The Girl with the Broken Heels — A Bangkok Night You Don’t Forget

The Girl with the Broken Heels (Bangkok, 3:17 AM)

The only reason I saw her was because I was trying to avoid someone else.

I’d just left a rooftop bar near Nana Plaza—too loud, too polished, too full of men pretending to be James Bond in linen shirts. I ducked down a side alley, hoping for silence, and saw her sitting on a curb, barefoot, holding one high heel in each hand like weapons she didn’t know how to use anymore.

She looked up and said, “You got a cigarette?”
I didn’t. I told her so.
“Then why are you here?”
I said, “Because you’re not inside.”

She smirked, stood up, and tossed the heels into the trash. Her feet were dirty. Her makeup was smeared in a way that made her look real, not ruined. She asked if I wanted to walk. I said sure, though I had no idea where we were going.

We passed a closed pharmacy, a cat sleeping on a scooter seat, a tourist throwing up behind a tuk-tuk. She pointed at a neon sign that said “Happiness Massage” and told me she used to work there. I asked why she left. She said, “Too many men wanted too little.”

At some point we found ourselves in front of a 7-Eleven. She bought a bottle of water and a bag of seaweed chips. When she handed me the water, she looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t fall in love tonight. I’m not in the mood.”

We sat on the curb outside the store, eating seaweed chips in silence.

I asked her what her name was. She said it didn’t matter. I said I’d like to remember it anyway.

She looked at me, then down at her bare feet.
“Tonight you can call me someone who’s tired.”

And that’s what she was. Tired. Not broken. Not bitter. Just done with pretending—for a few hours at least.

She walked me back to my hotel. Didn’t ask for money. Didn’t hint. Didn’t linger.

At the entrance, she turned and said, “Thanks for not being one of them.”
I wanted to ask what she meant. But I already knew.

She disappeared down the same alley I’d come from. No shoes. No goodbye. Just a girl who gave me nothing but the kind of moment that sticks to you.