The Eyes of Midnight

"It's almost like she's here, isn't it," said a small voice behind me.

I turned and I realized, after a double take, that it was Sara. It was Sara, but she looked a lot different. She was neatly dressed in a sexy librarian look, with a simple white blouse, medium black skirt and black high heels. Her wavy brown hair curled around her face and went down past her shoulders. She was stunning, and so much different that she could have been in the crowd and I wouldn't have noticed.

"Sara, so glad to see you," I managed to stammer. "You, uh, dress up quite well."

"Thanks," she blushed. "I enjoyed your presentation, very intriguing."

We went and got a glass of wine as the crowd continued to thin out, and we walked around together looking at some of the paintings.

"There was one painting I was hoping to see that they didn't have on exhibit," she said.

"Which one was that?" I asked.

"Eyes at Midnight," she said. "It's my favorite. I've seen it on the computer, but I was really hoping to see it for real."

Eyes at Midnight was one of the last paintings Anna ever painted. It was not that well received by the critics or by the public, but it was my favorite. It was a dark, brooding self portrait that Anna had painted in the middle of the night. The eyes didn't have as much detail and color as usual, but there was a depth to it that I found mesmerizing. I was impressed that Sara had been moved by it as well.

"Interesting that is your favorite, it is mine as well," I said. "In fact, I have a full size print of that piece that I take with me when I travel."

The words were just out of my mouth when I realized what I had just said. "Wait, I have the print with me, I could show it to you now."

Sara's face lit up. "Oh, would you, that would make this trip complete."

"Of course, my hotel room is just a short walk from here, we can go see it now," I said. I suddenly realized that I had just invited a young attractive girl back to my hotel room.

To her credit, Sara did not react one way or another, she acted as though there were no implications. I had to remind myself that it was unlikely that a 20 something girl would be interested in a 40 something man, but I still became a bit nervous. We stepped out of the gallery into the cool night air and took a slow stroll down the sidewalk to the hotel. I struggled to make conversation as my mind raced. On the one hand, I was nervous about making an awkward advance to an attractive young girl, on the other hand I was nervous about letting the opportunity pass. And of course I was nervous about spending time with a real woman, something I hadn't done in over 20 years.

By the time we got to the elevator I was out of small talk. We went quietly up to the room and then went inside, where I spent the first few moments tossing dirty clothes aside. The room had a double bed and an adjacent living room area with a couch and other chairs. Interestingly, Sara walked by the couch and sat down on the edge of the bed, which I took as either a suggestion that she was interested in having sex or that the idea was so remote that the implications of sitting on the bed didn't matter.

I went to the closet and went into my wardrobe case, where I kept the print of the Eyes at Midnight. I hadn't told Sara this, but not only did I travel with the piece, it was generally the last thing I looked at every night before going to bed. The print was about two feet square, so when I handed it to Sara she could easily hold it in front of her to look at. As it came into her hands, she audibly gasped, and one hand came up to her mouth. I've seen a lot of strong reactions to art, but I don't think I have ever seen someone so immediately taken by a work. She didn't say a word, she just sat there, stunned and mesmerized by the painting. Her eyes misted up, but they never left the painting. For the next ten minutes or so, she just sat there, looking into the eyes, occasionally moving her fingers over the print. It was an incredibly moving experience, which she was having all by herself. It was like I wasn't even there.

In fact, when I mumbled something about going to the bathroom, she didn't even react. I went into the bathroom and tried to collect myself somewhat. Sara was here for the art, not for me. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked into my own eyes, haggard, tired, lonely. As I did ever too frequently, I resigned myself to the idea that I was never going to be with a woman again, and it was best just to be satisfied by my dreams. I figured I would just go back out to the room, talk to Sara about the painting some, then walk her back to wherever she was staying.

But when I walked back out into the room, Sara was lying on her back on the bed, and I quickly realized she was fast asleep. She held the painting in her hands over her chest, and she looked peaceful, beautiful and angelic on the bed. I took the opportunity to admire her petite body. She was small, but surprisingly shapely. Even on her back, her breasts pushed impressively upward on her silk blouse. Her skirt had ridden up some on her thighs, and her legs were toned and attractive.

I tried to wake her, but I really didn't have the heart to, because she looked so peaceful. I was able to pull her long, delicate fingers off the print and then took her heels off and pulled the covers over her. I thought briefly about sleeping on the couch, but then I decided that the bed was big enough for both of us, it wasn't like anything was going to happen anyway. I stripped down to a t shirt and boxers and collapsed into bed. I left the light by the bed on in case Sara woke in the night. I was exhausted from the tension of my day with Sara, and I was quickly asleep.

I'm not sure when exactly that I woke up. I was on my back, and it took me a minute to remember where I was. Hotel room. Chicago. Oh yeah, and there was a young girl in bed with me as well. I turned to look over at Sara and my heart stopped. Her face was turned towards me, she was wide awake, and looking at me intently. By intently, I mean like she was practically studying me, her eyes were wide open. Her eyes were focused, intense, a little sad, but there was something else there as well.

I had no idea what to say, so I just looked back at her looking at me. I had a brief run of imagination that involved me being in a news story—man invites stranger into his hotel room and she goes crazy and murders him in the middle of the night.

We lay there a long time, just looking at each other, no words were spoken. Then, to my total shock, Sara leaned over and kissed me.

My head went into a tailspin and my body practically went crazy. My heart was suddenly pounding, my stomach was doing flip flops. She didn't wait for me to react, she just leaned in further and kissed me harder. I felt my mind go blank as I kissed her back. She was immediately aggressive, sliding over the bed and on top of me, and I realized as her warm skin covered my body that she was naked. Like a hungry animal, she pulled off my shirt and then pushed my boxers off, and before I knew it she had her legs wrapped around mine and her arms pulling me close. Through it all, she never stopped kissing me, warmly and passionately like a longtime lover. I never really had any time to react, she was totally in control. I suddenly realized that my cock was hard, and I could feel her warm, wet pussy poised above my cock. Her eyes met mine, and I noticed her eyes looked much different than before. They had more color, more depth, more emotion. I had seen these eyes somewhere before, and about the moment that I realized her eyes reminded me of a painting, she lowered herself onto me and I gasped as my cock immediately slipped inside her all the way to the hilt.

I was completely overcome with the feeling of being inside Sara. It felt incredible, beautiful, like it was meant to be. She was holding me so passionately, like I was some kind of divine object. For me, it had been over 20 years since I was inside a woman, but this was so much more than anything I had ever expected. The sex life of my dreams had been awesome and intense, but this was miles beyond any of that.

My hands roamed freely over Sara as she straddled me. I caressed her perfectly shaped breasts, ran my fingers over her face and through her hair. I stroked her arms, her legs, her hips. She continued to control the action as I was on my back. She was grinding her hips onto me, taking my cock deep inside her and then almost all the way out, then back deep inside again. Her eyes were closed with passion now, but I kept mine open, loving every expression, every moan, every time she leaned down to kiss me again. Her kisses were so soft and passionate I couldn't let her go, and I pulled her down close and kissed her hard, and then harder. My hands were on her lower back now, helping her to move her hips rhythmically. She was so small it was easy to move her body.

Then my hands moved around to her tight but shapely ass, and both my hands found a cheek. Her ass cheeks were so small and tight that they fit easily into my hands. I lovingly squeezed her ass with both hands, and she gasped with pleasure as I pulled her down hard on my cock. Even though I was on my back, I began to take control of the motion, gripping her ass and driving my cock into her, harder and deeper. I could feel my orgasm slowly beginning to build, and it felt like we were moving onto some other plane. My hips began to thrust upward off the bed, lifting her little body up as I drove my cock up into her, my hands still gripping her ass. She screamed into my mouth as we kissed, and I probably screamed back. My back arched high and I swear I lifted her two feet off the bed. As I exploded into her, I absolutely and completely lost all control. Then I passed out.

When I jolted awake, I was still in the bed, and sitting at the foot of the bed was Anna. She was dressed in a short football jersey and cowboy boots. I suddenly realized that I was in one of my dreams. I looked around for Sara but didn't see her.

"She's gone," Anna said, smiling slightly.

I immediately felt a strange pang of guilt. After all, I had just cheated on my soul mate, albeit one who had been dead for 22 years.

"I like her," Anna said. She grinned at me devilishly. "Maybe we could have a threesome with her sometime."

I briefly thought about pushing the dream immediately into that direction, but it didn't seem like quite the right moment. Instead, I held out my hand to her, and pulled her up onto the bed with me. She cuddled up beside me in the bed, her head on my chest and my arm around her shoulders.

"I love you," I said.

She was quiet for a while, I wasn't sure if it was her or me controlling this dream. "I love you too," she said. "But maybe it's time to try something new."

I couldn't think of a response, so I just held her in my arms and waited for sleep to come back. Or go away.

When I woke up again, it was dawn, and I was alone. I went and looked in the bathroom, stuck my head out the door to search the hall. I walked down to the lobby and looked around, no Sara. I went back to the room and looked around, there was no sign of Sara. Not only was she not there, there were no signs that she had ever been there. No note, no clothes left behind. The painting she had been so intrigued by was on the bed.

It took me a while to settle on the realization that she had left without saying goodbye, or leaving a note. I went through the natural progression of thoughts, that I had done something wrong, or done something offensive. But the glaring, overwhelming thought nagging my mind was a completely different concept—that she had never been there. Had Sara been a dream? I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed my eyes, trying to clear my head. Had it been a dream? Did she even come to the room at all? Or worse yet, had I completely imagined her being on the plane, being at the art exhibit, being in my bed?

As I reviewed the details in my head, I realized I didn't know Sara's last name. Had she never given it to me, or did I forget it? I couldn't remember, or didn't know, where she was from. With a mild shiver, I realized that all I knew about her was that she was an artist named Sara.

I spent the rest of the morning holding onto hope that she would come back. I visualized her bringing coffee. Climbing back into bed with me. Making love the rest of the day.

But none of those things happened. I checked out of the hotel, constantly looking around. I went to the airport, and walked from one end of the terminal to the other, looking for Sara. I sat down on the plane and watched passengers coming down the aisle, desperately hoping that Sara would be one of them. She wasn't.

But the time I got home I was so tired and devastated I went straight home. In all honesty, somewhere in the air on the way home I had made peace with the idea that Sara had been all a part of my imagination. I climbed into bed and fell into a deep, disturbed sleep, a sleep that lasted for two straight days, and oddly enough, involved no dreams.

When I finally did wake up, I felt refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to get my head together and stop living in the past, and/or stop living in my fantasy life. I took a long hot shower, shaved, had a big breakfast. I cleaned up the old art room that Anna had used, throwing away all the old paints and supplies that had been collecting dust. I was going through some old paintings when I saw it. An old painting of a girl with deep brown eyes. Eyes, that were, without question, the eyes of Sara.

I felt a cold shiver down my back as I stared at the picture. How could Anna have painted the eyes of a woman who didn't even exist when she painted it? As I sat there looking into the eyes of the painting, I came to a more logical conclusion—Sara was all in my head, inspired by the painting.

I don't know how long I sat there looking at the painting, but at some point I fell asleep. I know this because I looked up and Anna was in the room. She had on a paint smock over pajamas and a fedora on her head. I never knew how she would show up for my dreams, so I was pretty used to random clothing.

Anna walked up behind me and embraced me, wrapping her arms around my shoulder and pressing herself into my back. "How's it going?" she smiled.

"Ok I guess, except for me losing my mind and not recognizing fantasy from reality," I answered.

"I wouldn't get too hung up on the details," Anna said. "Fantasy. Reality. Dreams. We all move back and forth between them."

"But don't you think I should be worried about imaginary people?" I said.

"You mean Sara?" she asked.

"Yes, Sara," I said, turning to look at her. "She doesn't exist, she's just a figment of my imagination, inspired by your painting."

"Are you sure?" Anna said. "She seemed pretty real. I mean, did she seem real to you when she was with you?"

I looked at Anna and put my head in my hands. I was having a debate about the existence of imaginary people, with an imaginary person. For the first time in a very long time, I didn't want Anna to be in my dream.

In the far reaches of my mind, I could hear a soft tapping noise. It gradually grew louder, to the point where I looked around to see where it was coming from. Anna was working on a painting, just a few feet away, and looked over at me and smiled. "You should get that," she said.

Then I was awake, sitting in Anna's art studio slumped into a chair in front of the painting of Sara's eyes. It was dark and quiet, and I was all alone. Then I heard the tapping again. I realized someone was knocking, very softly, on the front door. I went over and opened it up, expecting to see the mailman. I was wrong.

It was Sara. She was standing in front of the door, her head down, her eyes brimming with tears. She was dressed simply in jeans and a thin sweater. She looked cold, and a kind man would have asked her in. But while I was a kind man, I was incapable of putting enough thoughts together to verbalize anything. After a long silence, she broke the ice.

"Hey," she said.

I breathed for the first time since I had opened the door. I was still too stunned to formulate any kind of intelligent response.

"It's you," I stammered.

She nodded, and I noted a kindness and understanding in the way she looked at me. She had totally mind fucked me in Chicago, and it was understandable that I was in a stupor. She didn't give me much chance to collect myself.

"I need to show you something," she said.

Before I could say anything, she held out her hand towards me, and I didn't know what else to do. So I took her hand.

She led me to her car and we got in the front seat without saying a word. She drove the car slowly and deliberately, and I sat there in a trance, not even paying attention to where I was, where we were going, or even how long we had been driving. It wasn't long before I didn't even recognize where I was, even though I had lived in the area for over 20 years.

I finally managed to say something. "Are you real?" I asked.

She didn't respond right away, she seemed to be trying to gather her emotions.

Finally she answered. "Yes, I fairly sure that I am," she said.

Just then she turned off the main road and onto a dirt road. The one way road was long and dark and bumpy, and it was a long time before we came to a clearing, where there was a small, attractive cottage. Sara pulled in front and stopped the car. We got out, and once again, she took my hand and led me inside the house.

Her hand was warm and slightly sweaty, and it felt good to hold it. It made me feel like Sara was real, even if it was just for now.

She turned on some lights as we came in, the cottage was very simply and attractively decorated. She led me toward the back of the house, toward a set of french doors. When we reached the doors she paused, and took a breath. She looked over at me, almost as if she was measuring if I was going to be able t handle what she was going to show me. Then she turned the knobs on both doors and pushed them into the room.

The french doors opened into a larger than expected room. No furniture, stark white paint, no windows. In the middle of the room were several easels, with partially completed paintings on them. Covering the walls, in nearly every inch of available space were paintings. Paintings of eyes. They were Anna's paintings.

My mind exploded. How did these paintings get here? Had this strange girl stolen my wife's paintings? Why did she bring me here?

"What the hell..." I stammered, then suddenly I noticed a tiny detail, just out of the corner of my eye. I walked over to one of the paintings and looked at it closely. Then I looked even closer, looking at the detail. They were Anna's paintings. But she hadn't done them. I knew every painting Anna ever produced, they were filed in my head like an encyclopedia. These paintings looked exactly like Anna's work, but they were different, so subtly different that I may have been the only person to notice.

I began to walk around the room, slowly, examining each painting carefully. There were hundreds of individual paintings. I had to admit, each painting was very well done. Someone had done an incredible job of mimicking Anna's style.

I turned angrily towards Sara, ready to confront her, challenge her, yell at her. But when I saw her, I stopped myself before I said a word.

She looked so tiny, so innocent, so emotional. Her hands were on her mouth and she was crying as she looked at me. She looked almost like she was in pain.

I took a breath and reloaded. "Where did you get these paintings?" I said softly.

She gulped back tears. "I did them," she said.

My eyes squinted at her in disbelief. "You...painted...these?"