My neighbour had sex last night. I could hear them through the walls, as usual, their moans and laughter. Always the laughter. I am not complaining though, at least not at the fact that they are having sex. Rather at the fact that I have only had it once, ever.

That I count.

There has been others - one night stands at parties, some that I barely remember, a few blow-jobs to get payed early back when I was fighting to balance college debts and various jobs. Neither proud moments I want to be remembered for. But as I said: I do not count them. I didn't make love to these people; I let out my sexual frustration by letting them fuck me. No more than a fuck.

But I still cannot get over it - as I'm laying naked in my bed, trying and failing not to listen to my neighbour and whatever pretty girl he has brought home this time, having the time of their lives - what happened to that beautiful girl, the girl of my dreams who took me by storm and then was gone with the wind?

What happened to Sylvia Wanders?

***

"D'you get the email I sent you? About the art gallery looking for someone to take up some space while they renovate the big hall?" Alex's voice sounds through the small blue-tooth speaker, standing on the coffee table beside me. "I might be a good chance to get some publicity, you now."

I am only half listening where I sit atop a bar stool, panting the details of a Van Gogh inspired rose garden. "Mmmm."

"You didn't, did you?" He sighs loud enough that it's audible through the phone. "Dan, I work my as off down at the Burlesque's Heaven to help you pay for that studio of yours, but if this behaviour continues - where you do not care - you'll be on your own."

I drop my brush into the jar of paint thinner and dry of my hands on my apron before turning off the speaker and picking up my phone. "Alex, I'm sorry. Truly. I love what you are doing for me and I am fighting to repay you, but an art gallery? What will that gain me?"

"Publicity!" he yells. "And you could sell the art you hang! Hun, you could earn some for your own, enough to advertise yourself in the paper, or something. But you won't earn anything if you sit on your ass, even if you're painting all day."

I fill the water boiler, putting some tea in the bag up top, before turning it on. Soon the sweet aroma of chocolate and pears fill my small studio home. "You wanna be my manager?" I ask. The silence that radiates from the phone speaks volumes, and I can't help but giggle.

"Danielle, I swear, you're either stupid, or just a bitch, I. Will. Never. Manage. You. You have to dig your own damn road, I cannot beg for gallery spots for you." He hangs up, and I am left staring at the dark screen until a message pops up:

City Art Gallery - Open spots GO THERE AND MAKE THEM HANG YOUR ART followed by the address.

I smile at the all caps message. Alex and I met in college, right before he dropped out and began working as a bartender at the Capitol's most famous burlesque club: Burlesque's Heaven. He had the club owner buy some of my paintings, money that I wouldn't had survived without - at least not without moving back home to the farm. Since then he's been my best friend, always nudging me to work harder and aim higher. But he wont do any publicity work for me.

I look over at the painting I've just finished. It is a red-pink-turquoise colour scheme I've always loved using, but the composition is of due to sloppy ground work and close to no thumbnailing beforehand. I've felt a sort of hate-love towards it during the entire painting process, but with the finished work before me, I cannot help but smile. An art gallery might be a fun test, to see if my work can be appreciated by the crowd.

I walk over to the painting, my steps lighter than before, and carry it over to the back of the room, where it will dry for three months before I will be able to frame it without risking the picture. As I'm about to set up a new, clean canvas to put a base coat on with the paint left over from the roses, someone knocks on the door.

"A minute!" I yell, setting down the canvas again, quickly gathering up the laundry from the floor and stuffing it beneath the bed. The person knocks again, and I hurry over to the door, fumbling with the old locks, and by the time I get the door open I am sure whoever was waiting would be gone.

Instead I'm met with green-gold eyes.

"Are you Lainidel Johnson?" the woman asks, her expression a mix between impatience and boredom. I recognise her within a heartbeat, staring dumb fooled at her beautiful face - Sylvia.

"Y-yes, that is me," I manage to stutter out, and I blush at her amused frown. I clear my throat, avoiding her gaze. "What may I help you with?"

She straightens a bit. "My name is Sylvia Wanders, and I am here on the behalf of the local newspaper," she says. "We would like to order a painting to be hung in our reception."

"Alright, come inside." I step aside to let her past, feeling a bit embarrassed about the mess in the studio as her eyes drift over the room. Does she recognise me? If she does she isn't saying anything about it. Maybe she has forgotten.

"So..." I say, once again clearing my throat, cursing the cold that refusing to leave my system. "How did you hear of me?" I sit down on the sofa.

She turns to me and it takes my willpower to meet her eyes - no glint of recognition at all in them. "My... colleague, his mother bought a painting from you a while ago. She spoke very well of you, so we now want to place an order, as I mentioned before." She takes up a seat on the bar stool I use for painting.

So formal, her voice, her pose, not at all the girl I loved. "Oh, yes of course," I grab a post-it note and a pen from the coffee table, "what specifics?"

She is quiet for a second before speaking. "The canvas is going to measure three by one-point-seven meters, landscape orientation. The motive is up to you, but we want it to reflect the world of news, and not in some utopia-way - we want it to make people feel every aspect of our profession." She hesitates. "I will of course help in any way I can, if you need a first hand source on the matter."

I scribble down her demands on the post-it, my hand shaking a bit; hopefully she won't notice. I pause, sorting through my tangled thoughts. "Have you got any wishes when it comes to colours? What colours does the reception contain?"

She answers without as much as a pause, as if she was waiting for the question. "The wall it's going to hang upon is white, the rest are panelled with dark brown wood, the floor is white marble and the ceiling is the same white as the hanging wall." As I take notes she adds: "All furniture is black leather."

I nod slowly, a bit impressed with the design of the room she is describing. "With such a reception, you must be quite a popular paper, no?" I look up at her to find her gazing off to where the rose painting stands. For a heartbeat I see in her the girl I once knew; then she is gone.

"Yes," she says after a while, not taking her eyes of the painting by the far wall. "I work for Capital News." She finally looks back at me, and I forget to hide my shock. "What will the work cost?"

I straighten, glad to put my mind on something else. "Oh, well, since the canvas is as big as it is, I'll need a starting sum..." I grab a new post-it and begin scribble down numbers. "Then you will pay the rest when the painting is done, but that prize depends on how many hours the work will take... plus the standard base sum..." I grab a new post-it and write out the deposit plus the remaining fee, followed by the total sum. I hand the note to Sylvia.

She frowns at the sum, and I feel my heart drop. I am about to tell her that arguing the prize down isn't an option, that she'll have to reconsider the size if she dislikes it, when the interrupts me. "How about we round up this number to ever zeros, no? It will look cleaner on both our accounts." She writes down the new prize on the back of the post-it before folding it in half and putting it in the pocket. "Besides, we don't want to rob you of a painting."

I stare at her, baffled over the new number - much, much higher than anything I've got payed before - the seconds ticking by until I find my voice again. "Y-yes, yes, that ehm... sounds good, thank you." I blush a bit as she smirks at me. "Anything else I need to know?"

She looks me up and down, and once again I wonder if she is playing with me, if she actually does remember me. "When can it be done?" she asks, her voice once more that cold, professional tone.

"Well, fully rendering the painting will probably take me a month, let's say two for good measure, plus a drying time of three months, so... a maximum of five months, probably less, but better safe than sorry," I say. Again, I wait for the protest, the can you not work harder, faster?

But instead she looks pleased. "Perfect. We had counted with more time than that, so five months is a great number." She gets up from the stool, straightening her skirt. "Lastly, what of the framing? Can you handle that as well, or is that up to us?"

"Oh, right," I say, cursing the fact that I forgot the vital detail. "Usually I handle the framing, I have a buddy who gives me a healthy discount on frames, so that prize is included in the starting sum."

She smiles at me. "Great. I'll send you some papers to fill in, then the money will be in your account as soon as the documents have been handled." She pauses. "By the end of next week, as latest."

"Sounds good," I say, following her to the door. "We should set up a meeting once I've begun, somewhere a week or so into the project, so that you can approve the motive."

She nods. "Great, until next time, Ms. Johnson." Then she is gone out the door.

As I stare at the door, I feel tears run down my cheeks. She didn't know me, didn't see me for who I once was, she didn't recognise me. A broken sound escapes my lips, and I desperately rub at my face, willing myself to stop crying.

"Dammit, Danny, so what if she doesn't remember? Why would she?" I whisper to myself, but the statement does not calm me, but makes me cry even more. I hurry over to my phone and send a text to Alex, before grabbing my coat. I hurry out of the studio, running straight into Michael, my neighbour from next door.

"Hey, Danny, why in such a hurry?" he says, surprise coating his words. "Hey, wait- are you crying?"

I shake my head and push past him, rushing down the stairs, leaping two steps at a time. I can hear him calling my name from behind me, but I ignore him, not caring what he might think. I need air, to get away from my memories.

Get away from the horrible truth that Sylvia brought with her.

***

By the time I reach Alex's house it has begun raining, and I am soaked down to my underwear. It is Caspar, Alex's flatmate (rather a fuck-buddy, if you ask me, but they both deny it), that answers the door. The light in their eyes dies when they see me.

"Danielle," Caspar says.

"Hi, Casp." I look over their shoulder. "I- I need to speak with Al."

They grimace, and I get the feeling they're about to close the door in my face when Alex calls out from inside the apartment. "Let her in, Caspar, she is staying here tonight!"

With a deep sigh, they let me in. I thank them and walk over to where Alex is sitting cross legged on the sofa. He throws a towel at me with a worried look. "C'me here," he says spreading his arms wide.

I bundle up beside him, and as the tears come flooding I tell him everything. I've always kept the night in the woods to myself, feeling that if I told anyone, I would spoil the memory. Throughout my story Alex is quiet, listening, and when I'm done he carries me into his room and stuffs me into bed. Then he sits down in a beanbag, leans back, and tells me to sleep - that we will take care of "this Sylvia" in the morning.

Right before I drift off, I hear him say: "She is stupid for forgetting someone so amazing as you, Dan."