The bag from Patong

There is a patterned cloth shoulder bag I bought in the heat of a Thai evening from a street stall in Patong, hanging from the back of a chair in my living room. It has black and purple orchids drawn on it over a green and grey design.

I had initially wanted a gilded bag, but M. did not like it. He pulled me away from the stall into a different shop down the stretch of shops along the beach. All the baht we had - all my purchasing power -were held in a zipped pocket on the side of M.'s shorts.
“M., I want the bag,” I said as we examined incense sticks and wooden elephants inside an air-conditioned souvenir shop with silent, sulky shopgirls.
“Mmm... What do you think of this shotglass?” M. said. I hadn't asked his opinion of the bag.
“It's horrible. M., I want to buy the gold bag. I liked it.”
“Mmm...”
I watched as M. moved away to take a better look at some violently brightly decorated Buddha heads.
“Why aren't you listening to me?” I said, and in an instant, my lower lip stuck out. M. looked the other way when he said, “I am listening to you, my dear.”
He seldom says 'dear'.
I said, “Why don't you like the gold bag?”
“It's not that I don't like it... Don't you think it's a little impractical? I mean, when would you wear it?”
“It doesn't have to be practical! I just like it. I could use it for parties.”
“But it's so loose...you could lose things.”
I stamped my foot like a petulant child, half in jest.
“I want the bag.”

We walked back down the narrow pavement, past the lobster-coloured Caucasian tourists sipping beer around an open air bar, squeezing past the cameraman with a young monkey clinging to his neck as if it was scared of even that height, stopping to gawp at his lizard colleague resting in the arms of another man with a camera, running past yet another who had a gleaming snake draped over his shoulders, glancing back at a young boy with wild hair and lipstick, tottering on heels, to find the bag stall again. My hair was soaked with perspiration from the evening and my skirt was clinging to my knees. My stomach was twisted from the searing pain of Thai chili from dinner and my aching tongue still tasted fish sauce in my mouth.
“You shouldn't haggle in poorer countries,” I had said to M. earlier during the day in a saner, clearer mood. But I felt possessed by the oppressive damp heat - I had red, blotchy prickly heat all over my body and I seemed to have developed an unquenchable thirst. Suffering of this kind should have its reward, and it felt as though Victory was beckoning at me, waving several patterned cloth bags.

“Five hundred and eighty baht, made of Thai silk,” pronounced the ladyowner with a set jaw.
“One hundred, and lady, that is definitely not silk,” I said, by way of throwing down the gauntlet.The lilies on the cloth bags quivered as the lady and I took turns furiously trotting out numbers on a small calculator. M., the heat of the night, the curious looks given by passersby all faded into the background as we wrestled with numbers and our respective pride. In the end, I got my coveted bag for two hundred baht. M. handed over the notes and we started walking back up the street again with me clutching tightly at a plastic bag containing the trophy. M. was laughing as we dodged tuk-tuk touts yelling out prices at us from inside their bright red and yellow vehicles.
“Are you happy now?” he asked. I nodded, but said, “I think I paid too much for it.”
M. shook his head, still smiling, and said,
“Oh God...Do you know how much two hundred baht is? You paid less than five dollars for that!”
“Oh. Really?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I felt silly and pig-headed. Why had I been so fixated on bargaining? M., noticing my scrunched up eyebrows, squeezed my hand quickly and said, “It's OK, it's probably still a lot of money for them,” and squeezed my hand again. His hand was hot and sticky, but I was glad to hold it.

We walked on, past open air bars crowded with middle-aged farang customers. Thai girls in jeans, as slim as willows, danced on top of the tables. Many more were hanging around near the entrance of the bars, eyeing any men approaching while looking away from women. M. could feel their gaze on him. The Caucasian men in their turn boldly eyed me up. We walked away from the blaring music and stares, joking about the flagrant hunting for partners going on around us, holding our hands tightly.