Johan Steensland Music

Dennis and the Storm
Dennis didn’t notice any of it: the soft scraping sound of his footsteps as he crossed the empty, dark parking lot outside the small cinema; the chirp-chirping of the crickets in the surrounding grass; the clear high-desert air with the faint eucalyptus scent of Chinese pistache trees that filled his lungs and uncovered the most wonderful Santa Fe moon. No, Dennis’ mind was elsewhere.

Eyes to the ground, kicking every pebble big enough to kick, Dennis was only aware of the damage his flying projectiles might cause the few parked cars in the poorly lit, deserted lot.

Because of the cars, he needed to hold back – but he also needed to kick harder.
Why did they have to ruin such a promising, beautiful and graphically rich movie? Before catching this very last showing of James Cameron’s Avatar in Santa Fe’s smallest cinema, Dennis had learned that the budget for this movie was a whooping 237 million. Jesus, Cameron, couldn’t you have avoided those obvious cheats with that kind of money?

It was blatant cheating – and therefore not the way Dennis would have done it.

Still 60 feet from his old and dusty Toyota Corolla, Dennis’ train of thoughts was interrupted by a huge door opening on his right. The door was like something that could fit a small airplane hangar. The New Mexico night filled with circus music and the smell of popcorn.

From the door came bright light and four toddlers in a perfect row, each toddler dancing more gracefully than any toddler possibly could. The boys (they were all boys, Dennis realized) looked to be between two and three years old, and they were dressed only in a pair of brightly colored shorts. The fourth and last of them seemed to be the youngest, and instead of shorts, he wore diapers.

The weird thing (apart from them being there in the first place) was that the toddlers were at least ten feet tall. Dennis guessed that was the reason for the huge door from which they had emerged.

Dennis stopped, took in the scene and smiled – anger and disappointment evaporating.

For as long as he could remember, Dennis never had a problem with separating reality from fantasy. He knew when his mind kicked into overdrive and sometimes created entire fantasy worlds in mere seconds. Dennis had a name for this peculiar ability he had. He called it the storm.

The dancing toddlers offered a welcome break from all the negative thoughts. Not his finest creation by any stretch (and not really a full storm), but he still enjoyed it. Dennis already felt better. He let the big toddlers finish their coordinated dance, before walking the remaining distance to his car.

Should he paint the toddlers?

That damned triphant
It was after midnight when Dennis exited his Toyota on the driveway outside the small, one-story house he inherited from his mom. All the things he failed to notice outside the cinema only ten minutes ago hit his senses when he opened the car door. They now constituted a safe and well-known backdrop to the short walk to his front door. Dennis loved New Mexico in general and the high-desert around Santa-Fe in particular.

Brushes was out. Dennis’ neighbor Brushes was always out, it seemed. The old man sat on his tiny porch in the darkness, beer bottle in hand. When he saw Dennis, he stood, paused, then slow-motioned his way across his ten-feet front-lawn to greet him. The man must be over eighty, Dennis thought.

“Are you enjoying the evening, son?” Brushes asked in his hoarse voice. Before Dennis could answer that he indeed enjoyed the high-dessert evening, Brushes added “And how is life as a struggling young artist?”

The question was remarkable. Despite his new-found success, despite the sudden (and welcome) appearance of millions in his bank accounts, few people knew him, or knew of him. Not even his neighbor that he had known all his life had a clue. Struggling artist? Yeah, right!

“I’m good”, Dennis answered.

Half an hour and a beer later, Dennis unlocked his door and stepped inside his house. He was not burdened by the fact that he still lived here. It was home, after all – had been all his life. And, equally important, here he had everything he needed. When his mother died about five years ago, Dennis had converted the living room into his painting studio. It did not matter to him that he could afford a larger house – and a new car, he thought with a smile as he locked the door behind him. He liked it here. And even if he had the money now, what about
when the well ran dry? What about a few years down the line? Dennis knew it would be naïve to trust his new-found success to be a constant for the rest of his days.

Sooner or later, or perhaps sooner rather than later, he thought, success will be a mere memory.

It was all about that damn triphant.

The triphant … What was so special about it? Dennis still was not sure. What made it stick out among the thousands of fantasy creatures he had created and painted in his life?

The triphant was kind of cute, he guessed: a moss-green animal the size of a Labrador. It looked a bit like an elephant calf with a lion’s nose instead of a trunk. But what made it so irresistible, Dennis guessed, was that it only had three legs: two hind legs, and a third that was a bit like an arm, protruding from the center of its chest. The triphant used its thick tail for support when it stood upright and picked fruits with its sole arm from the trees, but it preferred to walk on all threes.

Yes, it was cute. Dennis sighed as he brushed his teeth. But so were hundreds of his other creatures. Why was only the triphant in demand?

Never a man to boast or brag, Dennis felt the marketing of his creations to be awkward. He did have a webpage, and a Facebook account. He thought back on that day, six months back, when he posted a picture of his painting of the triphant, alone in a fantasy landscape that in some ways reminded him a bit of the high-desert: pale, sparsely grown shrubs and trees, and red rock formations in the distance.

And boom!
As the saying goes: it went viral.

However, the success of the triphant did not stop with clicks and positive comments on social media. No, it went beyond anything he could grasp. Within a week, people from all over the world reached out to him with insane business propositions – some more insane than others.
It was a classic snowball effect.

Of course he was happy about the sudden success. Dennis was now financially stable, living on what he earned through his craft. Few artists had that luxury. But still, there was something about the whole triphant-snowball-situation that bothered him.

Now, as he lay down on his single bed in his small bedroom, Dennis tried to put his finger on it. Why was the success so two-folded? Why did he feel as frustrated as he felt proud?

From the narrow opening in the window Dennis felt the fresh and reassuring mountain air on his face. Was that a coyote he heard, far away?

Alter ego
Dennis woke up early with a feeling that he almost had it. Was it a dream that spilled over into his conscious mind? Sometimes dreams were just like that, he thought. You dreamed that you had the most ingenious, yet simple solution to something of great importance. In the dream, the solution was so clear, the details chiseled and crisp. Then you woke up, feeling like an idiot because you couldn’t remember the solution. Or even the god-damned problem, sometimes.

Dennis squinted towards the bright sun shining in through his bedroom window. He wasn’t sure about the dream-theory. This felt more like a subconscious idea forming in his mind.

Then it hit him – all of it. Sure, it was the storm, but not the way it usually was. This was not some weird but wonderful scenario for a fantasy painting. This was about his life, his future, and his status as an artist.

He sat, pale and glass-eyed, on his bed. This was the weirdest creative storm he had ever felt. But just like the normal storms (if any mental storm could be called normal), everything was there, everything – with a cunny level of detail.

As Dennis made it through his morning routines, he went through his plan over and over again, looking for contradictions, holes and weak spots. Because it was no longer an idea. It was a plan.

It was not even 9:00 am when Dennis parked his Toyota in the tourist parking lot close to Old Town in Albuquerque. The 40-minute drive to the New Mexico capital had seemed like a mere drive down his street in Santa Fe. At 10:34, feet starting to ache from all the walking, Dennis had found what he was looking for: a wonderful little boutique in a beautiful part of Old Town, with a “For Sale”-sign taped to the inside of the window.

Two weeks later, Dennis was ready to open his new paint-shop and art gallery. Only, Dennis was not Dennis anymore. In Albuquerque, he was Peter. And while Dennis painted fantasy landscapes and animals, Peter painted people. The alliteration was part of the plan, spurred by that weird storm. It also looked great on that new store sign he had made and mounted himself.

“Peter Paints People”. It had a nice ring to it, didn’t it?

Peter also had an artist’s (rather silly) beard. Dennis had not, so he had bought the fake beard and glue from a five-star internet make-up site.

Although ready, nervous energy flowing through him, Peter did not open his shop. For the moment, he was happy to fantasize. It was like when you try a new piece of clothing in a store, and you are not sure whether you were going through with the purchase or not. Peter tried his plan on, tried to see if it fit him or not.

Only, it was not the truth. Dennis was hesitant, and scared – that was the truth. What if this Peter-person did not work out for him? What if he made a fool of himself? What if he was recognized?

Dennis spent three days in his new shop, trying to put his finger on what really scared him. Yet he knew it all along. He had created this alter ego to see if he “had it”. Was the success of the triphant just a fluke, a random flash in the pan? If Peter failed to make any splash in the New Mexico artworld, then Dennis would be doomed. Then he would know that he was just a guy with a bit of luck.

On the other hand, if Peter made it, if he became recognized for his work, perhaps even far beyond New Mexico, there was suddenly no limit. Dennis would fly high, knowing he had the talent to do anything.

Fortune serves the bold, Peter thought as he swept the floor in his new shop for the third time that day. He would open tomorrow.

Anika
The September Albuquerque morning felt unusually cold to Anika as she parked her bike outside the two-story, prison-like office building where she worked. Despite the exercise from the ten-minute bike ride, her fingers were cold and stiff as she locked her bike. Almost every morning for the past six years, she glanced at the small cluster of beautiful Chinese pistache trees in the middle of the vast parking lot to her right, and almost every morning she wondered why there were so few trees and so little greenery on the site.

But not this morning.

Anika was lost in her thoughts. Had it been six years already? Why was she unable to change? She told herself she was lazy, too content, even comfortable. They paid her well, didn’t they? Was there really need for a change? Anika knew these thoughts were just mind- games. They were protection against the unknown, guards against failure.

She also knew she needed to break through this safety net, because it kept her from living her dream.

Anika was a computer science researcher — respected, secure and intellectually stimulated. She also felt shy, socially under-stimulated, and increasingly isolated as she spent most of her workdays alone in the prison cell that was her office.

Refusing the elevator, Anika forced herself to think about what really bothered her as she took the stairs two steps at a time, bike helmet in her hand bouncing off her thigh. That’s how it was these days: It was like she needed to open a resisting hatch in her mind to allow some of her thoughts to come through. And today, they did.

Thoughts about identity – who she was. No, that was not really it, Anika thought. It wasn’t about who she was. It was about who she wanted to be.

Teaching, Anika thought. They say that teaching is a calling. Either you felt that calling, you embraced it, and you made it your own. Or you didn’t. To Anika, those platitudes were like a rash you could not itch.

Anika did feel that calling. Walking through the narrow and empty corridor to her office, that feeling of a calling was stronger than ever. She knew that she wanted to teach, to be bonding with young people, sharing everything she has learned through her life, sometimes wanting it so bad that it started to get suffocating. But that was only one part of it. The platitudes failed to take anything but that calling into account. She absolutely loathed the incompleteness.

Anika sat down in front of her powerful UNIX computer and looked out from her small office window in the lab, as they called it – she, and seventeen thousand other people in Albuquerque who worked here. Sandia National Laboratories was one of the largest government operated labs in the US. Surrounded by ten-foot-tall fencing topped off with razor sharp barbwire, the lab was large enough to function as an isolated smaller city within the city.

From her window, Anika could see one of the five gates that were the lab’s only points of entry and exit. One of the guards, thorough and patient like they all were, was checking a gray sedan, talking to the driver.

Unable to look away from the armored man with his bullet-proof vest, Anika realized she was sweating. Was the heat turned up too high? Or was there something menacing in the guard’s body language? How long had the discussion between the guard and driver been going on? Anika fumbled with the top button on her sweater, wanting to unbutton it but knowing she
would never do so.

A thought struck her. Her college and best friend, Karen, wasted no opportunity to proclaim she felt so safe here in the lab, that no trouble could possibly find her here behind the high fence and the armored guards. But Anika did not feel it – especially not today.

She felt like a lab rat in a cage.

The mine that said PPP
It was like stepping on a mine. But good. Anika was struck in a way she had never been. She knew that life would never be the same once you stepped on a mine. Even if it was a good one, a metaphor, it still altered your life’s trajectory in an unpredictable way.

Anika and Karen had been on their usual Saturday afternoon walk through the old part of the city, chatting away, hardly noticing the shops, cafés and art galleries. Anika suddenly stopped, frozen.

“What?”, Karen asked.

Anika did not reply. She had stepped on a mine.

They were outside a small painter’s studio. A handful of painted portraits decorated the sole window. There was a sign over the door reading “Peter Paints People”, with the three P:s overly large.

Each portrait struck Anika as unique. Though she was not an arts person, these portraits resonated with something deep inside her. She could not tell whether it was the light, the textures, the choice of colors or perhaps the way the artist had captured the expression of his subjects. No, she had no idea, and that ignorance felt both over-powering and irresistible.

“Hellooo?”. Karen, again.

“Sorry”, Anika managed, her eyes never leaving the paintings. “I just stepped on a mine. A good one.”

Anika did not hear Karen’s reply, didn’t se her roll her eyes while looking slightly worried. Something important had just happened. And Anika knew this moment, this mine, could be the catalyst she needed. Whether this would catapult her far and in the right way, that was up to her. That was a responsibility she could never back away from.

That evening, just as the bleak New Mexico sun was setting, Anika parked her bike outside PPP and peered in just above the “Closed” sign on the door. There was a man inside, seemingly about to leave for the night.

Heart racing in her chest, jerking glances left and right afraid she might see someone she knew, Anika knocked.

The meeting …
Peter, who painted people, Anika thought nervously, looked perfect; small artist’s beard, paint spots on hands and arms, and that curious blend of being both present and lost in thoughts. God, she was nervous.

“Yes?” One word, door half-open. But not unfriendly. More curious.

While Peter had managed a word, Anika found she could not. Why hadn’t she thought this over?

“I was about to close”, Peter said. “But it’s been a slow day, so it’s nice to see another customer. So, what can I do for you, Ma’am?”

Heart racing, feeling her face go hot, Anika cleared her throat.

“Well, eh, sorry for showing up so late … should have come earlier … but … I saw your paintings and absolutely loved them!” Eureka, I can speak, Anika thought.

To that, Peter smiled, opened the door for her and said: “That was the sweetest thing I’ve heard all day. Do come in!”

Anika did. Even though nervous energy occupied her, she still registered that something shifted inside her as she entered Peter’s gallery. The door was a portal, though she could not understand in what way, and to what. She decided to hold fast to her belief that she controlled it; that it was up to her to make something out of this opportunity that had presented itself.

As Peter stepped in behind his counter, Anika supposed she was expected to look around. Any other day, any other store, she would have. But not today. If she was going to make something out of this, she needed to be brave.

Only, she was not brave. Damn it, two minutes in, her adventure, her opportunity, was already going south. No, that was not it. She was making it go south. Because she acted the way she always did. Damn it, damn it, damn it …

Anika felt that familiar lump in her throat as her vision started to blur.

“You OK, Ma’am?”

This was it. Now or never. But could she?

Anika turned to meet Peter’s eyes. Someone started talking. It took a while before she realized it was her.

“My name is Anika and, as I said, I just love your portraits. I was wondering, would you paint my portrait?”

Silence. He just looked at her. What had she just done? Of course, an artist like Peter only painted professional models: the ones who could sit still for hours in a weird pose and still look beautiful. I’m an idiot, Anika thought.

“Just to be clear,”, Peter had found his voice again, “You want to model while I paint a picture of you?”

To Anika’s surprise, Peter’s voice lacked any trace of the resentment she expected.

She refused to look away. “Yes, exactly … Although I know nothing about posing and such.” She felt herself go red again.

She was starting to add to the list of excuses when Peter talked. “I’d be happy to!”

Overstepping
The storm had worked its magic, as it had so many times before. Peter was now a real, functioning person. Even if he was just Dennis’ alter ego, it had started to feel like Peter was finding his footing, developing his own habits and traits (and ignoring some of Dennis’).

It could drive a person mad, Dennis thought. And being the bearer of the storm, Dennis knew it had a cruel flip side. As fast as the storm could create the most wonderful fantasy scenario, it could also wreak havoc, paint Dennis’ entire canvas black, and thus set up mental roadblocks for anything Dennis wanted to do or achieve.

Perhaps this flip side of the storm was the real reason Dennis still lived in his mother’s house and, despite his obvious talent, only had succeeded in painting one single fantasy animal that anyone liked or knew of. Oh, and my only real friend is my eighty-year-old neighbor Brushes, Dennis added to himself.

Dennis lay on his bed in his bedroom, eyes soft focusing on the ceiling. It was hours since he woke up, but he was still trying to recover from the nightmare.

The storm was responsible for the nightmare – Dennis understood that. But regardless of that, the dream carried a powerful message, a message he could not ignore. Yes, the dream
was hellish (they usually were), and yes, he had learned to recover from a nightmare like that. But Dennis saw no recovering from the stark message in this one: You are overstepping!

In the dream, Dennis was Peter. But Peter was not really Peter. Instead, Peter was like someone possessed by his own powers, his own greatness and his own idea of total entitlement. The meeting with Anika started as it had in real life. But then this not-Peter took over.

In real life, Dennis felt that his meeting (or rather Peter’s meeting) with Anika was precious. It was special in that wonderful way you cannot explain. It had felt like the start of something new and valuable. But the nightmare took it in the opposite direction. Not-Peter treated Anika like an idiot, trying to deceive her, humiliate her, manipulate her. And all the way through the dream, Dennis understood that this not-Peter guy was all him.

He was overstepping. He had lied to Anika (although he didn’t want to). He had deceived her (although mostly about superficial things like his name).

Even to himself, Dennis’ excuses rang hollow. He had met someone, someone precious, and he had fooled her.

The sittings
They had agreed on the number of sittings (three), the price (Anika could not remember) and a schedule (of which she only remembered the date and time for the first). With plenty of time to come up with an excuse to back out, Anika found herself doing the opposite. At work, she could hardly concentrate, and although she never decided to do so, she lied to Karen when her friend asked what was up.

Now, a week after she first knocked on his door, Anika sat under a huge light in front of Peter in his studio. Peter had arranged everything: the warm, light-brown canvas background, the rococo chair with golden armrests, the close, intimate lighting, … He had also suggested that she should wear a modern, business-like green dress.

Anika found the dress online and sent him the link. Peter answered with one word: “Perfect!”.

Sitting in the chair, trying to listen to Peter’s instructions, Anika felt a pang of disappointment. She had expected to feel exposed, but beautiful. She had expected to feel free, adventurous and happy. Instead, she felt nothing special. Something was not right.

Wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this exactly what she needed? She was thrown into a context she knew little about, where she had to step out of herself to cope. She needed to be challenged. Wasn’t that the whole point?

Then it came to her. She wasn’t challenged. Sitting in front of Peter in her new business dress was not particularly challenging. Without even noticing, she had let Peter take charge of everything. Perhaps he looked at her and saw a financially secure woman, someone who needed a custom-made portrait to shine off her friends.

Damn it, Anika thought. If that was what Peter saw, it was way too close to the truth, the very truth she needed to break away from. She thought of her strong calling she did not even dare to take on seriously. Because she was not brave enough. Because she was stuck! Secure. Predictable. Boring.

And Peter, this handsome man in front of her, was being too much of a gentleman to put her in any kind of situation she was not comfortable with.

The one thing she had promised herself was that she was responsible for making things happen. The opportunity was here, had presented itself like magic. All she had to do was ride it, make it happen. But she had failed. She had let Peter take charge, and now she was back to her old boring ways – ways she had sworn to change.

It took a while before Anika realized Peter’s instructions had ceased. The room was silent. Peter looked at her, and what she saw in his expression seemed to echo what she felt. There was something in his eyes, but what?

Perhaps he also felt it, Anika thought. Perhaps Peter also felt that this moment should be … more? Was that it? Perhaps they both felt that this meeting was precious, something they should treasure – not just handle the safest way possible.

That possibility (and Peter’s eyes) was all Anika needed. Without even thinking about it, she did something she had never done before, and up until this point in her life would have felt impossible. And while her brain told her it was all wrong, every fiber in the rest of her body told her it was right. As she got out of the dress, she just felt calm, warm, and … right.

Not until the morning after, Anika realized that her improvised little strip was not only about creating a daring and favorable situation for herself. It was as much a token of trust, an invitation to make this moment special for the both of them. By her action she had also put Peter in a daring and strange situation. At that moment, she was extremely vulnerable. Peter had to make a decision right then and there: To confirm their band with his trust, or to ruin it.

A silly bet
When Anika showed up to their second sitting, Peter was not ready to paint just yet. He asked her if she minded having a cup of coffee before they started. Seemingly on the defense, Anika nodded, her smile never quite reaching her eyes.

Peter did what he could to make Anika more relaxed. It seemed to him that their little cha irritated her, making her tense. Was she in a hurry to start their session? Peter wondered. Yet there was something he needed to ask her.

Peter couldn’t figure her out. Anika seemed tense and shy. Still, she was the same woman who slipped out of her dress at their first sitting just days ago. It didn’t make sense to him. He made an effort to make his voice casual:

“There’s something I’ve been waiting to ask you, Anika. And, I wonder, would you care to tell me what spurred your interest in having your portrait painted?”

Anika paled, and Peter could see something change in her eyes.

“Oh, really, it was just a silly bet”, she said.

“A bet?” This felt all wrong to him.

“Well, actually …. Some of my girlfriends dared me. Perhaps we’ve had a bit too much to drink. I don’t know. But in the end, they bet I would ever … never .. you know …”

“I see”, Peter managed, stunned.

At first, Peter couldn’t put his finger on why he felt hurt and angry. It was like Anika’s words put a knife through his heart. What made him even more angry was the stinging he felt in his eyes. He was close to tears, but he was damned if he was going to let her see it.

A bet? Was that all this was to her? A silly bet.

Well, silly me, Peter thought. Here I was, thinking we had something precious going. And all it was …

“Are you OK?”, Anika interrupted his racing thoughts.

“Well, actually, I feel a bit off” Peter said. “Perhaps it’s lack of sleep, too much work or something. But, … would it be OK to postpone?” Peter could feel the sweat on his forehead and in his armpits.

“Of course”, she said.

And that was that. Out she went. And at that moment, Peter was sure he would never see her again. He didn’t know how to feel about that.

Anika sets things right
Home after work, Anika had no appetite. Dinner had been reduced to a cheese sandwich and a cup of tea. She stared at the darkening sky through her kitchen window, forgetting about the half-eaten sandwich in front of her.

Not once, but twice she had lied to him. One of the lies was rather ironic. Anika had told Peter about her girlfriends, as though she had tons of them. In reality, Anika only had Karen. The other lie was more severe: she had told Peter it was a bet. That took her own will, her creativity, and her new-found courage out of the equation. It reduced her to a wimp.

Even though both lies were rehearsed, Anika was embarrassed about the poor account she had made of herself during their conversation yesterday. Why had she created those stupid lies in the first place? Looking at the sky with empty eyes, she couldn’t find one single valid reason.

Well, she could, but she didn’t want to.

As the tea got cooler and the sky got darker, Anika sighed. It was the same old story: her instinct to protect herself from living her life the way she wanted. Reminding herself she would never do this in the universe she had together with the sweet Peter, made her even more disappointed with herself.

It was after seven pm when Anika ran down the stairs and jumped onto her bike. Maybe, if she hurried, she might be able to catch Peter at his shop before he left for the day.

Eleven minutes later, panting, Anika banged on the glass door to Peter’s shop. The lights were out. There was no movement inside. I missed him, she thought, but knocked again just in case.

Defeated, Anika sat down on the low stairs in front of the door. What now? she thought.

After another ten minutes, she heard the door open behind her.
“Anika? I didn’t think we had an appointment today?” Peter said when she turned around to face him.

He looked different to Anika: paler, a bit distant. It was like the air had trickled out of the tires. Is this my doing? she asked herself. Did I ruin it? Did I hurt this sweet man?

She stood, looked him in eyes, and tried to get her voice under control.

“I’m sorry, Peter! I’m so sorry!”

The greatest picture nobody wanted

Even though Anika adored it, she would not let Peter display the painting of her in his shop. Not only did it show too much skin, but it was also important to her that the intimacy that Peter had captured so perfectly in his painting stayed private. To her, the moment was exactly that: private.

She now had the most beautiful painting of herself, but no one to show it to. It was a painful contradiction. Because the painting was a sort of receipt for her own bravery and new-found ability to challenge her old ways, she wanted to look at it every day and be reminded of all it stood for.

After all, this was the start of the rest of her life, wasn’t it? The experience had enriched Anika in a way she could not have foreseen. She was so proud of the painting and her courage to go through with it. So, why not show it to the whole damned world?

But no, there was no way she would let that happen.

And there was something else. Anika was not sure the painting was true – as in: true to life.

The painting not only showed a beautiful woman, but also a strong woman, someone with purpose, drive, and integrity; someone having clear goals and knowing how to achieve them.

That was not her.

Only, it was her, wasn’t it? She had found Peter, she had made this happen, and she was the woman Peter had painted in his studio. She was the woman in the picture. Why was that so hard to take to heart?

Anika felt that hanging the painting in her home would set an impossible bar for her to live up to. Realizing she could be all that the painting exhibited, she also knew that she could not be that all the time. It would take years (or decades) to develop those slumbering sides within her to be able to fully reconcile with the strong woman looking back at her from her wall.

Yes, looking back at her from her wall. Yes, yes, yes!

For perhaps the first time in her life, Anika said “Fuck it!”. Then she hammered a big nail into her wall, right above her living room couch. Two minutes later her home was more beautiful than it was the day before.

The impossible relation
This was meant to be the most exciting evening of his life. Dressed up as Peter, beard and all, Dennis sat opposite Anika in a booth at a pub a block away from Peter’s shop. The wooden table between them had deep scratches and some dark burn marks, perhaps from cigarettes. From two worn speakers in opposite corners, Wilson Picket told Sally to slow her Mustang down. Anika looked at Dennis in a way that made him feel both comfortable and excited. Dennis had the feeling that the bartender who served them their beers took them for a couple in love.

They had been seeing each other a lot lately, but always in the shop. Anika often stayed late after closing, and they were getting increasingly comfortable with each other. This evening at the pub felt to Dennis like a first real date. He had been looking forward to it ever since they decided to meet here a week ago.

It was supposed to be an evening of magic. But Dennis felt nothing of the kind. He was sweating, and his usually so steady right hand (his brush hand) trembled slightly when he gripped his beer glass.

I am a liar – a fake, he almost said aloud.

Because no matter how you looked at it, that’s what he was.
How could he possibly tell her the truth? Here he was, a few feet from the most wonderful woman who also looked at him like she wanted to eat him, and just could not say the right thing, could not do the right thing.

This was real. As real as it can be, Dennis thought. Thus, none of his surreal storms could bail him out this time. His storms excelled in creating fantasy worlds. Hell, they had even made him rich! But now, at this very moment? Dennis needed reality. Truth. Courage. Jesus, what a wimp he was!

Anika had come clean. She had let her guard down, told him all about her calling and the wall she built around herself. It had made their relation stronger. Why couldn’t he do the same?

Dennis raised his glass to hide his discomfort and hoped the alcohol would calm his nerves.

Only, he knew exactly why he hesitated to come clean: Fear! That was it. He was afraid to disappoint Annika, afraid to be rejected, afraid to lose all the wonderful things he felt with her.

Well into his second beer, Dennis was amazed at how well Anika handled her duality. Sometimes she was shy and a bit quiet. Then, it was like she reminded herself that she did not have to be that way. In those moments she was able to exhibit other sides of herself.

Dennis loved the courage Anika displayed, but it also made him feel inadequate in his self-imposed one-dimensionality. The beer helped a bit, but he still felt awkward. He was sure she noticed. That did not help.

For the fifth time that evening, Dennis cleared his throat, took a deep breath and met Anika’s eyes.

“Yes?”, she said, and Dennis felt her looking not at him but into him.