She was a gadabout and she always made friends out of strangers from
adjacent tables in restaurants they frequented. She had seemed so open
to the world. Now she seemed like such a Victorian whore, jumping
around in motion but prudishly obdurate to change within. She was
conventional-this Victorian whore of his. Like virtually everyone
else, she was part of the big band and the universe of movement fully
cognizant that the most popular and sexy people were the ones who could
twist and turn with universal movement.
He was the oddity. This Nawin, the romancer of whores, was all
for show. Deep inside was not impetuousness but paralysis. This
artistic brooding was not part of the natural course of events and who
was he to chastise her normalcy. He just smiled and evaded her wishes.



Chapter 8


A little disparate to the poem, Thao Nok Kaba Phuak, he dreamt he
was a black version of a nightjar cradled by the Laotian queen whose
pigment was as light as a northern Chinese woman. He suckled at her
nipple with the violence of his beak as she scavenged for dew to
appease the parched walls of her throat and berries that would provide
her with fortitude against failing strength. Her breast bled from his
appetites. She grappled with waning confidence that she would find a
way out of the labyrinth of trees that overtook her. She wanted to
kill this disgusting child that by its birth had usurped her of status
and had prompted her exile from the kingdom. This feeling embroiled
her psyche but feelings did not thwart her motherly instincts for the
strange creature that she named Jatuporn.