Love Uncharted

by Berinn Rae

  She’d moved two years ago into this quiet, overlooked hamlet of New Chicago called Little Belfast, one of the few neighborhoods to quietly and quickly rebuild after the Great Surge of 2024 and the resulting stock market crash, government chaos, and street riots. The Surge was named when, out of the blue and in a matter of hours, the earth’s magnetic pole switched from north to south, frying all things electrical from utility grids to mega-computers. Earthquakes toppled thousands of cities and towns around the world. Tsunamis left devastation on every coastline. Millions died. Governments collapsed, famine and disease swept the globe.

  The United States recovered the quickest. Once small, insignificant companies morphed into super-corporations as a second industrial age sprang up, creating alternative energy products that were bigger, faster, and more technically efficient. But a worldwide economic depression caused stark divisions in wealth. Unemployment skyrocketed. Riots broke out in every major city across the country.

  In a desperate attempt to control the seething populace without declaring martial law, the interim government enacted a disastrous mandate under the Patriot Act that forced neighborhoods to segregate according to race and religion. Citizens rebelled. The violence escalated. What was left of major cities were burned, skyscrapers razed to the ground, buildings bombed. Once again people died in their streets. It took an agonizing two years of socialist reforms and welfare programs before new financial infrastructures created jobs and began to stabilize the economy. Little Belfast, a predominantly Irish Catholic neighborhood barely a mile and a half from downtown Chicago, survived the upheaval because people living here refused to follow the law and evict their non-Irish Catholic neighbors. That amazing grace saved the borough.

  During that time, called Liberty’s Reconstruction by politicians and historians, Lily was an unhappy teenager on her uncle’s safflower farm in Ohio. Finally graduating from high school, she left Springfield behind and arrived in New Chicago a hopeful, optimistic stranger.

  Now she lived as a member of the Lennox Apartments patchwork family. Down the hall she could hear the McCready sisters playing piano, their front door always open. Children’s voices sang out; the Forman twins were “visiting” the two elder ladies until their mother got home from work.

  Mr. Newton, a retired guard officer living across the hall from Daniel, would be down at O’Connor’s Pub with his buddies. Thirty-two apartments cradled thirty-two families in the ancient Lennox, with Daniel Harris keeping watch over everyone from the deaf woman on the second floor to the intolerable Lonnie Ranchero, sleazy writer of pulp thrillers living on the first.

  Lily knew them all, and avoided Lonnie, who invariably hit on her like a dirty bomb but often shared an afternoon with eight-year-olds Georgia and Chris Forman or a glass of wine with Ruby, the teenage bride suffering newlywed jitters in the apartment below hers. Yes, Ellen would be shocked indeed that Lily took such profound comfort in this building, her surrogate family, and Daniel.

  But Lily did admit to one thing. She shouldn’t have guzzled the love potion. What an impulsive, irrational thing to do … except, when she’d walked into Madame Bagasha’s shop she’d breathed in magic, felt it seep as natural as rain into her psyche and fill the hollows of her heart with a confidence that the potion would lead her to love. Crazy? Oh, yeah. But Lily refused to give up hope that her soul mate roamed the world out there, somewhere.

  She picked up the Lost and Found comic strip Ellen had left on the coffee table and frowned. This G.I.L. person hit too close to home sometimes with his four-frame vignettes. Still, the cartoon revealed an affectionate insight into his characters and their goofy antics at work, on dates, shopping. Despite Ellen’s opinion, Lily didn’t think she resembled the girl in the strip at all. She was small and dopey, the cartoon girl tall and broody.

  But like the character, Lily’s hair resembled a snarled mass of string and she did stick it full of pencils, paintbrushes, the television remote. The two did share a sense of worldly confusion, the cartoon girl forever losing herself in big words like Lily lost herself inside color. Picking up the vid-strip, Lily taped it to the refrigerator door with her other Lost and Found mementos. They were a reminder to laugh at herself, especially on days like this one where mayhem wreaked havoc in her already discombobulated life.

  Suddenly starving, Lily forgot Lost and Found and rummaged up a meal of cold pizza and breadsticks dipped in peanut butter. Flipping on her VPEG player, she donned her paint smock, snatched up her pallet and brushes, and disappeared into alizarin crimson, the perfect color to bring the sensuality of her male nude to life. Such a brazen red would highlight the man’s strength, the masculine line of his jaw and chin, his confident brow. Oh yes, his vigorous, male features definitely needed more attention …

  Hours passed while songs shuffled in her comp-deck and Lily lost herself inside her work, brushing paint in long, sensual strokes across the curve of a manly shoulder, over the shadow of his collarbone, emphasizing an arched cheekbone or the sweet curve of his mouth. She breathed in linseed oil, tasted licorice, and worked her magic. The nude took on a vitality of his own, arm stretched upward towards the light, face lifted in anticipation. His face looked nothing like the model she’d sketched in her drawing class Monday night but that always happened, her own inner vision replacing a less substantial reality.

  When at last she stepped back and stretched to relieve cramped muscles, Lily felt a jolt of pleasure at her creation. The painting worked, composition-wise, the greens and purples an ambiguous dark behind his skin of crimson and gold glowing with virility. She dropped her brush in a jar of waiting paint thinner, tugged free other paintbrushes she’d absently stuck in her hair, and realized a hot bath would ease her aching bones and perhaps cool the tingling excitement she felt after stroking paint over male muscles.

  She had pulled her paint smock off over her head, skimmed out of her T-shirt and unzipped her jeans when she heard a loud sucking sound behind her. Turning, Lily watched in horror as the figure in the painting moved. Just a twitch of a hand at first, a stretch of an arm. Then in one violent lunge, the man tore himself free of the canvas and stepped onto the floor, real, animated, looking around her apartment with every naked inch of his skin gleaming in fresh oil.

  Chapter Four

  Lily stared, paralyzed. The man in front of her glistened with beauty, his face shaped by a strong, curved jaw, full lips, straight nose, and eyes a long lashed, deep chocolate brown she wanted to melt into. Those eyes, awkwardly familiar, looked back at her with an intensity that sizzled down to her toes. His body, oh Lord … his sleek body made her knees wobble. His shoulders rippled with power as he turned in effortless grace to survey the room. His chest heaved as he sucked in air like a newborn. Her own breath puffed in panicked gasps. She could feel her heart bashing hard enough to break her ribs.

  He was perfect, standing full fleshed and real. And she’d created him from oil paint, sensuous brush strokes … and magic! Lily drew a tight breath and backed away from this heated dream born out of her lonely desperation. Oh God, how could this be real? But when his eyes locked on hers, Lily felt herself tumbling into possibilities and couldn’t keep her hands from reaching to touch him. Her gaze skipped down his chest, over his flat belly and below, and darted back to his face as blood rushed to her cheeks. She certainly hadn’t painted that not insignificant detail!

  At her blush, a delighted grin split the man’s face. He took a step towards her. Her hand fluttered to her throat as she realized she wore nothing but a bra and unzipped jeans. She stood like a party gift already half unwrapped for him!

  “Stay!” She thrust her hand out to ward him off as he took a step towards her. With her other hand, she fumbled for the paint smock and spread it to cover her chest. He took another step. She knew he wanted to touch her, wanted to feel sensation with his brand new fingers, and so she scrambled on hands and knees over the couch, placing it between them. Grabbing a dish towel from the kitchen counter, she tossed it at
him. “Cover up, for pity’s sake.”

  He laughed at the skimpy cloth he caught one handed.

  “Can you speak?” Lily stammered. “Is there a working brain behind all that … all that brawn? And paint? Gods afire, this isn’t happening!”

  “Am I not what you wished?” he asked, voice soft as he stretched the skimpy towel across his hips, slanting her a look to melt the staunchest of hearts. “Did you not ask for me?”

  Lily closed her eyes and sucked in an unsteady breath. “Yes, I did ask. But — ”

  “I can be anything you want. Do anything you want. Yes?”

  “No! Well, yes, eventually maybe … oh, hell! You need clothes, something.” She backed towards the bedroom, her stare never leaving him as he turned to look at the room, the draped flamingo lights, the cluttered splashes of furniture. Grabbing her tattered robe off a bathroom hook, she returned and, halting just out of reach, stretched to hand it to him.

  In truth, she was afraid to touch him, afraid if he touched her she’d become a mindless puddle of lust. Did she want those lips on hers? God, yes. Could she already feel his long fingers moving across her skin? Sweet mercy, yes! She shivered inside her paint smock and turned her head away as he dropped the towel to pull on the robe, and caught sight of the canvas where she’d painted him. Only a blur of smudged paint marked the place he’d once been. Lily remembered the taste of licorice on her tongue while she painted, remembered how she’d downed the love potion like a milk shake. So … she truly was responsible for this man. In every way. She’d swallowed an unknown concoction and allowed her loneliness and longing to bring her imagination to life!

  She studied him, dressed in her green striped bathrobe stretched too tight across his shoulders and barely covering his thighs. Curiosity shone on his attractive face as he stroked the leaves of an ivy plant, fingered the plastic flamingos, and spread his palm across the rough fabric of her overstuffed chair.

  What now, she wondered? Did she leave him accessible in only a robe and just use him for sex? Lily shuddered at the thought. She wanted so much more in a man; friendship and understanding, deep conversations, and plenty of laughter to help make the world a place she no longer wished to escape. She wanted real love wrapped around her like afternoon sun, cozy blankets, and sweet summer winds. She wanted security and warmth and excitement filling her heart, opening her up to love unrestrained in return. That’s what she wanted.

  Instead she’d asked for the perfect man … and got this painted “thing” come to life through magic. Oh, he was gorgeous. His full mouth invited kisses, his hands seemed more than eager to explore. But was he capable of love? And could he inspire it? What does one do with an image, even a vision as wondrous as he?

  “Are … are you hungry?” Lily asked and his gaze shifted back to her.

  “For you,” he said.

  Lily laughed. She couldn’t help it. This had gone past absurd into the ridiculous. She’d created a sex slave! One who looked like he’d stepped straight off the cover of one of the lurid romances her aunt used to devour on hot beach days.

  “Sit down. Please. Here.” Lily pointed to the chair and backed away as he moved forward and sat. Good Lord, he was hers to command! She felt moisture steaming off her breasts, her belly. Backing into the kitchen, Lily snatched a plate from the dry rack and opening the refrigerator, began filling it with slices of pizza, crackers, lunch meat, cheese. She poured a glass of milk and, carrying both to the coffee table, set them in front of him before scuttling away.

  He didn’t even glance at the food. “Are you afraid of me?”

  Yes, she wanted to scream, but forced herself to sit on the couch and try to explain. “What I feel is … is more complicated than that. I’m not quite sure what to do with you.”

  He stood, shrugging out of the robe. “I know exactly what to do.” Grinning, he lunged for her. A frightened squeak escaped her as she jerked out of his reach and fell backwards over the couch. Scrambling to her feet, she felt his hand grab the paint smock and tug her towards him. Popping the buttons, she slipped free.

  He chased her around the table, around the couch, cut her off when she tried a dodge towards the bedroom to put a locked door between them. Wherever she ran, he pursued, a mounting excitement curving his lips. He’d backed her into the studio and she felt the hard edge of a work table slam into her as she tried to spin past. His hand snagged her wrist and held on, hard.

  “Please,” she said, struggling to twist free. “I don’t do sex on a first date! We need time to — ”

  But he was already pulling her against his chest and suddenly Lily was angry. Her fists slammed into him, catching him by surprise. He let go. Off balance, she fell back against the table. An open jar of turpentine flew into the air, spraying paint thinner across her, the canvas beside her and the painted man. For a brief second, shocked astonishment flooded his face. Then he began to melt, eyes, mouth, limbs smearing, caving inwards, falling, dripping in rivers of reds and greens and purples until what was once a body lay in thick pools of paint on the ground cloth.

  Bile rose in Lily’s throat, her stomach heaved, and still she could not tear her gaze away until he was completely gone. She barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

  “I killed him … ” Lily sobbed into the sat-phone. After emptying her stomach, vigorously brushing her teeth and gargling for ten minutes, she’d dialed the only person she could think off.

  “Then call 911, for Christ’s sake,” Ellen snarled sleepily. “It’s one thirty in the morning!”

  “But he wasn’t alive,” Lily rushed on. “Not really. Except he was. At least enough. But did I have sex with this hot, hungry man? No, I made him put on my bloody bathrobe! Then I accidentally splashed him with paint thinner, and he dissolved all over the floor. Oh God, I’ll never paint again. I’ll never sleep again!”

  “Lily.” Ellen’s voice firmed as she woke more fully. “Calm down, you’re making no sense. Are you sick? Was it that damn potion?”

  “Yes! And yes. I can’t stop shaking. Ellen, I’ve never … I’ve never melted anyone before!”

  “Lily, will you snap out of it? Take a deep breath. Calm yourself. Now, tell me in small sentences what you think you did.”

  “What I did was melt him before I could get laid! My perfect man,” Lily cried and in garbled, hysterical words the story poured out. When she finished, she burst into fresh tears. “Now he’s in puddles, and I have to … I have to clean him up!”

  “Can you wake Daniel, get him to help?”

  “No!” Lily yelped. “How in hell’s name do I tell him I’m a love-starved lunatic who drank a magic potion? He already knows I’m silly as flying pigs. I mean, could you explain painting a picture of a man, your perfect man, who then came to life and melted before your eyes? Ellen, how would I tell him that? Jeez, Ellen, I was dripping with lust!”

  “It was the love potion, okay? Call Daniel. He’ll understand — ”

  “No! You don’t understand. I can’t possibly call Daniel.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this guy, this perfect man I painted?” Lily drew a quaking breath. “He was the spitting image of Daniel.”

  Silence stretched over the wireless. “Are you telling me that your perfect man is the guy next door? Gods above, Lily, get yourself committed somewhere and soon!”

  Lily darted a miserable glance over her shoulder at the drying canvas. Which was more insane, that a man that she’d painted had come to life? Or that in her possible heart of hearts and in some warped alternative universe, she was in love with her best friend?

  “Lily?”

  A sudden, echoing stillness filled Lily’s mind and in that silent breath of space, she could think again. “I’m sorry, Ellen, sorry I woke you. I … I freaked out. But now I know what I have to do. Thanks for listening, for being there. See you tomorrow.”

  “Wait! You’re now suddenly, inexplicably okay? Lily, are you sucking down that bottle of brandy I gave you
last Christmas?”

  Lily barked a laugh. “No, I’m totally, horrifically sober. Feet planted firmly on the ground. I … was responsible for creating this guy, I have to be the one who mops him up.” Her voice cracked, she had to get off the phone while this small spark of fortitude held her together.

  “Okay,” Ellen said, “now I’m freaked. You sound far too rational to be trusted. Can’t you please just get Daniel?”

  “No,” Lily whispered and disconnected. She knew if she went to Daniel now with her blood pumped full of hungry need, she’d jump him the second he opened the door, all sleep rumpled and sexy. And it would be the biggest mistake of her life. Her pathetic, lonely life full of a thousand mistakes.

  She wasn’t in love with Daniel. He just happened to be the most convenient guy, in fact pretty much the only guy, in her very small world. Of course, she could fall in love with him. Who couldn’t? He had it all: good looks, a contagious grin, and a generous, easy nature. Plus big-time smarts. He read anything and everything. And loved movies, was passionate about art … and he laughed at her jokes.

  Oh, yeah, she could so fall for him. But he could never love her. Who would? Not that she didn’t have attributes. Some men couldn’t resist a blue-eyed blonde petite enough to tuck like a football under his beefy arm. And she was intelligent, at least enough for creative ambition, imaginative concepts, and a sense of humor. But two facts were absolute and indisputable in her muddled, untidy life: Daniel Harris’s friendship was the unshakeable cornerstone of her world. And she’d rather die than lose him.

  Lily realized then, with uncharacteristic clarity, that the hushed stillness she’d felt on the phone with Ellen wasn’t an acceptance of responsibility for a cocked-up job, but the echo of her solitary existence. She’d been lonely all her life, losing her parents in a car accident when she was seven years old. After that her life turned into a series of lessons in coping with abandonment and heart-wrenching loss. Survival meant dissociating as often and as thoroughly as possible from whatever happened around her.