"I've been thinking about hiring a personal secretary."
"Really?
"What would you want one to do?"
"Right now not so much," he said as he bit into the stiff and the sweet, "as I haven't been doing anything really. But I'll paint again. There will be phone calls from galleries, bids that need to be recorded, negotiating prices so everyone makes some profit, messages from students if I give classes—but the only thing is that getting a visa for that might be difficult." An umbrella salesman came by. "Yes, two," said Nawin.
"One is enough."
"What is your name?"
"Porn."
"You have a beautiful smile," he said right before feeling his pockets in a rather desparate floundering. "Oh no," he said, "I think I left my wallet in the hotel. I need to go back."
"I'll go with you."
"Okay," he said and they ran hand in hand in the downpour. And when they were in the room at the Paris-Laotian Hotel they removed each other's wet clothes, he kissing those lips that had fostered such smiles and their bodies coupled in comfort and unified motion—