This is the second part of the story of Paul and his encounter with Mia.
***
I called in sick at work for the first week after my day with Mia. I felt fine physically. Better than fine, in fact. My body felt strong and limber, my stamina was great, and old aches and pains had faded or vanished altogether.
Vanished. Like Mia.
I assumed that my good health was a remnant of my time with Mia. Or perhaps a parting gift. I was unclear on how I ended up back at my apartment. Before I passed out, I saw Mia disappear before my eyes. Did she come back and move me after I fainted? Or did she simply transport me from afar? Did she see me again while I was unconscious? And if so, how ... how could she just leave me without a word? Other than just "I'm sorry."
I stayed in my apartment for that first week, hoping Mia would reappear. I knew some part of her had visited my apartment because of the wine glass and boxer shorts that were there when I regained consciousness. I foolishly thought that if I stayed put, I'd be sure to see her when she came back. In hindsight, of course, that was ridiculous. If Mia wanted me to see her she could appear wherever I was whenever she wanted. So after that first week, I began the slow process of resuming my life.
As hurt and profoundly sad as I was over Mia's sudden and unexplained departure, I also could not get the image of her face out of my mind. Not the seductive glossy-lipped face she showed me at the diner when she first introduced -- if not explained -- her special ability. Not the lovely radiant face from our discussion by her pool when she did explain who and what she is. Not even the gentle, vulnerable face of the real Mia who only revealed herself at my request before we made love. I remembered each of those faces both fondly and painfully. But they were not the face that haunted me.
It was the frightened and pained face, with her eyes glowing orange, which said "I'm sorry" and vanished into thin air. How could anyone so powerful and in-control become so terrified so quickly?
The remainder of my first month after my day with Mia was spent alternately feeling sorry for myself and worrying about her. Was she alright? Was she consumed by the energy she had created and controlled for so long? Was the closeness we shared too much and she was afraid of what she would feel? I created a thousand different explanations with a thousand elaborate scenarios attached to them. None of them made me feel any better or worry less for Mia's safety.
And the dreams. Every night, a different incredible dream starring Mia. Every wild fantasy I'd ever imagined would play out in my dreams. She would whisk us off to an exotic setting, or assume the appearance of some irresistible temptress that would put a frat boy's wet dreams to shame. Any position, every orifice, all wishes exuberantly granted before I could consciously think of it. I would writhe with pleasure, my brain spinning out of control with desire, but always with that blanket of warmth surrounding me that was uniquely Mia's. No matter who she was or how she looked in the dream, I always knew it was Mia. And as my excitement intensified I could feel the warmth increase. The closer I came to climax, the more the growing heat enveloped me. When the pleasure became almost too much to bear and I could feel the release that I was growing desperate to achieve dangling just out of reach, the heat became stifling. I could feel the air itself being consumed around me and a blistering searing sensation overpowering me. Unable to breathe or move, I'd watch as a glowing ball of orange light would surround Mia, growing brighter until it was finally blinding. I'd hear a scream and would be suddenly aware that it was my voice screaming. And I'd be awake, my voice trailing off into a mournful moan that would be the envy of any ghost in a haunted house, bathed in sweat, heart pounding. No release, no relief.
Every night.
In the second month, the tightness in my chest and ache in my stomach began to subside, during my waking hours at least. I had lost my parents at an early age so loss of a loved one is not a new experience. But I knew what happened to my parents, so I accepted they were gone and mourned them. I didn't know what happened to Mia. But I had to begin to behave like she was not going to come back and I had to grieve the loss and move on.
I tried to convince myself that it was just one day out of my life. An amazing day, no question, but one day. It's not like a 5-year relationship suddenly imploded that day. It was a reality changing, life-altering one-night stand. No matter how unbelievable and precious a day it was, I needed to put it into perspective. But perspective was meaningless to me now. Perspective had been based on a life of experience that had been completely turned on its head on that one single day. As much as I wanted to, I could not rationally diminish the importance of that one day. I couldn't lie to myself. That day changed my life. Mia changed my life. And now she was gone.
Mia's appearances in my dreams became less and less frequent. I still had vivid dreams, but my partner in them was growing less and less familiar. Any recognition was fleeting. The familiar warmth was all but gone, and the ecstatic rush to near-climax was replaced by a relentless tease from a faceless and heartless companion -- not malevolent, simply indifferent.
Four months after my day with Mia, I went out socially for the first time. I was never much for the bar scene, unless it was just a casual night with my friends. The thought of dating hadn't even crossed my mind and I didn't think I'd be ready for a relationship, or any intimacy at all, for a long time. But it was nice to be going out with my friends. They chose the same bar that I had gone to the night before I met Mia. Beer and chicken wings for everyone. There was some symbolism in that I guess, like I was somehow starting over. I'd have the same "night before" and the next morning I'd go about my business. There'd be no bike ride, no broken down car or lady in distress, no stop at the diner, no ... no Mia.
I never told anyone about Mia. Who'd believe me anyway? I could have made up a story, told half-truths about this girl I met, our intense whirlwind romance and just as sudden break-up that left me in a self-imposed hiatus from dating. But despite the pain it just didn't feel right to try to alter the story. Better to not tell the tale than to change it so I could share it with others. I kept a low profile, worked a lot of overtime, went out of town (or sometimes just told people I went out of town) a lot, and generally kept to myself.
