There she is again, leaning over her balcony, pretending to take in the laundry. Even from here, I can see her eyes sweep around for me.

She is wearing the white shirt of her school pinafore. Not exactly the most enticing but she is not wearing much else below that. A pair of dark blue shorts and red wooden clogs. In between rusty stilts of steel, I see long, fair legs, unblemished by misadventure. She is a bookworm.

As the girl struggles to haul in an awful pink bed sheet with daffodils, her eyes never leave my verandah. Disappointment slowly spreads over her face. She does not see me because I’m watching her from the shadows of the coffee shop’s kitchen.

Someone calls. Sharp irritation takes over and she answers loudly. She scans hopefully once more, and takes in a small boulder of laundry.

I return to skinning potatoes before Old Chin discovers my little voyeur. Newly naked and pale yellow, they fall into a bucket of cloudy salt water, ready to be sliced and diced for a variety of tomorrow’s offerings of ‘economy rice’ at the stall, a staple among the working masses in our town. Three ringgit for a plate of rice, a meat dish and a vegetable dish. If they knew how much of each day’s leftovers went into the next day’s cooking, nobody would eat it, much less pay three ringgit. Old Chin is a miserly bastard. Why else would he hire me?

As I deftly slice, my eyes dart around the deserted kitchen. Old Chin and his wife are at the front of the shop, serving the dwindling late afternoon crowd. I spot Mai, our new Cambodian maid, cleaning tables, clearing away used plates and cutlery and wiping down the surfaces vigorously with a dirty old rag. She is quite pretty, although her hair is cut too short, a requirement of the maid agency which got her over here. It kept away the lice and ‘lowered maintenance’ for the employers, as if short hair was immune to dirt and sweat. They do not want the maid to waste time preening herself when she should be labouring away. Now she looks more like a pretty young boy than a girl. Such a shame.

I look across the street again at Miss Coy’s apartment. Still empty, but the doors of the ‘cage’ intended to keep away uninvited guests from breaking into the house by climbing over the balcony, are still open. This means she plans to return and perform one of her many little skits.

Like yesterday, when she pretended to read, most likely for my benefit. Who reads standing over a balcony? As usual, I’d smile, pushing my fringe back the way I know makes me look confident, as I blow smoke sideways. And as usual, she’d pretend not to see, or to be annoyed, and quickly go back to her book. For about ten minutes, we play our little game, right until my break is over. And then I stub out my cigarette and return what is left of it into my shirt pocket. They are an expensive habit.

I peel my last potato and drop it into the now filled bucket. One rinse and I have the arduous task of slicing and dicing them for a variety of tomorrow’s dishes. Braised chicken with potatoes. Crinkly French fries. Minced pork and sliced potatoes in a spicy soy sauce. It was always the same. If not for the variety, I would never eat potatoes again.

Mai comes in with the filthy rag to give it a wash. She glances over and I give her a polite smile. She happily beams back at me, the way the supposedly innocent village girl in Chinese serials grins at a boy she likes and you know for sure that she intends to end up with him. A shiver runs down my spine and I rinse off a knife to start on the potatoes, ending our brief communication.

A car drives up outside the verandah. I glance out and see a bright red Toyota. It parks but does not cut off the engine. The man driving it does not get out.

After about half a dozen potatoes, I look at the clock. It is time for a cigarette break. I take out the leftover stub from this morning and light it, while walking casually to the verandah, knowing that my little friend is probably there, waiting, reading a book or doing her homework or combing her hair.

The balcony is empty. This is the first time in weeks that she has not shown up. As I drag on my cigarette, curiosity and even slight worry creeps in. Perhaps she’s just gone out.

A well-dressed young man steps out of the shadows of the stairs that lead to the apartments across the street. Smoking, he pulls up his pants, smiles at the man in the Toyota and gets in. They talk for a while before driving away.

Something creaks above, and I look up to see Miss Coy, closing the cage doors. She is wearing nothing but a long t-shirt. I smile, a little surprised. She glances at me, her face appearing more melancholy than ever. Has something happened? Seeing me, she hesitates. I nod at her, and sweep my hair back, letting my stare linger.

Can we be friends? I ask without saying a word. She answers with a look of disdain. We spend the next minute simply staring each other down. There is definitely something different about her today. She has let her hair down, making her seem older. And she really looks like she isn’t wearing anything underneath the t-shirt. My mind wanders and tension builds in my pants.

And that is when she throws open the gates, climbs up on her plastic stool and without warning, tumbles over the balcony.

A scream pierces the air from behind me. I whip around and Mai faints.

Commotion takes over.

This was originally written as a submission for nanotales. Sadly, it did not get picked, which is why it’s here. Do let me know what you think!