A/N: Pou (pronounced pooh) is the Khmer (Cambodian) word for uncle! :D When it's Rith's POV, I may use words in Khmer. Either the meaning will be obvious via context, or the meaning will be written in little A/N's up here or in in-line comments if there are a lot. 

Happy reading! :D

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STUMBLING ON THEIR HEELS while giggling like highschool primadonnas, a pair of dolled-up wrinkles narrowly miss the plate of chips I'm carrying. If they'd hit me, a nice, beady-eyed group of seagulls would get dinner and I'd get a backhand from my Pou.

Thankfully, the women twirl away toward the bar where my uncle makes them another espresso martini, plastering a fake smile on as they tell him how exotic he looks for the nth time. Oh my god, your skin is such a nice tone! How do you look so young? I don't usually date Asians, but I'd love to take you out sometime!

Smirking as I serve the plate of deep-fried carbs to a pudgy woman, I watch as Pou is forced to listen to another one of the women's tales of sleeping with an Asian man as he pours the caffeinated drink in wide Y-shaped glasses. Grabbing a few empty beer glasses from an adjacent table, I weave through throngs of tipsy rich-looking twenty-somethings and place my tray of dirty dishware onto a sink, sighing in relief. 

People envy this job, and I can't tell you why, because I hate it here. 

People in my university classes always ooh and ahh whenever I tell them I'm a bartender along the Gold Coast. There's just something about pouring and serving alcohol that gets every late teen something to gawk about. Is the sunset nice? You must get a lot of surfer chicks in, hey? Could you chuck in a good word with your boss, get me a job maybe? 

Me? I hate it here. Everything about this place makes me want to slam my face onto one of the searing-hot woks in the back kitchen. If the horny racist wrinkle girls weren't an obvious deterrent for the job, then I don't know what to tell you. 

I look at a nearby anchor-themed clock as I put the last dirty dish into the dishwasher. One hour to go. Great. 

Sighing, I turn toward the bar, preparing a wet cloth in the sink and swirl it around on the shiny mahogany wood, mopping and wiping up dew rings and spills from both old and new pint glasses. As much as I hate the people I serve here, I can't wait to be one of them one day. I can already see it; I've just graduated, my novel has hit the shelves, and I'm one of the first Khmer authors to have broken the western world with my fantasy-romance books. I'll be sitting in a back booth, boys upon boys begging for my attention as I sip on a Midori with my dear friend J.K Rowling or J.R.R Tolkien-

I stumble and nearly spiral onto the floor. Refocusing, I faintly whistle and continue to wipe at the bench in a vain attempt to cover my burning cheeks and bubbling embarrassment. 

Nobody bats an eye. Phew. I'm good. 

That daydream's great all right, but it'll take time. And patience. And a hell of a lot of self-confidence. I can't take over the world if I've only got three dedicated readers and only half a degree done. 

As I finish, Pou calls me to the bar, and I come. "Can you please watch the bar? I gotta go out for a smoke."

Fourth one this shift? Fuck's sake. "Yeah, go for it. I'll be here."

He flicks me a thumb's up and ducks towards the kitchen, the familiar fly-screen door squeak sounding as he rushes outside. I sigh and lean back, overlooking the entire restaurant, the coffee-like scent of the espresso martini still wafting in the air. It's the final hour of work, and everyone's about to go home. There are a few couples milling about, sipping champagne glasses as they discuss politics and sex, and one person left at the bar. She's on her phone, clearly drunk, and probably ordering a cab home. 

I sigh, hearing the click of the dishwasher as it ends its cycle. Popping the front-loader door open, waves of steam billow out like smoke from a dragon's nose, singing the dark brown skin on my forehead. Flicking a cloth from a nearby shelf, I start drying a pint glass, making sure to not leave any stray drops of water behind. 

I just want to sleep. 

Getting into a rhythm, I stare forlornly at the coastline in front of the restaurant, the dark sea illuminated by starlight and the white haze of the full moon. The waves lap lazily at the sand, almost tempting me to drop everything and swim far enough to get away from this bar. That, or until a shark eats me. Either is fine.

Snapping me out of my trance, I spy a familiar globe of curly black hair pop through the front door. Greta follows closely behind Danique, her pale skin illuminated by the blue glow of her iPhone. 

The pair walk to the bar, making me smile instantly. 

"What can I get you two lovely ladies?" I say, pretending not to know them. Danique rolls her eyes with a smirk while Greta giggles. 

"Dork, don't be a dumbass. No bartender says 'lovely ladies', it's creepy." Danique says, her voice velvety and brimming with a mix of bass and flair. Think Queen Latifah, but younger. 

I roll my eyes and flick out a wrist. "Sorry, did I not show my gayness properly? Um, yass queens, what can I serve you aside from this 'fit?"

Greta bursts out laughing, her Swedish accent making me smile. "Classic, Rith. You know I love your feminine voice."

Jokingly, I wink at her. "It's the best voice. What're you two doing here anyway?"

Danique shrugs. "We were in the area. Thought we'd show up and surprise you; figured you'd appreciate it."

I sigh. "Uncle's on his fourth break today, and I'm about to scream."

Danique nods, eyebrows knitted together. "Oh?"

Nodding, I fold my arms and shoot the kitchen a dirty glare. They sit in the barstools, waiting for me to fill them in on the rest of the family drama I've received today. 

Danique and Greta have been my friends since the beginning of high school. Danique and I met in our very first class; she was a shy, unassuming black girl in the corner and I was a shy, unassuming Asian boy in the other. The teacher made us go into pairs as an introductory activity, and we bonded instantly over our love for books. Greta came into the picture about a week after when she moved here permanently from Sweden. I remember she walked up to us one day asking us where the restroom was, and Danique and I both took a liking to her. 

The two knew about my gayness since the start. Danique always knew that I had a thing for boys, but Greta was a little slower, thinking I was just more feminine than usual. She saw me kissing a boy once, and all the little pieces fitted together in her cute, little, blonde head.

I hand the two of them a pint of apple cider each as I wrap up my spiel about my family for the day. Greta takes a long sip from the cool glass and Danique stares at me. She narrows them, and I know what she's trying to tell me; 'why haven't you left yet?'

She gave me the same eyes and phrase the last time I told them about family drama. Which, knowing my blabbermouth, was probably yesterday night. 

You see, my family (while super tightly-knit and with no significant deaths or loss whatsoever) ain't the greatest. They always try to push me to 'better' heights, saying that they don't want me stuck working here for the rest of my life and that the only way to break the cycle is to study medicine or science or something that isn't creative writing.

I'm already stuck working here, so, me doing what I want to do doesn't matter. I like what I'm studying, and they can rack off. Not that I've ever told them to rack off, but I think about doing it every day. 

As if my parents can hear my thoughts, I turn my eyes toward the kitchen door and make brief eye-contact with my mum, who's sizzling and dramatically flipping a Khmer-style omelette in a giant metal wok.  I return my gaze to Danique and Greta, who are looking toward the back of the restaurant, mumbling to each other. 

"Who's over there?" I ask. Danique shrug, but Greta's got that glint in her eyes that she gets when she spies a male.

"Greta just told me that two cute guys just walked in. They ain't even that cute," Danique says, rolling her eyes. Called it. Greta crosses her arms, looking at me, furiously nodding in their direction.

"Go! Go serve them! The guy I saw is off-limits to you, but I'll watch and see from here if the second guy is into you! I get a big gay vibe from him."

I nod good-naturedly, but half-smirk and roll my eyes as I grab a few menus and order paper. "Right. Such a good gay-dar, Greta. I'll go speak to them."

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A/N: Wow, the first chapter is done with about 1540 words in! A little under the word count I envisioned, but, it's a start! :D

What do you guys think so far? Is it hard to follow? Do you like my writing so far and the characters? Let me know via an in-line comment :D

Also, ignore any spelling/grammar mistakes you see. Since this is a #NaNoWriMo challenge novel, it's quantity over quality. I'll do edits later--I need to hit that 50,000 word target and can't bog myself down in editing and revising for the time being. 

With all my love,
Jacob Sinne