- What are you doing, he had asked Noppawan one late Sunday afternoon after returning from his painting and philandering on the floor of his studio.
- Why all alone and in the dark?
- I am not all alone.
- Well, good. Who is with you?
She did not say anything. - Noppawan?, he asked mildly as if addressing a sensitive child.
- I have my lovers too. Can't you see? As withdrawn as she was, her words were barely audible.
- I see Basset on your lap. I see that she loves you just as I do.
- No, hers is different…real.
There was silence between both of them and he felt she was not real but a miniature spirit in a miniature spirit house that he needed to appease with gentle words of oblation. Still, there were questions to be asked: Why are you on a dining room chair in the middle of an empty room with the cat? Why is the room empty? he asked in slightly more critical tones but, as always, still gentle and circumspect with his wounded bird as with the angel and the madonnas. As an empathic man who knew what a landmine the personal life was, there could be no other demeanor for him for little did he want a battle of which rotting bodies and their stench would be the only outcome. - Why have you shoved all the furniture to the back of the room?
- I don't know. Comfort, said the reticent woman.