headphones that were plugged into the arm of his seat and punched him
in his chest. "Why aren't you talking to me?"
"Rachmaninoff," he said. She did not understand. What did
she know beyond the kinetic rhythms of pop culture? It was in her
blank stare. The word had not penetrated. He wanted to tell her. He
wanted to introduce if not explain something so ineffable and orphic to
which a mortal could only awkwardly utter that inadequate word,
"beautiful." He wanted to see the countenance of one being extended.
He wanted to change her and take her far beyond the limits she had
placed upon herself. It was the best of him that wanted to bring the
love of great things to others. It was one altruistic motive in his
many selfish motivations for inviting her here. But he knew that like
earlier, when they were waiting in the airport, she would continue to
bury herself in comic books and the latest American sounds when not
engrossed in her French palaver with the cassette recorder. She would
continue to disconnect the ideals and harmonies from the plug in the
arm of his chair.
"I want to know what you are thinking," she said. Her countenance
was puzzled and remained so for a couple seconds. He loved her so much
then. He breathed in deeply and wished outside himself to the cosmic
forces that she could stay with those features forever: puzzled,
probing, and beautiful!
"Why?"
"Sometimes you leave me, Nawin, and I want to know where you go in
those thoughts of yours. Were you thinking of her--Noppawan?
"I'm always thinking of her. I'm married to her." He reached for
her hand but she rejected it and so he smiled brightly, kissed her on
the cheek, and gave her a hug. "No, I was probably riding in my artsy
whims."
"Not a woman."