Extraordinary

Work, work, work; wait, how did you get work?

The last time Arthit saw Kongpob was when the alien was fast asleep on the couch in the morning. And since Arthit has to go to work he just left a small note on Kongpob’s forehead reminding him to just heat whatever it is on the fridge, and that he’ll be back as soon as his shift is done.

    Kongpob hasn’t told him about his plans after forging his documents – which still lingers in Arthit’s mind to be honest; how the alien did it and if the papers were done enough to be considered as authentic.

    He gets his answers when he gets back from work just a little after 6:30 in the evening.

    Kongpob is sitting on the same couch Arthit has left him at, focused on the laptop in front of him.

    “Hey,” Arthit greets as he places his bag on the chair beside the alien.

    “How was work, Arthit?” Kongpob says, not looking away from whatever has managed to catch his attention.

    “Same old,” he waves. Arthit goes over to Kongpob and remembers something. “Hey, you have to address me properly now.”

    Kongpob looks up at him then, head tilted and brows furrowed.

    “Your ID says you’re 24 years old,” Arthit explains. “I’m 26.”

    “I don’t see the problem there, Arthit.”

    He sighs. “In this country, you have to pay respect to people older than you –

    “I’ve read that respect is to be earned not something you give out like flyers.”

    “How do you even know – you know what?” Arthit sits beside his alien friend, kind of frustrated over a simple thing. “Don’t you respect me?”

    “I do,” Kongpob says. “But what does that have to do with addressing you properly?”

    He really doesn’t have a response for that. It has been engraved in him since he was just a kid, and they address people with honorifics in this country, and nothing really changes if Kongpob addresses him with honorifics or not, but . . .

    “Fine,” Arthit relents. “Continue calling me casually, see if I care.”

    He spots a playful smirk on Kongpob’s lips, so he rolls his eyes. 

    “I’m just, as the kids call it, ‘messing with you,’” Kongpob says, complete with air quotations. And before Arthit can remind Kongpob that he’s still part of that generational phase, Kongpob addresses him, “P’Arthit,” which doesn’t make Arthit’s heart flutter a little bit, nope.

    It sounds nice, coming from the alien’s lips.

    Arthit’s always been an only child, and he really doesn’t have anyone close that is younger than him, and Kongpob finally addressing him with the proper honorifics makes him feel certain things.

    “That wasn’t so hard, wasn’t it?” he mutters, turning his attention to Kongpob’s laptop – his laptop, but whatever; Kongpob’s using it.

    “What are you working on anyway?”

    “I got a job,” says Kongpob.

    “You got what now?”

    “A job,” Kongpob turns to him, and, as if talking to a child, explains, “Something adults do to earn money.”

    “I know what a job is!” Arthit harrumphs; not really keen on being made fun of.