Cambodian kick-boxing was on the TV. I watched and waited for my happy pizza, minus the 'happy'. ('Happy' being a little marijuana sprinkled on the pizza. 'Happy happy' being a lot of marijuna sprinkled on the pizza.) Tourists strolled by the river. Children begged. The restaurant had a good crowd for a Sunday night, three or four tables full.
A bored waitress was sitting next to me, watching TV.
"Do you like boxing?" I asked.
"I like boxing very much," she said, both her English and enthusiasm surprising me. I didn't expect a positive response; what woman likes boxing?
"You like it?" I said.
"Yes," she said. "In school, I used to box in school."
"They taught boxing in school?"
"Yes," she said, nodding, the words coming quicker. "I was very good. My teacher, he boxed in Cambodia and Thailand and Laos and Vietnam. Now he's very old, eighty, so he doesn't box anymore. He teaches."
We watched the TV some more. I waited for my pizza. A slight breeze came, went.
"You from Phnom Penh?" I asked.
"No, Kompong Chhang province."
"How often do you go back home?"
"Three days every year."
"That's it?" I said. "Only three days?"
"It's okay," she said. "I like to work. I don't like to go back home. I don't trust my parents. They say bad things, they lie, they take things."
"You don't trust your parents?"
"I don't trust anyone," she said. "My friends, they call me, they want to go out, but I don't go. I stay here, I work. They do bad things, sometimes. I don't trust anyone."
"You have any days off?"
"No days off. But that's okay. I don't trust anyone. I trust myself." Pointing at her chest.
My pizza was ready. I had already paid, so I stood up, smiled, asked her her name. She told me hers, and I told her mine.
I went outside to get a moto. She turned her attention back to the TV, to the boxing. I felt a little sad. The air was cool and the sky was a little gray and I hopped on a bike and left.