A sharp knock on my door wake me up the next day – or the same day as I fell asleep, just later – and I stumble out of bed. Straightening my shirt, wiping the drool from my cheek, I jog over to answer the door. I curse silently as I throw a quick glance in the mirror and find my face and neck smeared with paint.

Whoever is outside knocks again, harder this time, and I have no other choice than to open the door barely awake and dirty.

Forest green eyes meet mine through the opening. Sylvia is wearing deep blue suit, the fabric hugging the lines of her body neatly; an off-white coloured blouse peeks up at her neck. Her black hair is pulled back in a half up, half down fashion, a pair of pilot sunglasses sit atop her head. She looks even more gorgeous than before, if that is even possible.

A smile tugs at her lips as she gives me a polite nod. “Ms. Johnson, good morning.” My cheeks burn so hot that I am surprised the paint doesn’t melt of it. “I am sorry I intrude so unannounced, but I couldn’t get a hold of you,” she continues, amusement still playing in her eyes.

I straighten a bit, patting the pockets of my jeans, trying to find my phone. “Oh, I’m sorry…” I turn and hurry into the studio, to the low-lying couch table where me cell lies completely dead. “Shit, it must have died… Please, come in,” I call out to the woman. “I am sorry about the mess, I was up late painting –”

As I utter the words, I turn to where the gigantic canvas stands – and find the face of a young memory staring back at me.

While painting yesterday I had sunk so deep into that well of pure creative calm inside of me, that I hadn’t really had a thought to step back and look at the entire picture. Even though most of the canvas still is clean, and nowhere near done, the girl in the middle is detailed enough to be recognisable – and as I turn back to Sylvia, I find her staring at the face. Her face; just a little more than ten years younger.

The world stops for several heartbeats, and I swear I see the cogs turning inside her head as she stares and stares at the painting. Slowly her eyes drift to me, and I begin to panic as recognition fills her gaze. Her eyes drift down my body, then back to the painting, then to me again – as if processing whatever she’s just realized.

“Danielle?” she half yells, her voice catching a bit on the word. “Danielle Johnson?”

“Hi,” is all the awkward me can come up with, accompanied with a small wave.

She takes a small step back, placing a hand on her forehead, before slumping down in the sofa. She leans forward and swallows hard, putting her head between her legs, taking deep breaths. I go rigid, a foul feeling settling in the pit of my stomach, and I quickly walk over to Sylvia.

“Hey, hey,” I say, putting a hand on her back. “I am sorry, I should have said something, but you didn’t recognise me so I got scared, and–and–” Stumbling over my words I watch the woman look up at me, green eyes filled with tears. I panic even more. “Wha– don’t cry! Oh Gods, what have I done–! Sylvia–”

She grabs my hand then and I go quiet. For seconds that feels like eons we stare at each other, hands clasped. Then Sylvia speaks.

“You have changed.”

I stand up straight, trying to take back my hand, but she holds on tight. Her eyes are on fire, or maybe it’s just the light reflecting in them I see – they are to my surprise glossy with tears. “I– I have?”

She nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you, I didn’t look properly, you go under another name.” The last bit sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Yes, I don’t really like to be in the centre of attention, I want it to be about the art.” I blush a little bit, why I don’t know. But Sylvia is studying the painting again. She gets up and walks over to it, looking closer at the girl. She cacks her head to the side, just like I saw her do many times the one summer. The foulness in my stomach lifts and disappears as I remember those short weeks, and my cheeks heat even more.

“I–I can change it if you don’t approve,” I say. “I didn’t mean to make it look like you.”

She turns to me again and smiles that warm smile that makes makes my knees quake. “I like it,” she says, her eyes indeed burning like hot coals. “I have to go, I’m afraid, but send a message when the work is done, or close to.” She heads for the door and before I can react she is gone.

I stare out in the empty air for a good minute before I collapse on the floor right where I was standing. My head spins in what feels like the beginning of a really bad headache, and I press down the urge to puke. What did she think? What if she believes I’m some sort of freak? What if she sends someone else the next time, what if she doesn’t want to see you again?

I slowly get to my feet, moving over to the sofa instead of the floor. There I lay for the rest of the day, pretending I am not a 29 year old woman with grown up responsibilities and bills to pay. There I lay, trying not to dwell on the fact that I might have regained and lost the love of my life in just over a week.