shoulders. He leans in, calls over my head for one more beer, and stays, leaning on me, his body pressed into mine. He murmurs in my ear, and as he talks his grip on my shoulders grows firmer.
"The man over there owns the bar. He is my boyfriend. We must stop this, it is not fair to you, it can not go anywhere." A quick, hard squeeze of my shoulders and he is gone, over where he belongs, talking business with his boyfriend.
One of the bar boys comes over, stands next to me, his hands clasped and resting on my knee. Am I imagining he looks sorry for me, that he understands. He points to a door next to the bar. "Boy bar. Show start soon. You go. You like."
I finish my beer. I go. The night is still young.