The Glimpsing (6 page)

The woman slowly sat up, like a vampire rising in a coffin.
 
“Oh. It seems I’ve startled you again.”

Jack’s mouth moved in an attempt to speak but nothing came out.
 
He gaped at her wide-eyed, their faces mere inches apart… and then his demeanor suddenly changed.
 
He relaxed, visibly.
 
A big chummy grin formed on his face.
 
He began a loud, mocking round of applause.
 
“Very good, Portia.
 
Very good.
 
But I’m surprised.
 
This is all so unlike you.”

Jack had realized that once again he was falling prey to a colossal gag.
 
It was obvious that Portia had actually awakened the night he’d infringed upon her bedroom and saw him gazing into the closet, alarmed by what he thought was some entity there.
 
Now she had come here and was playing on that moment, cleverly trying to upset him, to repay him for doing something she had told him never to do.

He grinned at her.
 
She grinned back.
 
Hers, however, was not one that seemed to share the comedy of the moment.
 
It was one that suggested he was a fool.

“What are you doing here, Portia?
 
I mean really, what is this all about?”

She tilted her head slightly.
 
“What makes you think I’m Portia?”

It was a nonsensical question.
 
In spite of the getup: the red dress, the dyed hair, the dark contact lenses, there could be no doubting who she—

He stopped.
 
He whirled, peering down the hallway.
 
The bathroom still glowed, but this time no shadows, no sounds,
no
movement whatsoever.
 
Gabrielle was no longer in the bathroom.
 
She really had gone home.
 
He and Portia were alone.

It all came rushing in at that moment, a revelation,
grand
and unfathomable, but quite clearly true.
 
Hours ago, Portia had come to his house under the pretense of giving him a gift.
 
She had made advances toward him, and he, because of Gabrielle, had refused them.
 
But Portia hadn’t given up.
 
She had returned to his house, fully intending to sleep with him.
 
She had even managed to somehow get rid of Gabrielle.
 
Perhaps that, he realized, was why he had awakened to the sound of Gabrielle weeping in the bathroom.

As for Portia’s dress, and hair, and eyes, well that was just her way of saying that she didn’t want to be Portia any longer.
 
She was pretending to be someone else.
 
Someone who was prepared to do all of the things the real Portia could not.
 
And what did he care, as long as she was Portia where it mattered.

“How did you do it?” Jack asked.
 
“How did you get Gabrielle to leave?”

“I didn’t,” the woman said softly.
 
“She left because of you.”

Jack had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and he frankly didn’t care.
 
Right now, there were far more pressing matters to attend to.

“You’re not Portia?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Jack smiled,
then
added.
 
“Well, we’ll see about that.”

After a brief pause, Jack raised his hand, held it there a moment, and then placed it squarely between the woman’s breasts.
 
He pushed gently, and she slowly eased back to the bed.
 
The hand began to roam, up her neck, along her cheek.
 
He slipped a thumb over her lips, toying with them, and then pressed it inside, feeling the moist warmth of her tongue.

The hand departed, moving downward, gliding over the swell of her right breast, along her waist, finally out over her hips.
 
His other hand joined in, both of them now slipping beneath the red dress and bunching it up, revealing the pretty triangle of red panties.
 
Eyeing her thighs, he took a moment to squeeze the firm flesh there and prepared to—

The woman’s hand landed squarely on his cheek, as unnaturally hard as it was swift.
 
It left behind the stinging sensation of a thousand tiny pinpricks.
 
The blow made his head veer sharply.
 
For an instant, he thought she might have dislocated his jaw.

“Still think I’m Portia?” the woman chided.

Jack peered at her bitterly, his eyes tearing, a hand now protecting that thoroughly abused side of his face.
 
She seemed to be fighting back a smile.

He stood up slowly, cautiously, and began backing away, the moment becoming strangely surreal.

What had just occurred was
an impossibility
.
 
A woman as thin and delicate as Portia could never have delivered such a powerful blow.
 
He kept backing away.
 
And as he did so he slowly realized that the woman he had so confidently assumed was
Portia,
really wasn’t her at all.
 
Yes, she bore a strong resemblance to the woman, especially in the area of the eyes and nose, but the lips were slightly less full, and the eyebrows bore a peculiar tilt.
 
She looked more like Portia’s sister than Portia herself.

“Who are you?” Jack asked
,
his voice hoarsened considerably because of the blow.

The woman peered at him for a moment,
then
slid forward, stretching her hands in front of her until she was postured on her stomach.
 
She then propped herself up on her elbows, crisscrossed her arms, and lifted her feet into the air behind her.
 
She looked up at him with a coy smile.

Then Jack knew.
 
In fact, he chided himself for not realizing it sooner.
 
Incredibly, unbelievably, he was staring at a perfect incarnation of the woman in the painting.

The truth of what was happening hammered at him once again, this time with even greater certainty.
 
He understood it all: the reason for the woman’s appearance on his floor, that strange heartbeat, why she’d seemed so light when he’d carried her, even why the men in the painting’s faces had changed.
 
She wasn’t real.
 
They weren’t real.
 
None of this was real.
 
It was all a dream.

Jack relaxed a bit, slowly pulling his hand from his beaten cheek.
 
He then made a casual turn and strolled to the wet bar, where he pulled a small glass and a bottle of wine.
 
He sat down on a stool there and poured himself a drink.

The woman was eyeing him intently.
 
“You’re wrong, you know.”

Jack shook the wine in small circles,
then
smelled it.
 
“About?”

“What you’re thinking.
 
You’re wrong.”

“What am I thinking?”

“This isn’t a dream, Jack.”

“Oh.
 
Then what is it?”

“Seeing.”

Jack
 
shrugged
.
 
“Seeing?
 
Oh, of course.
 
Do
me
a favor, would you?”

“What’s that?”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my first conversation with a figment of my imagination, and I can’t say I care for it very much.”

He raised the wineglass to his lips but staring through it, saw that the woman had crawled from the bed and was now approaching.
 
She seemed angry.

She stopped directly in front of him.
 
Jack eyed her coolly.

“I’m not part of some dream, Jack,” the woman said as if offended by the very idea.

Jack chuckled mildly.
 
“What do you want me to do?
 
Believe you just fell out of that painting and began crawling around my bedroom?”

She paused.
 
“Does this feel like a dream to you, Jack?”

He chuckled again, incredulous.
 
“What are you trying to do?
 
Convince me that this is really happening?”

“This is really happening,” she said plainly.

Jack smiled, smelled his drink once more.
 
“If this is really happening, then that means you must have a name.
 
What is it?”

“Rose.”

“Rose?
 
Maybe you’re right,” he joked.
 
“I don’t recall knowing any Rose’s in my lifetime.
 
My mind probably wouldn’t make that part up.
 
Of course it could have something to do with the color of your dress.”

She ignored him.
 
Her eyes narrowed a bit.
 
She seemed to be studying him carefully.

“See something interesting?” Jack asked.

“Yes.
 
I do,” she said.

“What?”

She peered a moment longer.
 
Finally, she said: “No.
 
You don’t believe you’re dreaming.
 
Not entirely.”

“How the hell would you know what I believe?”

She blinked up at him.
 
“Because unlike Portia, I can tell when you’re lying.”

Jack eyed her callously.
 
He raised the wineglass to his lips, intending the gesture to not only reflect his disdain for her comment, but her very presence.
 
Before he could take a drink, however, she reached up and, in one swift move, snatched the glass from his hand.
 
With a toss of her head, she swallowed its contents whole.

That embittered Jack.
 
“I’m really going to enjoy tomorrow morning.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’ll be back in the painting, back where you belong.”

Keeping her eyes trained on him, she took hold of the wine bottle and refilled the glass.
 
She feigned taking another drink but instead lightly grasped Jack’s shoulder with her free hand and pressed the glass to his lips.

At first he resisted, refusing to open his mouth, but she kept the glass there, tilting it more.
 
The wine settled against his upper lip and, tasting some of its sweetness, he finally capitulated and opened.

“Good?” the woman asked, pulling the glass down and thumbing away some of the spill from his mouth.

“Good,” he replied reluctantly.

“How is that possible?”

“How is what possible?”

“That you’re able to taste wine, and yet you think you’re dreaming?”

She quickly pressed the glass back to his lips, as if to underscore her point, but Jack calmly took her wrist and lowered it away.

“I guess you have me then.
 
You’re right.
 
I shouldn’t be able to taste wine if I’m only dreaming.
 
But you’re forgetting something.”

“And what would that be?”

“A dream never feels like one when you’re dreaming it.
 
It’s only after you’re fully awake that you realize none of it really happened.
 
Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up and realize that you never came out of the painting.
 
I only imagined you did.
 
I’ll realize the slap you gave me never really hurt.
 
I only imagined it did.
 
And most of all, I’ll realize that I never actually tasted the wine.
 
I only imagined I did.”