Christine was having trouble deciding whether or not she was dreaming.
She was in a grassy field with no recollection of how she got there. The sky was going dark. She was, for some reason, dressed in nothing but a thin white gown that was almost transparent. An enormous willow tree drooped overhead. Nothing was familiar.
Yes, it must be a dream, she thought, but she still wasn't sure. Everything felt solid and tangible. She could hear her heartbeat. The air was so crisp that it stung her throat when she inhaled; had she ever noticed her breathing in a dream before?
Something rustled in the brush nearby.
"Hello?" she said. Her voice sounded strange. It was like an echo coming out of her own mouth. "Is someone there?"
More movement, but she saw nothing. She pressed her back against the trunk of the tree. It's all just a dream anyway, she thought. None of this can be real. I will wake up any minute.
The sound of approaching footsteps through the tall grass was unmistakable now. The sky was going dark, and something was getting closer, and it was just as she felt the touch of an unseen hand at her throat that the scream welled up inside of her, and-
***
Christine woke to sheets tangled around her body and staleness in her mouth. It was hot. Everything was damp with sweat. She kicked her way out of bed and stuck her head out the window. Three stories below she saw the pavement baking.
She was sure she had been dreaming a moment ago, but now she couldn't remember anything about it. The clock told her it was ten thirty. She dressed without even knowing what she was putting on. Her mind was already on the thing that was waiting for her in the living room.
She had been up all night working on the painting. She felt a little thrill when she saw the canvas: the scene showed a pale, blonde, nymph-like woman in a barely-there gown, lying in a green field under a rather dreary willow tree. She reclined on her side, head propped on one hand, chin tilted down, all daintiness and gossamer fabric and flowing hair. She looked (or at least, Christine wanted her to look) carefree and distracted.
There was a second figure in the painting too, a lean but muscular man who was covered in shadows. He stood over the distracted nymph, apparently unseen, his posture hunched, one arm reaching toward her. His fingers were a few inches from her throat.
The idea for the painting had come to her out of nowhere six weeks ago. One second it hadn't been there and the next it just was. Dazed by the sudden inspiration, she'd wandered for hours until finding an art supply store, where she spent hundreds of dollars on brushes, paints, canvasses, and other essentials.
That very night she had drawn her concept sketch, and then made her first attempt at the real thing. Disliking the result, she had tried again the next day. Christine had painted the same scene over and over, day after day, for weeks, but it was never quite good enough. The rejected versions were stacked by the dozens all over her apartment.
She considered the new painting from every angle. It still wasn't right. She had fixed the problems with the woman's proportions, but she still didn't like her face, which didn't seem to express anything. And there was something off about the man too. He should be darker, to set him apart from the woman's paleness. And something about the way he was reaching out? Was he going to touch her or strangle her? She couldn't tell.
She frowned. The male figure had always made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she was afraid to turn her back on him.
This one was an improvement, she decided, but still not good enough. She'd have to start over. That would mean buying another canvas, and they were expensive, but if she just let the cable bill go for the month she could afford it. A few weeks without television would probably be good for her anyway.
Her phone beeped, telling her she was going to be late. She had cancelled all of her recent appointments to afford more time for painting, but there was still one meeting she couldn't miss, even now. Just try not to think about it she told herself as she grabbed her purse.
Just as she got to the front door, there was a knock, and she jumped. Settle down Christine, she thought.
"Who is it?" she said. No one answered. She fumbled with the knob. "I'm sorry, but you caught me just as I was leaving. Maybe we can-"
No one was there. She looked in both directions. No one in sight. She realized she was holding her breath and exhaled all at once.
She looked back into her apartment as she was closing the door. If something had been there, she thought, I would have let it in just now. Now I'm locking it inside. It will still be waiting for me when I get home.
Stop it, she thought. You're making yourself late. She put one foot in front of the other and resisted the urge to turn around. Instead she thought about the painting. The cool green field relaxed her almost immediately. Behind her eyes, it was perfect. She wanted to put that perfection onto the canvas. She wanted it so much she could hardly breathe.
Maybe tonight would be the night. Maybe tonight she would finally make it perfect. She would start as soon as she got back. She just had to do this one thing first.
***
"No," said David. "Don't say it. Don't say 'I'm sorry I'm late.'"
Christine slid into the booth, where a cesar salad was already waiting for her.
"I'm-"
"A wonderful person without a thought in her head, yes, I know, which is why I've already ordered for you, and look, here it is. Wine?"
"It's not even noon?"
"That's why I'm drinking white. Is that blood on your sleeve?"
Christine looked down. "It's paint."
"Redoing the living room?"
"No," Christine said, poking at her salad. David looked tired, but David never exhibited the same marks of exhaustion that made other people unattractive when they became run down. It was one of the things about him that annoyed her the most.
"You look-" he started, and she jumped to cut him off.
"You look exhausted!" she said. "Is it the job?"
"Oh God!" He made a big gesture of putting his head in his hands, and she took a bite to disguise her smile. "It's slow death. I feel like I've been there for a million years."
"It's been three weeks."
David pantomimed stabbing himself with his fork. "Why am I doing this?"
"The money, I thought."
"Oh no, of course not, people who only do jobs for the money are sell outs. I'm doing this because I have an all-consuming love for patent law, right?"
Well it would be nice if you loved something, she thought, but chose to stuff her mouth full of croutons rather than say it. They lapsed into silence for a few seconds.
"I'm glad you came out," he said. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too," she said, moderating her tone. "I was surprised when you called me."
"I don't know why. We agreed to be friends. Friends see each other, from time to time."
"Yes, but after last time-"
"Let's not talk about that."
More silence passed. Christine mentally composed dozens of statements about David, herself, and the general state of the world, then discarded each of them in favor of extending the silence.
David cleared his throat. "Okay Christine, you were late after you swore you never would be again, and that means it's time. It's time for the question."
"No!" Christine said, wincing as she swallowed.
"I'm sorry, but as per our agreement, you must hear me out."
"I never agreed to that!"
