# A Distant Dream Fiction **URL:** **By** Jesse Knight **Published:** July 1, 1971 --- “Rain turned the windows of the gallery into a collection of obscure, symbolist poems in glass.” Rain turned the windows of the gallery into a collection of obscure, symbolist poems in glass. Light, refracted through the descending pseudopodia splotches of rain, wavered and quivered, shifting downwards diagonally across the canvases. Slowly, a young woman moved among the paintings, a silent spectre floating through the dark panelled gallery with its florescent light winking and casting a vague, pale light on the paintings. The faded carpet muffled her footsteps. The room was empty except for the young woman, the young woman and the paintings. She stopped, swiveled and began to move in the other direction. Glenn could not understand why she returned day after day to the gallery and to the paintings; nor could she understand why she wandered ceaselessly among the paintings — a journey which never failed to evoke within her a haunting pain. Yet return she did, wander she did, though she knew not why. Even with the drifting wisps of pain she felt, still she was content to be alone with them. She sought nothing more. But other thoughts drifted through her mind also. She wondered why the paintings sifted through the myriad of thoughts, memories, details and remembrances she held to focus on a time when she first came to the city, when her expectations had been as charming as a butterfly, but unfortunately, as delicate. Glenn turned away from the gray windows, wavering with rain, and began to walk slowly around the gallery once again. She stopped finally near the entrance — an atrium of a short way which led into a cloak room, then to the dark door leading outside. She leaned against the doorway, holding the gentle angle of her shoulders back slightly as though she were in a defensive position. Her hair, which was the colour of rain-darkened cedar, was swept across her high forehead; then it curved to her shoulders and hovered there, where she aimlessly twirled it with her forefinger. She wondered — gently, painfully, hauntingly, yearningly — she wondered what she was doing there. What right had she to be there? Why did she return? Why couldn’t she leave, once and for all, and forget? Her gaze floated over the paintings, and she remembered the first time she had come to the Leibowitz Gallery. “He’s quite controversial, you know,” Steven had told her while taking her coat. Glenn’s languid, “Oh?” had been an entirely automatic response: Steven never took her any place that wasn’t “quite controversial.” “This is his first show, and he’s already caused quite a stir.” “I’m sure,” Glenn agreed. “You know the critic...” But Glenn cut him short. “Shall we go in?” she asked, taking his arm. The sooner they went in, she told herself, the sooner they could leave; and the sooner they left, the sooner she could be back to her apartment, the sooner she could be alone again, the sooner the night would be finished, the sooner she could fall asleep. Steven led her through a short atrium and into the gallery itself. It was a very short distance, only a few feet, but the distance from one room to the other was worlds apart. Steven slipped beyond her awareness and disappeared. She was alone. . . with the paintings. These were not men and women who walked this earth. Perhaps in some far and distant age — yes; or in another place, in another land they might have existed; but not here, not now. Yet, though remote they were, as remote as her dreams, yet she recognized them. She felt the world was theirs: They seemed so right and logical and fitting for it. Then she felt that those she knew from day to day, those around her, Steven, the milling congestion of spectators in the gallery — they were usurpers who could lay no legitimate claim to this world. The men on canvas — they were the rightful owners. Glenn felt very alone and naked before the paintings. She felt as if she were the one being examined, the one under careful, measured scrutiny; the eyes of these men and women of oil on canvas were upon her, judging, measuring, gauging her worth. At once and at the same time, Glenn wanted to run, hide, seek refuge from their omniscient gazes, so steady and sure, focusing on her, and on her alone, in the mass of humanity crowding the gallery; but yet she felt a defiant shiver quiver through her. She stood before them, straight, unmoving and unyielding, and returned their gaze without flinching. “Glenn. . .Glenn? Is something the matter?” she heard from afar. She brought her vision in closer, narrowed it, and saw Steven watching her with wary concern. A filament of horror flickered and flashed in her mind as she noticed, for the first time, the incredulity of the juxtaposition of the paintings and this man (it was Steven! she had to remind herself) beside her. The painful need to separate herself from the sight of this incredulity burned within her, consuming all other considerations. “Let’s. . .let’s go,” she muttered weakly, It was only later, alone, that she could return. Glenn was often alone in the gallery now for many hours, for after the initial furor of response, the public’s curiosity died, as quickly it had been kindled. Now few came anymore. A month after the show had opened, whe could spend whole days alone with the paintings, except for occasional interruptions by Mr. Leibowitz, the gallery owner, who would putter around the perimeter of the room glancing at her cautiously out of the corner of his eye. Looking now at the paintings, at the delicacy of line that paradoxically gave them such strength, at the subtlty of shading and tone that made them vibrantly alive, at the tranquillity of composition that made them tense with drama, Glenn wondered why the paintings always took her back. No, not back exactly — rather, she was transposed, it seemed. Or the city was transposed — she could never quite determine which it was. But it was a different city, a different day; transparent she was, superimposed upon this city or this city upon her. It was the city she had imagined, the city she had thought she would be coming to . . . the city she had expected before she arrived, the city she had thought had a purposefulness. about it, a glow, a certain pride in being, a sense of worth that had seemed to her to permeate the very air. But all that, it seemed, was a transparency now; she expected it no longer. . . . Behind her the door of the gallery opened; the rain hummed more loudly momentarily, the wind whistled through. Then the door closed, and the completeness of the silence returned, hovered over her, descended and filled the room again. Glenn swung away from the angle of the atrium and glanced into the cloak room slightly annoyed at the intrusion. Glenn stopped. At first she could have thought that one of the men had stepped down from one of the canvases. Then she recognized him. She knew it was him, though she had never seen him, but knew his name on a sign before entering the gallery. But she knew him. The affinity between him and the paintings — his paintings! — was too pronounced. It was the artist Guy Costello. He stood inside the doorway, shaking his jacket and scattering pellets of rain. He looked like a truckdriver, with his curly dark hair and his thick hands and heavy jacket, Glenn told herself, but yet she was sure it was him. He glanced up, and the deepness of his eyes touched her gently, then took hold, sweeping over her face and body. His eyes held her. She remained motionless. She wanted just to be able to move, but she couldn’t. She stood perfectly still. She remembered how she had wanted to run from the paintings and at the same time remain before them. So she now felt again. She stood before him, wishing to flee and returning his gaze defiantly. Purposely he relaxed his gaze, and Glenn stirred. Behind her the owner of the gallery came into the room; but the artist let her know, with a slight smile, that he was releasing her of his own volition. He slipped by her; she turned and followed him with her eyes. He nodded at Mr. Leibowitz and disappeared into the back of the gallery. Mr. Leibowitz was a short, slightly stooped man of about fifty who had bristly, gray hair and eyes that gathered the details of a scene as a mirror does sunlight. He came towards her shuffling hesitantly as if to announce his presence. “Can I help you?” he asked, as he had so many times in the past three weeks. Glenn, who had been staring in the direction where the artist had disappeared, looked at the old man without comprehension. Then she realized and understood him “No, no,” she replied hastily. “I’m just looking.” She moved away from him and self-consciously looked about the room. “You like his work, don’t you,” he said, moving with her. “What makes you say that?” she asked uneasily, glancing at him. He chuckled with a soft, deep warmth. “How many times have you been in here since the show opened?” He chuckled again. “I can see it,” he replied. “I can tell you like his paintings just by watching you.” Glenn cast a startled look at him. But the old man was paying no attention to her reaction; he seemed to accept his statement as simple fact. His hand swept expansively around his gallery, and the motion reminded Glenn of a father displaying his only child. “It’s a pleasure,” he continued, “to simply look at Guy’s paintings with someone who appreciates them as I do.” Glenn said nothing. “So many come — used to come, you know, because of all the publicity. They come and stare at Guy’s paintings. They say, ‘No,’ or —” he shrugged, “or perhaps they say, ‘Yes,’ It doesn’t really matter what they say. For I can tell; I can see. In either case, they might as well be staring at a brick wall for all they understand. But you,” he nodded at her, “but you are different. . . .” Glenn was backing away from him. “What’s wrong?” the old man asked. “Nothing,” Glenn said, catching her breath. “Nothing’s the matter.” He looked at her intently for a moment; then he said, “I know.” Glenn stared at him with incredulity. Mr. Leibowitz made a sweeping gesture of the four walls and the paintings surrounding them. “You would like to buy one, wouldn’t you?” The surprise Glenn had felt an instant before surged into a fear she had not realized she could possibly contain. “No, that isn’t it at all,” she exclaimed. “Don’t deny it,” he said, completing the sweeping gesture by lifting his palm to face her. “I understand. . . you don’t want to say anything because you can’t afford it. Why else would you not want one? I have seen how you look at them.” It was becoming ludicrous; but she felt like crying, not laughing. “That’s not true,” she said weakly. “Would you take one?” he interrupted as if he had not heard. “As a gift?” “Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” “Please. I will pay for it gladly. It would give me great pleasure to know someone like you has it, is enjoying it.” “I couldn’t, really.” She backed away from him and edged towards the atrium. But the old man didn’t seem to notice, and he moved forward, unconsciously, with each step Glenn took backwards. “There are so few who understand his work, so very few. Won’t you take one? Most just come to see what everyone is talking about; they don’t really care about the paintings. And now they don’t even come. Only you, you do. You care about the paintings, I can see it; you like them. I know you do. Won’t you take one? . . .” Glenn was at the entrance of the atrium — near enough now to flee. “Take any one,” Mr. Leibowitz said, almost in despair, gesturing to include the whole of the gallery. “Any one.” Glenn shook her head. “It isn’t possible, I tell you!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t possible?” he asked. “No.” “Isn’t possible?’” Glenn ran to the door. It was of heavy oak that moved — oh, so slowly, as she tugged. Finally, she flung it open and made good her escape. Except for occasional pinpricks of coolness, the rain had stopped. The slick swoosh of cars, bursting through oil-shiny puddles; the eddying, rising, swirling, dying, changeable wind; the points of rain, striking her cheeks and forehead; the poignant after-taste of the rain on the breeze — all as saulted her senses as she hurried down the street. But she was aware of them only distantly. They were real — yes; she would not deny that; but it was as if they disappeared into her senses without any corresponding echo in her consciousness to indicate their existence. She focused her attention on her steps, which cracked on the rain-darkened sidewalk. She hurried on and on. There was no direction in her movement; if it had any purpose at all, it was simply to get away. Then she heard: “Wait!” It meant something, she was sure of it. But the meaning was swallowed up, vanished into some bottomless chasm, disappearing without an echo. She hurried on. “Wait!” Like electricity crackling across a gap, his voice snapped across the murmuring hum of the city’s sounds. His voice held her a moment: she did not turn around. Instead, she hurried on. He burst into the periphery of her vision. Already knowing who it was, Glenn quickened her pace, refusing to recognize him. They walked for a block before he finally broke the silence by saying, “I heard what Mr. Leibowitz said to you.” “Did you?” she replied, that and nothing more. She continued her fast pace, keeping her eyes straight ahead. He said, “You must realize that it means a great deal to him that someone should understand and appreciate my work.” “You flatter yourself,” she replied dryly, hoping that cynicism would cover and dispel the anxiety and fear that kept threatening to surface in her consciousness again. “What makes you think I understand or appreciate your work. . . or, for that matter, even care to try?” “What makes you think it’s so flattering?” Glenn stopped and looked at him. He stopped before her, the wind tossing his dark hair, pressing his collar against his cheek, and moving the large sketch book she noticed under his arm back and forth, and returned her gaze. “Why. . . why does the show mean so much to him? To Mr. Leibowitz,” she stammered. They started to walk again, this time more slowly. “Primarily, I suppose, he feels that he too is on exhibition. And in a certain sense he is right. A response to a work of art is just as revealing as the work of art itself. I suppose he wished the public to feel the same way he does about the paintings, to respond in the same way he does.” “And they haven’t,” she said needlessly. “He hasn’t sold any, of course. When we first talked about the show, he didn’t really expect to. He knows better now. Now no one comes except —” He glanced at her. She flushed and looked down at the sidewalk. “You. . . you like Mr. Leibowitz very much.” “You’ve known him long?” He laughed. “Just slightly more than two weeks longer than the show’s been on. You know the first time he saw my paintings he decided he wanted to exhibit them. He didn’t care who I was or where I had exhibited before or who I had studied under. All he cared about, all he needed to know, all that mattered to him were the paintings themselves.” It began to rain again — a fine, thick mist. They began to walk faster again. And as the rain increased, so did their speed, until they were running, Guy holding himself between his sketch book and the slant of rain, Glenn running beside him. Glenn’s apartment loomed up out of the mist. It was a tall, modern, sweeping structure of glass that she hadn’t been able to deny herself from the first moment she saw it. It was her only concession to a now distant dream. Guy held the door for her; together they crossed the stillness of the lobby and waited for the elevator. They continued talking, the two of them, in subdued tones, leaning together; but of what, Glenn could not later tell. All she was aware of was the intimacy, the sense of closeness she felt with him. The quiet egoism of his words, spoken with such unassuming frankness, with such a complete lack of guardedness, warmed her. Finally the elevator stopped. It seemed so natural for him to be walking beside her, so natural that the continuity of the scene not be broken. When she stopped in front of her door, and he followed her in, laying his sketches on the stand beside the door, as if he had done it many times before, Glenn questioned it not in the least. \* \* \* Her apartment, Guy saw, was elegant in its simplicity. A large picture window, directly opposite the door, dominated the room; its gasp of light made the contents of the apartment — a couch, two chairs, an end table with a lamp, a bookcase with a very few books — seem delicate and airy and light, yet distinct and cleanly cut from the drab grey of the light. Guy followed her with his eyes — this woman he had been watching and studying and sketching for three weeks — as she crossed the room. She stopped and turned slightly, shrugging off her coat; then she saw him watching her, catching her in the defenseless motion, her arms held half within the sleeves. Unnoticed, the coat slipped from her arms; and she clenched the coat, unconsciously, while it lay half on the floor. A faint look of puzzlement, mingled with a hint of fear, as if she had, just at that moment, realized that she had allowed him to enter her apartment and that realization carried with it a grain of terror. Her eyes, a warm chestnut, gazing steadily into his, were tinted with despair. But despair of what? It was as if Guy had come upon a scene for the first time. Examining it, studying its perspective, symmetry, balance and harmony, he could tell something was wrong. Not out of place or disjointed, it was not something that marred the beauty of the scene necessarily. On the contrary, it only made the potential fulfillment all the more apparent. But though the beauty of the scene was not marred, this indefinable something left the scene hauntingly incomplete. So Guy now felt, looking at this young woman. For all his searching, he could not know what it was that was wrong and therefore could not correct it. He took a step towards her, and the fear, which earlier had only been a hint, became refined and distilled and distinct in her eyes. She took a faltering step back, away from him. Her coat slipped from her fingers and slid to the floor. "No, Guy," she murmured, "please, no." Desperately, she wove her head hypnotically from side to side. Guy took another step forward, then another. "Please, no," she whispered. She stopped. Her hands she clenched at her sides, as if she still held her coat. She did not move, she made no gesture, beyond lifting her hand in a wavering helplessness, to stop him. She continued to whisper, but by its very softness it was incoherent. He was aware of her speaking, but not of what. Coming up to her, Guy folded his hand along the nape of her neck, his fingers intertwining in the richness of her hair. He tilted her head back slightly in the cradle of his hand and lifted her face to his. For an instant, when he kissed her, for an instant so brief he caught only a fragment of a glimpse of it, Guy felt her respond. But it was only for an instant. Then he felt — in the touch of her lips, in the turn of her mouth — a shuddering withdrawal. He felt no resistance; that he would have welcomed. But in fact, he felt nothing at all. He separated them with infinite care. He let his hand slide from her hair, from her shoulder. "What’s wrong?" he asked. "Wrong?" "You know what I mean. I saw it the first moment you came into the gallery the first day the show opened." She hesitated, brushing her forefinger across her temple, sweeping back the hair. She hesitated, then said, "I didn’t know I was so apparent." "You’re not," Guy replied. "But you’re evading my question." She glanced away. "Yes, I suppose I am. But not really; I’m trying to. I don’t know what’s wrong," she replied. Guy turned away. "No, really," she said, touching his arm. "I honestly don’t know what to tell you." Guy went over to the large picture window. He looked down over the city, which was grey and vague with rain. He felt her watching him expectantly, but he waited. Finally she came over to stand beside him in front of the window. "That’s what I feel," she said, looking down over the city. "Nothing magnificent. I can’t rage and scream. I can’t hate myself or the world or . . . or even you. Don’t look at me that way. I wish I could, then at least I would know I’m alive. No, I can’t feel anything. It’s an apathy that touches everything, like that misty rain, a vague nothingness, grey, unfocused and dull. "And I can’t touch it, I can’t give it a shape or a substance. It yields at the slightest touch, so I can’t tell you what it is or what is wrong," she said, shrugging her shoulders hopelessly. Guy turned to her abruptly. Taking her shoulders, he said, "I want to paint you." "Me?" "Why should that surprise you? You’re very lovely, you know." "Don’t," she said sharply, twisting out of his grasp. "Look," Guy said, striding across the room. "Look at what I’ve already done. Some sketches—" "Sketches?" "When you were at the gallery," he replied. He was thumbing through the sketch book; he settled on one, took it out, put the book back and started towards her. "The sketches are quite complete the way they are. Of course, they’re just sketches, but they’ll give you some idea —" "No," she said. \* \* \* Guy stumbled to a stop a few feet from her. The sketch, which he had outstretched for her, he dropped against his thigh. "But why not?" "No," she whispered, and Glenn was aware of how much like a whimper it sounded. "Look at it!" he shouted. Glenn stared at him, astonished by the violence of his voice. He had not moved in the slightest. Only a muscled in his jaw leaped spasmodically. "Why won’t you look at at?" he asked, holding the sketch up again. "That’s all I ask." She shook her head. "Why won’t you look at yourself?" The despair in his voice angered Glenn: He had no right to feel despair for her, she thought. He had no right to feel anything for her. No right! “Don’t you realize how futile it is? How futile your work is?” she exclaimed, and at the same time thought of how unworthy she was of that futility. “Don’t you know?” She sighed. “No, you don’t. I can see that. Your paintings say as much.” “What do my paintings say that I wouldn’t myself.?” “That’s exactly it! You’re so innocent. You expect so much of men, and you don’t know you can’t, and you don’t know how much your paintings say of that expectation. But you can’t expose yourself like you do. You can’t and remain intact. You leave yourself so vulnerable, so open to attack.…” She began to cry softly; yet she continued to speak. “I was like you when I first came to this city. It’s true. And God how I suffered for it. I expected so much and found so little. I can see you are the same way. The only difference is you haven’t learned better yet. But you will find out, eventually; you will learn how petty and sordid and ugly everything is. And you’ll wonder why, why it has to be that way. For you have a glowing picture in your mind, a picture of something more. But the glow will dim; the years will do that. Every day erodes a bit of you away; every day will tarnish that glow until you’re left with nothing. Nothing. You deserve so much more than that. “Someday you will realize that in order to protect what is left of you, what is left of that dream, you must build a shell. A shell against the pain, the pain that isn’t your fault but which you must bear as your own, for wanting something more. It is a pain that tears at you for wishing for something that cannot, apparently, exist. You must deny all that you wanted, all that you believed you could have, all that was possible, or so you thought — that is the shell you build to keep the hurt away.” She stopped speaking. In the aftersilence her breathing sounded harsh; the pitter-patter of the rain against the window echoed through the apartment. He was looking at her, without accusation, without blame. Just looking. No loathing, no hatred. Just looking. But she wanted him to hate her, she thought. He should hate her. “Don’t you see how you have exposed yourself?” she screamed, wondering dimly who she was trying to convince. “And you want me to believe in you, in what you’re doing!” she exclaimed with scorn. “Well, I won’t. Not again. Once is enough. So why don’t you take your drawing and go back to your empty gallery? I don’t want to see what you have done.” “You’re wrong,” Guy said. “You don’t have to deny the world or yourself. It can be both. If we don’t like the world the way it is, then let’s remake it; let’s make it the way it should be, the way we want it to be. We can do it. But not by shutting it off and pretending it doesn’t exist. But if we want it changed, then it is we, _we_ who have to start.” “Don’t you see,” she said tiredly, “it’s too late for that. Perhaps you can make a new beginning, but no me, it’s too late for me.” “No, it isn’t. I don’t believe that it’s ever too late.” With his free hand Guy took one of hers. “Look at what I have done,” he said. “If you can deny what you see there, then I will go.” She shook her head. He dropped her hand, and with the other, lifted the sketch towards her. Glenn would not look at him. She ignored the sketch. She looked at the carpet. Pale patterns of light played across the carpet before her feet. She would not look up; she would not look up; she would not look up. Softly Guy sighed. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll leave it, then.” Glenn heard him place the sketch on the couch, then walk across the room. She heard him pick up his sketch book, heard him stop at the door and look at her. She would not look up; she would not look up; she would not . . . then she realized it made no difference. The door had closed: He was gone. \* \* \* She was shaking her head; she realized she was shaking her head — no, though she didn’t know why. As though under the control of a puppeteer, as though her strings had suddenly been cut, Glenn abruptly sank to the floor. She covered her face with her hand. She was still shaking her head — no, and no again, until the motion itself became meaningless, and she didn’t know why she continued it. She began to sob. She rocked back and forth in rhythm to the sounds. Beyond the mindless motion, there was no purpose, no reason, no direction. Time itself had no meaning, no significance for her, for it did not move and pass. It was a lump that would not diminish, but hung there, choking her. Through her sobbing, there was on the edge of her consciousness a voice. It whispered and consoled her; it murmured of distant dreams and other worlds. There was on the edge of her awareness a beckoning. The voice spoke of a post that could have been and a future that could be. The wonder was that the voice sounded so much like her own. The sketch was behind her — she thrust the thought away. The sketch was behind her. The sketch was behind her, behind her, behind her. In her natural position she would have been facing the drawing. But she was twisted awkwardly. It was painful for her to hold that position; it would have been much easier for her to simply relax — a move which would have righted her and had her facing Guy’s sketch. But she would not let herself go. She held the same position. Stiffly she sat on the floor, with her legs beneath her, turned away from Guy’s drawing of her. The sketch was behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw it. She shuddered and tore her eyes away. “No!” Her voice splitting the silence startled her with its shrillness, surprising her with its sharp tank of frustration. She would not look at it. She saw it again and again out of the corner of her eye. She felt herself relaxing while the sketch whispered to her. It called softly: _look_, _look_. It sang; it crooned. More loudly it spoke to her; more insistently it called. She found herself turning. She would not look; she would not look; she would not look. . . . She found herself turning and looking. Slowly, she gathered her strength. By excruciating degrees, she relaxed. She let herself go and swung around. Gradually, her natural position took hold and turned her around. The tension, quivering through her body, drained, and for a moment she slumped, though she was at that instant more alert, more aware, more alive than she had been for a long, long time. Her strength, she discovered, was not gone; rather, it was as if she had found a strength she had not known she possessed. The relaxation sifted through her body like a current, renewing her. She rose to her knees; and with the motion, she turned to confront the sketch Guy had drawn of her. She looked at herself. It was as she had expected — no more, no less. Yet that alone was saying more than she had any right to say. She looked at it steadily; she did not turn away. She did not deny it. She looked at it. Pain throbbed deep within her, almost a palpable entity. Still, she did not turn away from the sketch. She gripped the sight of the sketch to her. With each deepening probe of pain she felt a certain joy, as if only by knowing the pain could she learn to overcome it, as when a concert pianist, when fumbling through a difficult passage, will smile at the thought that eventually he will overcome it, conquer it, and the difficulty will become a reward. So Glenn thrust the pain deeper and deeper. With each probe, with every throb, the pain lessened. The deeper she went, the more oblivious she became to it. Finally she sensed it leaving her altogether, leaving her. Glenn rose to her feet and stood facing the sketch. The pain, she realized, was completely gone and had disappeared without her being aware of the precise moment it had happened. She stood before the sketch for a long time, simply enjoying being able to look at it. Then she went over to it. She picked it up and studied it. In her mind’s eye she visualized the sketch filling out. She saw it gain substance, colour, realness through pigments. In her mind’s eye Glenn could see it as a completed portrait. \* \* \* “Guy said you would be coming,” the gallery owner said when he saw her standing in the atrium, gazing about the room. “He did? Where is he?" He nodded towards the rear of the gallery. “In back. Waiting. Should I get him?” “Would you please.” As Mr. Leibowitz disappeared into the back, Glenn turned, once more, to the gallery, now seeming strangely new and unfamiliar, though it had been only two days since she had been there. Light streamed down the pathways of the windows, but the paintings had an inner illumination that made them glow in shade. She felt him come up beside her. She lifted the paper in her hand, followed it with her eyes. “I brought your sketch back,” she said, continuing to look down at it. “I see.” Her fingertip trailed along the edge of the paper. “I brought your sketch back,” she repeated. “Why?” he gently prodded. “I have no more need of it.” “No?” “At least not as therapy,” she said with a rush and thrust it at him. Guy gently pushed it back towards her. “I can see that,” he replied. “But I didn’t give it to you because you needed it — for ‘therapy’ as you put it. I meant it for you to keep.” “You did?” He nodded. “But I thought it should be displayed or something,” she said weakly. Guy took it out of her hand and lifted it to look at it closely, letting the sunlight play across its surface. “No, not a sketch,” he said, shaking his head. “Not of you, especially not of you.” He let it fall to his side and looked at her. “I’ve already told you what I want to do.” “What?” “A full portrait. Only a portrait would do you justice.” Justice . . . the unfamiliar word struck a chord within her. Could she ask for anything more? Glenn touched Guy’s hand and the sketch held there between his fingers. “Then let’s begin,” she said. _Jesse F. Knight is a professional fiction writer and the editor-publisher of Volition, a literary forum._