The Glimpsing by James L. Black, Mary Byrnes Read Free Book Online Page B

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