He slapped some water onto his face. "Time to go," he told himself; but even with this assertion he was in a fusion of daydreams and faded memories that added color and exact details to his thoughts—a more poignant fusion than that experienced in trying to recall the facts of a given situation as they really were. He thought:
"She's beautiful isn't she?" asked the Laotian.
"Yes, I would say so," said Nawin. "You don't have to persuade me on that point. It is just the time required to do a painting —a real one with a theme, a mood, symmetry, perspective, things like this and I am on vacation. Anyhow…" Her dainty face looked like the nurse at Siriaj Hospital when he was recuperating from arm surgery; that same one from whom he had parried questions about the nature of his arm injury by posing innocuous questions about her own life in order; the one whom he listened to intently, and as a consequence was able to make her believe him to be the kind human that he was instead of the broken man that he was, or the flirtatious playboy, that he also was; the same one for whom he had swapped cellular telephone numbers to no avail.
"Taking a vacation from not working I guess."
"Exactly."
"Good for you. That is the life. So, you think she is pretty."
"Yes."
"Do you want her?"
"Maybe. Maybe I want you."
"What?"