Burning Moon by Jo Watson

for the hotel guide and read through the list of available activities. I wasn’t outdoorsy, so no to all the tennis, water activities, and anything involving being lifted into the air—I was scared of heights.
    There was a spa, which sounded more doable.
    So I slipped into my bathing suit, grabbed a towel and a sarong, and went out into the sunny world even though I was feeling anything but sunny.
    *  *  *
    Four hours and thirty-five torturously painful minutes later, I decided that this was officially the most pointless day of my entire pitiful life and everything that I’d done so far just made me feel depressed, lonely, miserable, and pathetic. It was sunny, but I was walking around with a big, thick black cloud above my head.
    1. Breakfast —initially I was excited, the large buffet had practically called my name, especially the waffles, the pancakes, and the bacon. But three cappuccinos and three thousand calories later, I looked around the room and saw that I was the only party of one.
    2. The beach —every minute and a half some cute, giggling, cooing couple walked past me holding hands and drooling on each other. They wallowed in the water, latching onto each other like codependent koala bears. They cuddled in the sun and whispered sweet nothings. They made me sick.
    3. The spa —same thing. Couples, couples, couples all clinging on to each other like they would die if several of their body parts weren’t attached at all times.
    4. The pool —same as the beach, but without the waves and sand.
    Eventually I prowled up to the reception desk and demanded to know what else there was to do in this Godforsaken bloody excuse for a hotel—okay, I didn’t say that last part out loud, but I was thinking it, so that counts for something, doesn’t it?
    After a few curious stares, the kind of stares that seemed to say, Shame, I wonder where her husband has gone , I was handed a large pile of flyers.
    Botanical gardens —too many flowers. Flowers reminded me of weddings.
    Elephant rides —too large and smelly.
    Sightseeing bus tour —too much looking.
    Tour of jungle ruins —too jungle-y.
    Shopping at the market — mmm , now that was more like it.
    In fact, that was exactly what I needed: some retail therapy. And everyone knows that the shopping in Thailand is supposed to be awesome. Let’s face it, there’s nothing like the smell of new clothes to make you feel better about your sad life.
    With this in mind, I jumped into one of those tricycle boxes and headed for the market—the holy grail of all my future happiness. And when I arrived, it didn’t disappoint.
    I’m not sure there’s an adequate way of describing the market that fully encapsulates its atmosphere. Certainly, I had never seen anything like it before.
    Hundreds of stalls were packed together tightly, full of bright colors, exotic smells of cooking hanging in the warm air, and sounds—music blaring and people shouting over it, trying to sell their wares. Scooters buzzed past, and in the distance, someone was ringing a bell. My senses were assaulted around every corner, either by the never ending sea of multicolored sarongs, or the smell from a stand selling pineapples and perfume. The atmosphere was electric and alive, and it hummed with the possibility of bargains and purchases aplenty. I almost didn’t know where to begin…almost.
    I immediately gravitated toward a large collection of colorful beach bags. Like someone under the influence of a hypnotic spell, I drifted toward them in a trancelike state, eyes wide, mouth open and salivating. My eye was immediately drawn to a large beach bag made from bright-pink, purple, and gold traditional Thai fabric. It was exquisite. But as I was about to reach up and claim the precious thing, a tiny little woman appeared out of nowhere. Without asking she grabbed me by the hand and started pulling me toward the back of the stall.
    “Come, come, I take you to back room.”
    “I beg your pardon.”