“I saw her again.” The words leave the man's lips before they line a glass. A swig of the dark chilled liquid is his shelter against the humidity before he continues his story.

“She was darting in and out of traffic this time. Same girl, I swear. She’s got black hair and a dark helmet with a visor that hides her face. I know it’s the same girl because the moto is green.” His eyes mirror the oscillation of the fan from right to left, pause, left to right, pause.

“Aw stop talking about the girl on the green moto, George.” Two eyes roll as they look at hands about to pop the top of a Coke can. The swish fuzz oozes and the man slurps the top overspill into his mouth. “There’s about eight million girls in this town and you keep talking about her. You haven’t even seen her face.”

“I know, Ryan, I know. I haven’t. I don’t know what she looks like. But she keeps popping up in the most random of times, the green moto flashing by and I know it’s her.”

Ryan shifts his weight forward, the top part of his chest squaring up in a physical challenge to George’s statement. “How do you know for certain it’s the same girl? Every girl on a moto in Cambodia looks the exact same.”

“That’s the thing, man. I don’t think she’s Cambodian.”

“Does she teach English like us? Heck, how would you know? You haven’t even seen her face.”

George gazes past the fan into the lily pond sitting in the lobby of the hotel restaurant they ate at on nights like these. Nights that forgot to take on the characteristics of night. Nights like these back home cooled but here on the other side of the world nights don’t cool, not even in winter. The days stick around literally and the heat makes its home amongst the darkness. Nights like these made George think of home and whenever he thought of home, the girl on the green moto wasn’t far behind.

“You know who else rode a green scooter, George?”

“I knew you'd say that. It's not like that.”

“Don’t tell me this is about her.”

“You think this is about Violet? How is this about her?”

“You don’t think it is some kind of coincidence that you keep seeing a girl riding around on a green moto- in a city, I might add, across the world from the place that you and Violet were about to make home?”

“Why are you bringing that up? What’s the matter with you? She’s gone, man. What can I do about it?”

George couldn’t do anything about death and whenever he thought about it, he was quick to latch onto something, anything else. It was the same thing he thought about before it gave him the false courage to teach English abroad. Ryan’s going…why can’t I?

And here they were. Drinking cokes in a Cambodian café as refuge in the hot humid night. The change in culture gave George the chance to rewire his brain and to adopt the new surrounding as his home. It could never really become his home because home could only occur when you stopped running. The dark event that started this journey in the first place wouldn't allow him to catch his breath here.

George vacuums Coke through his teeth in a loud slush while Ryan stared through him at the street, the cars passing by on the night road.

“It’s not Violet. It’s just a girl I see riding around on a green moto. That's it. The first time I saw her was in slow motion. The taxi stopped and a hand hit the glass on my side. I stared straight into her visor. Her hair flowed out the back and the sides, jet-black and long. She wore a striped shirt and capris with sandals. And then I noticed it – the green moto. Green like the lily pads. Greener than these right here.” George points at the lily pad pond, a serene square cut into the cafe floor. Purple blooming pods poked through the circle disks, organic floating cd-roms of old.

“Green like lilies. The bike didn’t look dusty – you know how all the motos here look dusty? Caked on with years of use... the motos all look the same, a muted red brown? Hers was green. Straight off the lot and ridden with precision. Pushing with her feet through traffic, she rode off after a short burst and into the city. We never caught up with her that day. Next time I saw her was over by the pharmacy. It was after that sighting that I called her Lily. I saw her at the cafe downtown, outside of the university and over by our apartment. She follows me everywhere.”

George swirls the ice in his cup and then holds it against his temple while watching Ryan pick a stray grain of rice from the plate.

“Sounds a lot like how you met Violet.”

George's eyes met Ryan’s before they stare into the floating lily bed.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I keep seeing her everywhere.”

Ryan knew this might be a possibility. The months after the accident George had claimed to see other girls in a similar fashion. Always in a vehicle or in motion – the faces never seen and the body types always the same: Violet’s. When George brought these girls up, Ryan didn’t squash his hopes. He thought it might be part of the grieving process for George. Having never lost someone Ryan had the distinct disadvantage of consoling without the vital experience needed to be effective. After months of being in country, Ryan thought tonight it should end like all fantasies end, with truth.

“I’m not doubting you. Heck. Yes, yes I am doubting you. Lily? She’s not out there. You want to see Violet. It’s time to move on, George. Time to move on. I thought the change in scenery would do you some good. Clear your head and help you process.”

“I’m doing better. I’m better, I swear. I am.” A frog hops into the lily pond, sinking beneath the murky green water. The ripples sway even the furthest of lilies, the browning outer ones too close to the walking path. Only the middle of the pond had a cluster of the greenest lilies. The frog made its way there, as if the green were a natural magnet to the most vibrant life source. Atop the lily shone a light purple bloom, the flower popping in an explosion of the color…

“Violet. I guess I just miss her.”

“She was a great girl for you man. I’m sorry that happened. I hate that it happened the way it did. But we can’t change anything. I understand if you’re still mourning. I just don’t think the sightings are healthy anymore. We can’t bring her back.”

The clinking in the ice made its way back to the woman attending the tables. She came to the edge and asked if the men needed a refill on their beverages. Ryan looks at George's nod and then catches on a figure passing behind George's head. It stops to wait for the light. Past George’s ear and through the opening of the café door, sandaled feet rest against the street. They hold up a lily-green moto.

The sandals putter one foot in front of the other, duck waddling the moto towards the front of the pack. Slender ankles led into navy capris and a striped shirt underneath a light sweater covering most of her arms. Long black hair fell onto her back and the dark gray helmet shields her both from the street and from Ryan’s view. Simultaneous mini-roars and the pack of small-motorized animals leapt off, the lily-green moto in hot pursuit.

“Ryan? Do you want something?” George turns to the waitress. “Just get him another Coke, I’m sorry.” The waitress thanks him and walks back to the kitchen. George’s left eyebrow sank while his right one rose. “What’s the matter with you?” Matching Ryan’s gaze, George turned to see the street whizzing with cars.

“I’m sorry- I thought I saw someone,” Ryan says in a quiet voice.

“Aw come on, man. That’s poor timing. Now you’re just making fun of me.”

Ryan's head bobbles with mouth agape. The waitress returned with fresh Cokes, the ice dancing near the rim. Both men thank the waitress and sip against the cool glasses.

George distanced his mouth from the glass, “You’re right.” He tops the statement with a tilt of the beverage.

Ryan lurches forward, pulling away the drink from his lips.

“About what?”

“The girl on the green moto. She probably doesn’t exist.”

Ryan eyes the street. "No man, I'm sorry-"

“No. You’re right.” George turns to the outside and then back to the table before signaling for the check. His left hand rises with clenched fist, only the thumb escaping the cluster of fingers as he jerks it towards the street over his shoulder.

“She’s not out there, you know?"

The waitress brought the ticket and gave them change at the table. As he scoops the coins into his pocket, a 100-riel coin rolled down Ryan’s pant leg and into the lily pond near the table. The coin slides dagger like into the murky green water but not before setting off a ripple into the pond.  The men leave the restaurant as the purple buds pulse amongst the lily pads with the fresh burst of energy into the previously peaceful pool.

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Thank you for reading this short story. If you enjoyed it, let me (@geoffgouveia) know on Twitter.