"Will you go north to Luang Prabong?"
"I don't know. I am not really here to sightsee. Just here to simplify existence, relax—"
"Drink beer?"
"Wine preferably." Peace of mind was often facilitated this way. A Singha, a Leo, a Budweiser, a Heineken, and especially that most odious Beer Laos which he had drunk the other night which reminded him of his Barbarous brothers and father. He imagined them with cans in hands as they tried to stomp on his diminutive being while that which was maternal and good pretended it was not happening to him. Thus, in most situations, he eschewed the elixir of farmers and laborers.
"So, why are you sitting here?"
She tossed him an apple from the bag and bit into one herself.
Then she smiled. "The Morning Market."
Maybe she had gone there but that did not explain why she was here. Maybe she was soliciting but then, he thought, in one way or another we all were. To do anything was to seek something from it discontentedly unless one lost himself in the present moment. She was a whore. They all were. But then when did he object to whores. They had been the holy light in his paintings, the instruments of his success. As the male beast was not any better than the female there was nothing for him to say. He just silently bit into her apple as though it were her nipple.
"Don't your parents grow any apples?"
"No, it's a rice farm. Only that."
"Are you staying with them now?"