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Updated: October 22, 2025
If the Laotian were to return with the supplies or a receipt for them, a scenario he could hardly imagine, it would further solidify a contract begotten of seemingly inconsequential words and bits of paper currency, the substance of contracts; they would be in this union and its ensuing obligation of him to paint one or another of the members of this rural Lao family even though the subjects and themes this would pertain to were yet unknown to him.
If sabaidee was their sawadee he was not sure how he would understand these Laotians in all this shifting of semantics. He understood the acquaintance to say, "He's the Thai I told you about" to which one of the strangers said a word like benefactor in something to the effect of, "Does she like your benefactor." "I'm her brother," the Laotian responded. "She'll do as she is told."
Then he suddenly heard in a Thai-Laotian dialect, "It's the Thai artist. Do you remember me." The Laotian made the prayerful gesture of the wai which Nawin reciprocated. Then he said, "In the train, man. Remember?" He was trying to pierce through the fixed, glazed expression to pry into another mind and loosen the memories therein.
Unzipping his pants, the Laotian aimed the release of the arch of his liquids to nature and to the exhibition of all passing cars. "How long are we going to wait out here?" complained Nawin in his somniloquy.
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.
"It was what?" asked Nawin with a relieved chuckle, grateful for flippant conversation to interpose his silent ponderings. The idea that a Thai and a Laotian could not engage in conversation without an elephant trudging through it almost tickled him to tears. "I don't know," he smirked knowingly.
Believe me, I am a self- made man and these "silky" hands, as you call them, have done a lot of things. Do you have a name?" "Boi." "Tell me something, Boi, I'm curious; do the beggars with their elephants just sleep with them randomly on sidewalks? Where do they go after shoppers go home and man and beast need to sleep?" "It's a mystery," said the Laotian and then grabbed one of Nawin's hands.
I was working in a women's garment factory there. Siam Pooying. Have you heard of it?" "No." "Maybe your wife has." Nawin ignored the inquiry. "He got laid off in his factory so I decided to quit and go back too." "Where are you both going?" "Our father's farm." "What about you?" "Taking a break a vacation needed some time away" "A self appointed vacation," interjected the Laotian. "Must be nice.
The train acquaintance, if he were such, now seemed older than before, and the liquid blueprint, which he was subconsciously yearning for, a less viably transferable product. This Boi asked them other questions in the Laotian tongue that he could not comprehend at all on the fourth shot of whiskey and their furrowed faces answered him although the substance of this he could not determine firmly.
"What are the chances of meeting like this?" asked the Laotian as smoke propelled by a gust of wind came upon them in a gaseous fog.
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