The knock comes on a Thursday evening while I am losing an argument with Grandma's braised pork recipe. The card says, "Cook until it smells right," like that is a helpful instruction and not a personal attack. I'm standing in my tiny kitchen in my pink bunny apron (the bunny is holding a frying pan like a sword), spatula in one hand, recipe in the other, when the knock saves me.
It's Bas. Plant guy. Ninety-three-second smile guy.
"Soy sauce," he says, like this is a perfectly normal greeting. "You got any?"
"Well, hello to you, too," I answer, blinking.
He leans against the doorframe, completely unbothered. "Emergency situation. I'm making pad see ew, and I'm out."
I check my fridge, you know the one Pimchanok stocked with what she called "essentials," which apparently means three kinds of chili sauce and emotional confusion.
"No soy sauce," I report. "But I have three different types of chili sauce that might fight back if you're not careful."
Bas considers this like I just offered him stock options. "Which kind?"
I go look. When I come back, he's still standing there as patient as a golden retriever.
"Not the same thing," he says.
"No," I agree, smiling the exact smile Grandma gives me when she's praying for patience. "It is not."
He tilts his head. "Want to go find some?"
I glance back at the recipe card, then at the suspicious thing bubbling on the stove. Then, at Bas, who clearly has nowhere else to be and has already decided this is happening.
"…Yes," I say. "Let me get my keys."
****
Ten seconds later, we're outside, and Bas is moving through the street like a fish in water. So, it seems he does this often. Good to know.
"Okay, first stop," he says, stopping at a fruit cart before we've gone ten steps. "Khun Malee!"
The woman behind the cart lights up. "Bas! You're late today."
"Helping my new neighbor move in," he says, gesturing at me with his thumb (helping is a generous description of what he was actually doing, which was asking me for soy sauce). "This is Wei-Wei. Just came from Beijing."
Khun Malee looks me up and down, then smiles like she's already decided I'm harmless. "You like mango?"
"I love mango," I say, suddenly sounding like an overexcited toddler while hopping on my feet – this involuntary reaction cannot be helped.
She hands me a piece before I finish the sentence. Bas already has one in his mouth. We eat while walking.
"So, you just know everyone?" I ask, licking mango off my fingers.
"I'm working on it," he says cheerfully. "Khun Malee's green mango salad is the best in this soi. Fact."
"Have you tried them all?"
"Still collecting data."
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Two blocks later, he stops again at a narrow shophouse where a man is flipping skewers over charcoal.
"Khun Arthit! Two orders. This is Wei-Wei, new neighbor, art student."
The man nods at me, like my entire personality makes sense now. "Student, huh?"
"Yes," I say.
He hands each of us a skewer without asking. It's smoky, slightly sweet, ridiculously good. Bas is already chewing like this is a religious experience.
We keep walking. Bas knows the soy sauce guy too – Khun Somchai – and asks about his daughter's university results like it's the most important news of the week, and the man beams. (I'm going to assume his daughter did well.)
I trail half a step behind Bas the whole time, watching this all happen. He's not performing. He just… lives here. Fully. Like the city is one big neighborhood, and he's on speaking terms with all of it. Which, to me, feels slightly weird. I'm more of an order-online-and-have-it-delivered person, but I came here to step out of my comfort zone, and it looks like Bas might just be the first step.
I realize I haven't seen Big Rock or Slightly Smaller Rock in a while. The thought should make me nervous. Instead, it feels… normal. I consciously choose to let it stay normal.
****
The dinner place, which we finally arrive at, is two streets over. It's small and loud with plastic stools and no English menu.
"Best option on a Thursday," Bas declares, already waving at the auntie inside.
"What changes on Friday?" I ask.
"Different place. I'll show you."
We order. The food comes quickly, and Bas immediately reaches across and steals a piece of my pork.
"Is this okay?" he asks, mouth full of my food (which I haven't even gotten to taste yet).
"You've already eaten it."
"I'm asking for next time."
I look at him, and he just looks back, completely shameless.
I sigh. "Fine."
He grins like he just won the lottery and orders us both iced barley tea. Then he launches into a passionate rant about our building's elevator.
"Forty-three seconds from the ground floor," he says, pointing his chopstick at me. "Forty-three. That's not an elevator; that's a character-building exercise." (I'm glad to know I've found someone who also likes counting.)
"It is very slow," I agree solemnly.
"Finally! Someone who gets it."
Two hours disappear. I'm not exactly sure how.
When we get back upstairs, he walks me to my door even though his is literally three meters away. At the threshold, he says, "Night, Wei-Wei. Thanks for the adventure."
Then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him.
I stand in my apartment holding the new bottle of soy sauce like a trophy. The recipe card is still on the counter. The plant is still alive on the windowsill (miracles never cease to happen).
The apartment feels different now. Warmer. Like it recently contained more than just me and my anxiety.
Bas feels like the human equivalent of finding twenty baht in a pocket you forgot about. He is warm, surprising, and immediately, ridiculously cheering.
I think I might have a friend – the thought is not as scary as I thought it would be.