Chapter 1: The Perfect Candidate
The jasmine incense had almost burned down. A thin, sweet thread of smoke curled toward the ceiling fan’s lazy rotation, the only movement in the thick afternoon quiet. Golden light, filtered through the lace curtains Nicole had bought at the Bogyoke market, fell in dappled patterns across the woven bamboo sofa and the teak floor.
John stood at the balcony door, his back to the room, watching a line of monks in saffron robes move silently down the dusty street below. The view usually calmed him. Today, it didn’t.
“Phyu, this tea is wonderful,” Nicole said, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She was curled at one end of the sofa, a stack of student essays balanced on her knees, a red pen in her hand. “What’s in it?”
“Ginger, ma’am. And tamarind. Good for the heat.” Phyu’s voice was a soft, melodic counterpoint to Nicole’s brisk tone. She knelt beside the low table, her movements fluid as she poured more of the amber liquid into Nicole’s cup. Her traditional htamein, a long, wrap-around skirt, was a deep forest green, tied snugly at her slender waist. Her white blouse was immaculate.
“You’re a lifesaver. My head was pounding.” Nicole took a grateful sip, then frowned, patting the cushions around her. “Have you seen my other pen? The blue one?”
“It is here, ma’am.” Phyu pointed a delicate finger to the floor near Nicole’s feet, where the pen had rolled.
“Oh, thanks.”
As Nicole leaned forward, Phyu moved simultaneously. It was a graceful, synchronized dip. Phyu knelt fully, one hand smoothing her htamein as she reached under the sofa’s edge. The fabric, tight across her hips, pulled. The slit at the front parted.
John chose that exact moment to turn from the balcony, drawn by the exchange.
His eyes, reflexively, followed the movement. The flash of skin was brief. A smooth, tawny inner thigh, appearing and then vanishing as Phyu’s fingers closed around the pen and she settled back on her heels. It was less than a second. An accident of motion, of traditional dress.
But it didn’t feel like an accident.
His knuckles ached. He looked down, surprised to see the white pressure of his grip on the ceramic coffee mug he’d forgotten he was holding. The kind, green eyes Nicole always teased him about felt suddenly hot in their sockets. He forced a swallow.
“Here you are, ma’am.” Phyu offered the pen to Nicole, her face a portrait of polite deference. She did not look at John. Not directly. But her awareness of him was a tangible thing in the room, a second strand of incense coiling beside the first.
“Perfect! You see, John?” Nicole said, beaming, oblivious. “I told you we were lucky to find her. So modest, so helpful. A total professional.”
“Yeah,” John heard himself say. The word came out dry. He cleared his throat. “Great.”
Phyu rose to her feet in one smooth motion, her shadow stretching long and lean across the sun-warmed floor. She gathered the empty teacups onto a lacquered tray, her movements economical and silent. “Will there be anything else, ma’am? Sir?”
“No, that’s all for now, Phyu. We’ll finish up here. The baby should sleep for another hour at least.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She gave a slight, respectful bow of her head. As she turned to carry the tray to the kitchen, her path took her close to the balcony door. Close to John.
She passed him. The scent of the incense clung to her, yes, but underneath it was something else—soap, and the faint, clean smell of sun-dried cotton. Her shoulder, barely an inch from his arm, seemed to generate its own heat. She didn’t pause. Didn’t speak. But her neck was bent, the long, glossy fall of her black hair shifting like a curtain, and he saw the curve of her cheek, the downcast sweep of her lashes.
Then she was gone, the whisper of her htamein the only sound.
John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He set the mug down on a shelf, the clink too loud in the quiet.
“You okay?” Nicole asked, not looking up from her grading. “You’re quiet.”
“Just thinking about lesson plans. The tenth graders are struggling with arrays.”
“Mmm. Tell me about it. My lot can’t identify a thesis statement to save their lives.” She scratched a firm note in the margin. “We’re late season hires, John. We have to prove ourselves. The extra hours are non-negotiable.”
“I know.” He did know. Her ambition was one of the things he loved, even when it left him alone in the apartment with the baby monitor and the creeping, unfamiliar silence of a Yangon night. “It’s just… it’s a lot. New country, new job, new… everything.”
“And we have help now.” Nicole smiled, finally glancing up. Her eyes were tired but bright. “A local to guide us. It’s a privilege, really. She’s from a village up near Mandalay. Sends money home every month. We’re giving her a good opportunity.”
“Right.” John walked back to the sofa and sank down beside her, the bamboo creaking under his weight. He put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. It was an anchor. “A good opportunity.”
From the kitchen doorway, unseen, Phyu watched them. Her expression was placid, unreadable. Her fingers, however, traced the embroidered edge of the cotton shawl she wore over her blouse, back and forth, back and forth, as if mapping a territory.
In the street below, the monks had passed. The sun climbed a fraction higher, burning the golden light into something heavier, hotter. The baby monitor crackled once with a sigh of infant sleep.
Nicole nestled into John’s side, her pen moving again. John stared at the empty balcony doorway, where a trace of jasmine and sun-dried cotton still seemed to hang in the air. His skin prickled, as if from a change in atmospheric pressure, the silent, building charge before a monsoon breaks.