“We have to go!”

I sit up abruptly in the tent, beside Viloria who wakes with a yawn, “Wha? What time is it?” A light illuminates our faces as she pulls her phone from somewhere and checks the time with a groan. “So early…,” Her head falls back down and she reaches out for me in the universal language of love. It means she wishes to cuddle. I try my best to resist, but Viloria scoots closer to me and drapes a long leg over my side, forcing me back down. “We both smell like wilderness.” She presses her nose into my chest, then looks me in the eyes, “You were saying something?”

“I think it worked.” Perhaps that is the cause for my recurrent dreams. Perhaps I’ve found my muse in the amber eyes of a red-headed tree nymph.

“What worked?” Viloria sits up, “What are you talking about?”

“My muse. I think I found it.”

“You did?!” My girlfriend’s eyes sparkle with an ‘I knew it’ look, “No time to waste then!” She hurriedly begins dressing. “It has been so long! I knew coming out here would help.”

Before I can say anything, she begins to shove all of our things back into our bags and carries them out of the tent. I crawl out of the canvas cave and see that she is already pulling up its stakes.They are out and the poles are being yanked from their rests, causing the ceiling to collapse just as I pull our blankets and pillows free. Viloria begins to fold the tent, but quickly gives up and settles for a crumpled ball of canvas that she then tries to shove back into its bag. I support her in this endeavor by watching a safe distance away from her heightening frustration.

In the end, the tent is in the bag and the ties are closed as far as they are able, she then tosses it to me and begins tidying up the campsite by stalking around for the rubbish we tossed aside, gathering it in a small plastic bag. That is tossed at me, too. My shoulders carry the last two nights back to the car while she daydreams over all the possible ways her great idea for camping may have saved my life. I can see her pride beaming off her in an aura as she hurries ahead of me. The locks of her car sound before it’s even in sight and she is anxiously waiting when I arrive. “We have no time to waste. I won’t have you going back on this. But, just in case it’s like Cinderella, we have to get back to your place ASAP.”

“It’s only been a few months, Please, Viloria.”

“Months?! Is that what you’ve been telling yourself? It’s been years, Vin. I haven’t seen you paint since college.”

Is she right? Has it really been that long? Where have I been? Viloria grabs each bag from me and tosses them into the back seat, then happily plops herself behind the wheel with a contented sigh. I take a seat in the passenger side. “Ok, so when we get back, are we really doing this?” She eyes me with reason to doubt things.

“Yes.” I feel like I have to. Yet, there are still the same reservations in my head about skill or motivation - all of which are designed to convince me to give up. All of which fail to deter me from this particular painting.

***

Viloria parks her car out front of the pub a short drive later, and climbs out first. Then, she beckons me from the sidewalk as I slowly open my door to join her. Upstairs, we are greeted by the empty silence of my apartment. A loud clang jars me from my thoughts as my girlfriend throws her keys on the counter and proceeds to undress, leaving a trail of clothing from the door to my old couch. “So, how am I doing this? Like this?” She throws herself down on the sinking cushions and does her best to pose on her side. A very typical ‘Paint me like one of your French Girls’ poses. I shake my head, causing her to sit up with a frown. She’s always modeled for me, “How then?”

“I have to find my brushes.”

Viloria stands and claps her hands to her thighs, “Alright! Where did you see them last?” I try to think two years back, or whenever the last time I saw them was, but draw a blank. My shoulders shrug as I head to the first place I would typically look - my studio corner. As if I hadn’t already checked a million times. They aren’t there. I try my bed corner next, looking under the bed and side table - even looking under the mattress. Nothing. That’s when Viloria calls me from the kitchen. “Do you always cook your supplies?”

“Only when I’m drunk, I guess.” I peek around the column between where we each stand and see her at the oven with the door open and a cup in her hands. My five favorite brushes are heads up, just as I had left them. In the safety of my oven. If that doesn’t show how little I’ve painted or cooked, I don’t know what would.

She walks over and hands me my tools with a smile, “Let’s do this!”

“You can relax. I don’t think I need a model for this one…”

“Oh?” Viloria looks at me curiously, and I sense a tinge of disappointment as she resigns herself to the couch and I pull up a stool to my easel. The canvas waiting for me there is dusty, slightly yellowed. I stare at it for a long time till I’m taken back to the forest and the white oak tree. To the girl beneath the bark, and those eyes. Every detail - tiny- down to the wave of her hair, I paint them all, as if my brush knows all of the strokes. The likeness brings life to the girl, here in my own world - a tangible vision of her for me and my girlfriend to look upon. When I have finished my work, we both step back to admire her.

The girl is exactly as she had been in my dreams, rooted to the soil and turned to glance at me. Her right arm remains a branch, reaching out over the water with its crimson leaves, while her left beckons me with slender fingers. I am captivated by the way the light catches her hair and illuminates those amber eyes. My girlfriend must be too. Not a sound has passed between the two of us. Not for a length of time.

A pin could drop and it might echo in the silence, till a breath escapes beside me, “Wow.” A hand squeezes mine, which still clutches tightly to one of the brushes. “It’s so beautiful, Vin…You know, most people get rusty over time, but this, I mean - the detail alone, it’s...impressive.” She’s right. Picking up a brush after a year or two should have required at least a small bit of retraining, but I’m looking at gallery quality style; not quite sure how it came from me.

“Well, at least now you can’t guilt me over how long it’s been.” I drop my brush into a cup of water and leave the easel, aware of how each step away from the painting makes me feel more anxious. “That oughta hold you off for another year, right?” And my parents. There is now a pit in my stomach as I drop into the broken springs of my couch, lying lengthwise over the cushions with my feet up on one of the armrests. Viloria still stands transfixed, leaning in to view the details.

“No,” my girlfriend straightens herself, turning for the couch, “No, not at all! If this is what you can create in less than a day, I can only anxiously await the next one. And, just wait until your parents see it.”

“Yeah…,” I’m sure I won’t have to wait long.

***

Likely summoned by otherworldly senses, my mother visits the next day, after Viloria has left and I’m just settling down on my couch. Her knock is quiet at first, hardly heard over the sounds I’d swear were coming from the painting. Now and then, I catch a bird’s song, a rustle of leaves, or the sound of dripping water. I’ve been listening all morning, and night, since I finished it. I might even swear that the girl is watching me.

Another knock. Louder this time. “Davinci, darling, are you in?”

“Coming!” I stand up from the couch and shuffle toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob, fantasizing for a moment about jumping from my window over letting my mother in. Alas, there is now nothing between her and I but empty air, till she smiles and drops a number of bags upon entering. The heels of her expensive French shoes clap over the hardwood floor past me - a perfectly matched shade of orange to complement that of her jacket and the light blue scarf wrapped at her neck.

My mother is always dressed as if she had just stepped from the newest catalog for fine foreign clothing - looking hardly different than the models you might see in them, as well. All of the traveling has barely cost her time at all. I couldn’t say she’s changed in the last twenty years - save for a small crease near her eyes when she smiles.

“Oh, honey, you must cut your hair. But, you appear rested!” A plus and a minus. Off to a great start. I close the door behind her and follow to the center of my studio. “You’ve been working! It’s…,” My mother stops in front of the painting and falls quiet as she leans in to scrutinize. “A work of art! So raw. So barbaric. You have such an imagination.”

“Thanks, mom…”

“Now, I peeked at the others when I dropped those clothes by…” She pulls her scarf free of her neck and drapes it over her arm, “But this, I think this is it!... What inspired it?” My mother turns.

“A dream.”

A light smile crosses her freshly painted red lips. “Some of my best works have come from dreams.” Her eyes work their way around the room, ending on a pair of earrings Viloria must have left on the counter. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with that girl?”

“Viloria, she has a name, mom.” Though, her and my father have never cared to acknowledge it. To them, I’m going through a phase. They’ve spent my relationship most likely betting on when it would end. Seven years in and she’s still ‘that girl’. At this rate, she’ll never be promoted. “And yes, we’re dating.”

“Honey, I met the kindest soul in England last week. She says she would be pleased to meet you the next time we fly over.”

Instead of fueling the conversation, I groan and seat myself on the couch. For once, my mother seems to take the hint and walks over to the door to retrieve the bags she had dropped there. “I see you’ve been wearing the clothes I left. I’ve got more. And...I trust you found the money.”

"I.. did.” I can’t draw my eyes away from the back of the canvas that still rests on my easel. Even when my mother drops the bags next to me.

Her perfectly manicured nails pull out an incredibly itchy sweater, followed by a number of other articles of clothing that she lays in my lap, one at a time. I see none of them. “Darling, are you well?”

“Why not just take the painting and go?...” I’m disturbed by how much the thought frightens me. I want the painting to stay.

“I thought we might catch up for a moment. Your father and I have been away for some time.” She can see I’ve got no interest in the clothes and drops them back in the bag. “But, if you are busy. I can come back another time.” The bag is tucked next to me on the couch and my mother retrieves her things from the armrest.

All I can muster is a nod.

“Well, that is that, then. I will have your piece picked up for the gallery.” I sit up and watch as she walks for the door, “Au revoir!”

The door closes between us, then I let my head fall back to the couch, resigning myself to watching the ceiling for a great length of time before I ignore the call of the painting and fall asleep.

Sleep is the one chance I’m allowed to get away. It removes all responsibility for actions and reactions. In sleep, there is no room for reservations; everything you think is raw. Everything you feel is intense. Everything is real - till you open your eyes. I remain at the mercy of the same dream, haunting me again. Tonight, however, it is different; unexpected, because I don’t dream at all. Instead, hours pass trapped in the dark behind my eyelids - awake. Or, so it feels that way. My thoughts, feelings, fears, ambitions bounce off into the darkness, then return so that I may hear them echoed all together. It is a cacophony of panic and isolation, and I have never been happier to wake to silence. No matter how brief.

***

A groan emits from my chest as I sit up and reach for my phone, which has made its way facedown on the floor beside me. I turn it over and the press of a button summons light, shining brightly into my tired eyes. An entire day has been spent. “Fucks sake.”

My words drop flat in the silence of my apartment as I fumble to adjust the brightness level and realize there are quite a few texts missed from Viloria. The first is a greeting, the second an inquiry, the rest are concerned with threats. My phone drops and the plastic backing hits the floor, producing a loud clap before the room is silent again. I lie in that state for some time before a feeble attempt is made to rub the tension of a bad day’s sleep from my temples. Then, I rise, walking to the window to stare out over the street outside.

Down below, the pub’s music is soft and the street is bare of cars - except for the occasional commuter returning from some bigger city far away. The passing headlights cast beams that pass over me and the floor, before disappearing somewhere in the dark. I easily lose track of how long I’ve been standing at the window, but I could tell you how many stray cats crossed the street or how many times I’ve caught the reflection of something behind me in the panes. My gaze cannot look away, cannot look directly at the painting, staring till my phone starts buzzing from the darkness.

Viloria is up late again. But, I ignore the device. My hands raise instead to the window as I lean forward on the glass, resting my head against the cold surface of the pane - opposing the painting’s call to me. Behind me, it whispers, I’m convinced now. Ever since I painted it, faint sounds of the forest could be heard. It is now the same whispering of the wind through the leaves, the same songs of insects, and the sound of my name. Whispered ever so softly, it is there. I hear her calling to me.

Soon, the music in the pub dies and no more cars pass. When I finally leave the window, the morning sun has already begun its rise and my phone has been silent for hours.

My feet shuffle over the floor and stop at the bag my mother had dropped there yesterday. I lean over and pull out a pair of mustard colored khakis and a green v-neck sweater. The previous ensemble now lies in a messy pile by my feet as I dress and head for my shoes near the door. They are a pair of brown slip-ons that my mother had told me were quite popular with boys in some far away country I’ve never been to.

Who am I to question? Growing up, exotic places consisted of my flying to Michigan or Florida, but I’ve never been over the seas. Too dangerous for a child, my mother would say. And much too expensive for the added fare, my father would explain. Yet, they would always return with thousand dollar bags full of new stuff for me. Only the best quality paints and canvas, clothing, or books. Never toys. What I wouldn’t give for a rocket ship right now, or a plastic car made in China even. Something to pretend I had more of a normal childhood. But, I settle for giving in to another desire from my past, over childish whims.

The nearest convenience store is a walk from my apartment - one block or two. Outside, the morning air is crisp and even a short walk will surely chill me. Yet, I walk on; passing by the coffee shop, then rounding a corner down one of the side streets.

My hands are tucked tightly in the ridiculously undersized pockets of my pants, but they are still freezing by the time I reach my destination. It is a small corner building with a red and white striped awning that appears as though it hasn’t been washed in years. Not even the spring rains seem able to clear away the years of dirt and oil, and the inside is no better for wear. Like the pizza place Viloria and I had gone to, this place has seen its better share of days - a hundred years ago. The linoleum hasn’t seen an update since it was in style and the lighting casts an ugly yellow haze over the aging merchandise for sale. Good thing I’m not here for food. What I’m here for, however, is just as likely to induce cancer as my spending too much time under the broken asbestos ceiling tiles.

I walk to the counter where a shady looking man awaits my request with a stoic face. “One hard pack of Camels, please. Menthol.” Added cancer agents, but with a delightful taste.

The man reaches back without looking and tosses the pack between us on the counter. “Five sixty-nine.”

My hands go back into my pockets to pull out my wallet only to realize that I had forgotten it at home. I slowly pull my hands free and shake my head just as a ten dollar bill is tossed onto the counter.

“You haven’t smoked since high school. What’s the deal? And why didn’t you answer my texts?” The man grabs the money and opens the till to get change while I am left to deal with the slightly disappointed girl who stands by my side. I grab the pack of cigarettes and head for the door without a word. Behind me, Viloria quickly grabs her change and follows me outside, “Vin! What is going on?”

“Nothing.” Nothing and everything all at once. Tap. Tap. I slam the pack against my palm a few times before opening the box and quickly grabbing the first one I can manage to pull free of the others. It goes between my lips as I search my pockets for a lighter, then coming up empty. I groan in defeat before a flame lights between us.

Viloria blocks my path back home. “I don’t believe you. You didn’t answer me all night. What happened?” I light my cigarette and circle around her, leaving a trail of smoke. “Vin!” She stops and watches me round the corner. I can hear her footsteps hurry to catch up on the homestretch, “It was your mom, wasn’t it?”

My mom. Won’t she be happy to see I’m smoking again. I don’t even know why I am. It just felt right. Even as the inhale burns my throat, the exhale frees the tension. It releases my worries. Clouds my thoughts. I can get lost in the smoke. “Not my mom.”

“Then what is this? You are so... “

“Tired.” A heavy sigh, “I didn’t sleep last night.” I couldn’t.

“I can tell.” Viloria reaches out and takes the cigarette from my hand, “Must’ve been a night to deserve these nasty things.” I watch her toss the remainder of the cigarette near her feet and turn before she puts it out with the sole of her shoe.

All of the shops along the stretch back to my apartment are beginning to open, including the pub on the ground floor of my building. It will have its desperate and lonely stumble in off the streets not long from now, but most of the day will be spent wiping empty tables and buffing clean glasses at the bar. I gaze past my reflection on the glass as I walk to the door and question whether I should be first for a drink. Inside, the decor is dark - harrowing back to some dated period of time in medieval history. Not dark in the mental sense, but in the literal sense. Back to a time when candles were the only illumination within stone castle walls. From the bar itself and down to the old tile floor, the place might as well have been plucked from a historical village outside of Dublin. That alone makes me want to step inside; however, Viloria pulls me away. “Sleep might be a better idea.”

“You’re...right. Will you be staying?” Having her at my side may help. She hesitates for a moment and eyes me before grabbing my hand. We walk up to my apartment together and open the unlocked door.

Waiting for us is my newest work and though the canvas is only half seen from where we stand, I can visualize it with my eyes closed. That reality is ultimately what drives me to walk the large open space from my door to my studio and take it down from the easel - leaning it face first against a stack of canvas along the wall. Viloria watches me with a frown but doesn’t say anything as she seats herself on my bed, leaning down to pull off her flats. One of her shoes hits the floor followed by the other and she reaches to pick up something. Her thumb slides over the screen of my phone and she looks up at me from across the room. “You didn’t read any of these…”

“I…” My hand goes up to mess with my thick hair, “I was tired.”

“I guess. Come...,” Viloria pats the spot next to her on the bed as she pulls herself up and under the sheets, “...lay with me.” I walk over the bed and kick off my own shoes before climbing in beside her. For a brief moment, it feels strange. My head turns to look for the painting and I feel slightly better not to see it resting on my easel.

My attention turns back to my girlfriend as I wrap an arm across her chest. One simple touch erases the tension better than that cigarette, and I curse myself for not replying to her texts. All of the disturbing thoughts from the night before are gone, allowing me to close my eyes.