# Bare Shoulders

- Link: https://thewrongkindofready.com/bare-shoulders/
- Published: 2026-08-08T00:00:00-07:00
- Author: Caleb

Stone walls and wooden gates blocked our path through the city’s pink walls into
the park. A man stood outside. He looked like a security guard.

“Is the park open?”

He bowed slightly, then motioned toward the gate with such enthusiasm that I felt
silly for having asked.

“I guess, this is it.”

And we stepped beyond.

~

Inside, families sat together in the grass in the shade of the plumerias.

Packs of rhesus macaques ran along the fences, the trees, and the grass. Nobody 
paid them mind, so we too found a bench among the monkeys to sit and think.

Minutes later, a bell or horn sounded in the distance.

Hundreds of monkeys formed a single-file line, climbed the nearby fences, and disappeared
in procession toward whatever that sound had summoned.

In a moment, the park had fallen strangely quiet—empty except for the people.

Then a boy of about fifteen stood and approached us—staring, wide-eyed and open-
mouthed.

We could only wait.

At last, he spoke.

“Are you American?”

“Yes. And what about you? Are you from Jai—”

He stopped me.

“Are you married?”

I held out our hand to show him my ring. Dani followed.

“This is your wife?”

He pointed to Dani.

“And this is your husband?”

He pointed to me.

Dani and I looked at each other.

“Yes … We’re married.”

Silence.

“What are you doing here?”

Dani took a step back, her eyes narrowing.

“Uh, we’re watching the monkeys …”

But the boy’s eyes had glazed over once more. He was staring at Dani.

Only then did I notice her bare shoulders.

When he spoke at last, his words were slow and distant.

“This. Is. Your. Wife?”

Then the kid walked away.

After an uncomfortable pause, we too left the park.

~

Dani walked ahead of me through the streets.

Her shoulders stiffened.

Just her bottom lip moved.

I reached for her.

“Leave me alone.”

Her voice came out like a whisper.

At the next corner, she found a clothing store.

It was the size of a self-storage bin, with plastic-wrapped clothes stacked to the
ceiling, hanging on power lines, and draped over the branches of a nearby tree.

Dani stopped.

“Here! I need a shirt.”

The shopkeeper saw us approaching and jumped into action, pulling out plastic chairs
for us to sit on.

My chair was purple with pink spots on it that looked like it belonged to his children,
while Dani’s had a fraying wicker seat.

With triumph the shopkeeper held a formless piece of gold fabric before Dani.

It looked three sizes too large.

“Is nice. See?”

Dani cringed, then inspected the garment anyway.

“This has a stain on it. Here.”

The shopkeeper threw it into a corner and grabbed another.

Then another.

Soon a pile of rejected shirts surrounded his feet as he moved between his racks
and hangers.

Every new shirt was baggier, brighter, dirtier than the last.

“It’s nice. It’s nice.”

Next to me, Dani crossed her arms.

“No.”

“No.”

“No!”

She rose from her chair—almost toppling it behind her—and waded out from the piles
of garments.

“I’ll tough it out until we get back to the hotel.”

Then she walked away.

I hurried after her.

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