"I think you are selling something already."
The Laotian grinned. "Really? Are you wanting to buy?" He was. Ashamed of himself, Nawin looked down at the green sheen of water that now surrounded the monument. Its reflection seemed to sway and careen in the harmonious bombardment of the pellets of rain. More fluid than reality itself, the reflection would for a time seem permanently unsteady before evaporating entirely.
"No, maybe not," he said vaguely.
The Laotian chuckled. "No, Man, I'm here just because I got caught in the rain like you did."
Maybe it was true. Maybe the perverse fabrications of the mind when imparted by speech altered the intentions of the other party, distorting the fabric of probable outcome.
"Where is your sister?"
"On the farm planting, cleaning, cooking, getting water from the well, I don't know, I don't care, but she's probably thinking of you. Do you like her?"
"I don't know her. I don't think I have any real opinion." He paused thoughtfully and then said, "How do you mean?"
"I mean for a painting—of a country girl, rural life.
"I'm not sure."