Mandolin by Maria Paterson

When I opened my eyes, and I was confused.

I certainly don’t remember nodding off within such a scene. Yet this was so… very… awfully… deliciously familiar. This place—this vivid splotching of colorful patterns on walls, floors, tables, vases—spoke to me, whispered secrets and memories into my ear. The gentle lapping of the sea right outside the door registered in my mind, and I realized I was no longer sleeping. I never heard sounds in dreams; only saw, and felt, and hurt.

The man in black came in, his full sensual lips curling into a soft smile beneath the thin black mask that covered his eyes, cheeks, and nose. His shadow of a stubble made him more real than frightening. His green eyes glistened at me with the clarity of emeralds.

He sat down at the foot of the bed, slowly, so as to not startle me, and cradle in his hands a brightly gilded mandolin. As he played me to full wakefulness, I realized where I was. I looked up and saw a painting on the wall across the open door—a painting of my room back in the Bronx.

I saw my rumpled bed, my posters of Will Smith and Denzel Washington, my ragged rug sagging over the wooden floorboards. And I saw a painting on the wall above my bed, a painting of this room, this landscape, this bed, this man, and myself, my face, open-mouthed and wondering, staring right back at myself.

~Angreek87