"You are, are yah?" she said.
"Si," he said and ran off an elaborate little mexican hat dance involving an imaginary rose in his teeth and a lot of abuse to her hardwood floor from his worn out, mismatched, cowboy boots and drew to its conclusion with a great deal of flourish and latino panache. She didn't know the spanish for panache.
"And just what does a Pablo do?"
"I jest tole you, I am ...Pablo!" he reiterated as if that said everything.
"Let's assume I just moved here from some Pabloless backwater city."
"Oh, senorita, that would be a truly sad place to be."
"Undoubtedly, but, I wouldn't know what a Pablo was, would I?"
"No, senorita, you would no. And that is why your face would be always frowning, like it is now."
"I am not frowning," she said.
"Si, you are, your face is like dis," and he showed her.
"That's not a frown, that's my usual expression," she explained.
"That is the expression of worldly pain, I know it well, it comes from too little Pablo."