It is past midnight and Yaowarat has not cooled down. The kitchens are still working, the shutters are half down, and the smoke coming off the grills picks up every colour hanging above it.
They have been walking this street long enough to stop performing for it. She has a camera on a strap she is not going to use. He has his hands in his pockets. They cross, they stop, they lean on a corner pillar, and the colour on their faces changes each time because the signs behind them did.
Five frames, one outfit, one night. Nothing about them is worn down or dressed down: at three in the morning they look exactly as put together as they did at ten.
