Mia, the Kinetic Sorceress Pt. 02

This is the second part of the story of Paul and his encounter with Mia.

***

I called in sick at work for the first week after my day with Mia. I felt fine physically. Better than fine, in fact. My body felt strong and limber, my stamina was great, and old aches and pains had faded or vanished altogether.

Vanished. Like Mia.

I assumed that my good health was a remnant of my time with Mia. Or perhaps a parting gift. I was unclear on how I ended up back at my apartment. Before I passed out, I saw Mia disappear before my eyes. Did she come back and move me after I fainted? Or did she simply transport me from afar? Did she see me again while I was unconscious? And if so, how ... how could she just leave me without a word? Other than just "I'm sorry."

I stayed in my apartment for that first week, hoping Mia would reappear. I knew some part of her had visited my apartment because of the wine glass and boxer shorts that were there when I regained consciousness. I foolishly thought that if I stayed put, I'd be sure to see her when she came back. In hindsight, of course, that was ridiculous. If Mia wanted me to see her she could appear wherever I was whenever she wanted. So after that first week, I began the slow process of resuming my life.

As hurt and profoundly sad as I was over Mia's sudden and unexplained departure, I also could not get the image of her face out of my mind. Not the seductive glossy-lipped face she showed me at the diner when she first introduced -- if not explained -- her special ability. Not the lovely radiant face from our discussion by her pool when she did explain who and what she is. Not even the gentle, vulnerable face of the real Mia who only revealed herself at my request before we made love. I remembered each of those faces both fondly and painfully. But they were not the face that haunted me.

It was the frightened and pained face, with her eyes glowing orange, which said "I'm sorry" and vanished into thin air. How could anyone so powerful and in-control become so terrified so quickly?

The remainder of my first month after my day with Mia was spent alternately feeling sorry for myself and worrying about her. Was she alright? Was she consumed by the energy she had created and controlled for so long? Was the closeness we shared too much and she was afraid of what she would feel? I created a thousand different explanations with a thousand elaborate scenarios attached to them. None of them made me feel any better or worry less for Mia's safety.

And the dreams. Every night, a different incredible dream starring Mia. Every wild fantasy I'd ever imagined would play out in my dreams. She would whisk us off to an exotic setting, or assume the appearance of some irresistible temptress that would put a frat boy's wet dreams to shame. Any position, every orifice, all wishes exuberantly granted before I could consciously think of it. I would writhe with pleasure, my brain spinning out of control with desire, but always with that blanket of warmth surrounding me that was uniquely Mia's. No matter who she was or how she looked in the dream, I always knew it was Mia. And as my excitement intensified I could feel the warmth increase. The closer I came to climax, the more the growing heat enveloped me. When the pleasure became almost too much to bear and I could feel the release that I was growing desperate to achieve dangling just out of reach, the heat became stifling. I could feel the air itself being consumed around me and a blistering searing sensation overpowering me. Unable to breathe or move, I'd watch as a glowing ball of orange light would surround Mia, growing brighter until it was finally blinding. I'd hear a scream and would be suddenly aware that it was my voice screaming. And I'd be awake, my voice trailing off into a mournful moan that would be the envy of any ghost in a haunted house, bathed in sweat, heart pounding. No release, no relief.

Every night.

In the second month, the tightness in my chest and ache in my stomach began to subside, during my waking hours at least. I had lost my parents at an early age so loss of a loved one is not a new experience. But I knew what happened to my parents, so I accepted they were gone and mourned them. I didn't know what happened to Mia. But I had to begin to behave like she was not going to come back and I had to grieve the loss and move on.

I tried to convince myself that it was just one day out of my life. An amazing day, no question, but one day. It's not like a 5-year relationship suddenly imploded that day. It was a reality changing, life-altering one-night stand. No matter how unbelievable and precious a day it was, I needed to put it into perspective. But perspective was meaningless to me now. Perspective had been based on a life of experience that had been completely turned on its head on that one single day. As much as I wanted to, I could not rationally diminish the importance of that one day. I couldn't lie to myself. That day changed my life. Mia changed my life. And now she was gone.

Mia's appearances in my dreams became less and less frequent. I still had vivid dreams, but my partner in them was growing less and less familiar. Any recognition was fleeting. The familiar warmth was all but gone, and the ecstatic rush to near-climax was replaced by a relentless tease from a faceless and heartless companion -- not malevolent, simply indifferent.

Four months after my day with Mia, I went out socially for the first time. I was never much for the bar scene, unless it was just a casual night with my friends. The thought of dating hadn't even crossed my mind and I didn't think I'd be ready for a relationship, or any intimacy at all, for a long time. But it was nice to be going out with my friends. They chose the same bar that I had gone to the night before I met Mia. Beer and chicken wings for everyone. There was some symbolism in that I guess, like I was somehow starting over. I'd have the same "night before" and the next morning I'd go about my business. There'd be no bike ride, no broken down car or lady in distress, no stop at the diner, no ... no Mia.

I never told anyone about Mia. Who'd believe me anyway? I could have made up a story, told half-truths about this girl I met, our intense whirlwind romance and just as sudden break-up that left me in a self-imposed hiatus from dating. But despite the pain it just didn't feel right to try to alter the story. Better to not tell the tale than to change it so I could share it with others. I kept a low profile, worked a lot of overtime, went out of town (or sometimes just told people I went out of town) a lot, and generally kept to myself.

My friends were waiting for me at the bar and had grabbed a table. I walked in and the hostess, a tall attractive blonde with long straight hair asked me if I needed a table. I told her I was meeting friends and after a quick scan I spotted them at a table near the back. I pointed them out to the hostess and began to walk to the table. I suddenly felt a hand on my arm. "Right this way, sir," the hostess said as she took my arm and walked me to the table. "Enjoy your evening," she said, and with a quick squeeze of my arm and a big smile she walked back to her post.

My friends greeted me, and a couple of the guys leered enviously at the hostess as she swished away. Pitchers of beers were ordered, plates of hot chicken wings arrived, and before I knew it I was chatting and laughing with my friends almost like a regular evening out. Maybe life was getting back to normal.

We drained the two pitchers of beer and before we could flag down the waitress for a refill, she walked over to our table, pitcher in hand. She placed one hand on my shoulder and leaned over me to place the pitcher on the table. "This one's on me," she said, ostensibly to the table but looking right at me. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thanks," I said, and the rest of the table chimed in with their gratitude as well. We proceeded to drain that pitcher, and several more, each one delivered by the same waitress, each one placed on the table in front of me, each time with a hand on my shoulder or an accidental bump of her chest as she leaned over. The idea of female attention being the last thing from my mind, nothing registered as weird for me. Not yet. My friends began smirking a bit with each new pitcher but I was clueless.

As does happen during the consumption of beer, there comes a time when the beer must be returned. I got up from the table and started walking to the restroom. As I approached the door, from two different directions, two women walked up to me and said "Hi!" The shorter woman, 5 feet-nothing with chocolate brown skin and red-golden hair placed her hand on my shoulder while the other, a taller and more curvaceous blonde shot her a dirty look. "I'm Natalie/Peggy," each intoned at the same moment, which prompted an exchange of even dirtier looks between them.

"Nice to meet you, uh, both," I replied, a bit taken aback by the sudden ambush. "I'm Paul, and I was just on my way in to the bathroom." There was an awkward pause. I guess I expected them to back away, or say "Oh, OK," or something. Anything but continue to stand there, with Natalie's hand on my shoulder while Peggy looked on expectantly. "Right," I said finally, "excuse me." And I walked straight ahead into the bathroom, Natalie's hand slipping slowly from shoulder. I relieved myself and exited the bathroom to find Natalie and Peggy in a low-volume heated discussion. When they noticed the door open, they stopped talking and turned toward me. Peggy stood up straight, showing off some substantial cleavage while Natalie cocked a hip and gave me a hard, and alarmingly hungry, stare. Before either could say anything, I said "It was really nice to meet you but I have to get back to my friends." Who had been watching the scene unfold from the moment I approached the restroom.

When I arrived back at the table, my friend Sam said, "You should have seen it, Paul. It was like they were sharks circling outside the door, waiting for you to come out. The blonde must have adjusted her bra three times and I thought the pixie was gonna deck her." He clapped me on the shoulder, and went on, "You must be putting out pheromones or some pretty powerful mojo tonight."

My mouth went suddenly dry and my stomach knotted up. Pheromones. Mojo. That wasn't it. Positive energy. Sexual energy. That's what I was 'putting out.' Mind you I had never been repellant to women; I did just fine with dating and my sex-life, pre-Mia, was average but satisfying. But I had never, ever attracted so much attention, with no effort on my part. Never. I felt dizzy.

"Look, guys, I gotta go," I told my friends, and stood up to leave. The moment I stood up, Natalie and Peggy who had returned to their respective groups of friends, shot out of their seats and began to walk in the direction of my table. "Not feeling well, something's disagreeing with my stomach. Thanks for coming out, let's plan something soon." I quickly threw three twentys on the table and bolted for the door, leaving a look of puzzled surprise on the faces of my friends. Meanwhile, Natalie had gotten boxed in behind a couple of large tables but the bigger stronger Peggy was on an intercept course. Peggy reached the door at almost the same time I did but was cut off by the hostess, who gracefully stepped in front of her; you could almost hear the squeal of brakes as Peggy came to an abrupt halt.

"Leaving so soon?" the hostess asked, once again laying a hand on my arm. Looking me right in the eyes she continued, "I hope I see you again soon." She gave me a slow wink and sexy smile and did not release my arm until I had turned completely away and was half-way out the door. When I got to the street, I briefly looked around for a cab and then decided to walk the mile and a half home, to clear my head. Before I knew it, I was running, ignoring crosswalk signals and the sweat stains that were probably ruining my work clothes. I arrived at my apartment, damp and breathless, and took the stairs up, unlocked the door, and threw myself on the bed, panting and groaning. The mile and a half sprint was bad, but that wasn't the source of the groans.

What had happened to me?

Most guys would be very happy to be suddenly charming to the opposite sex. It would be a windfall, a dream come true. New horizons and grand opportunities unfolding before them.

I just felt sick.

Because I knew whatever it was that had created this aura of irresistibility to women, it wasn't me. It was Mia. Either she had done something to me, or changed something in me, or -- holy crap -- was doing something to me now. But whatever it was, it wasn't me. And I hated it.

How could I enjoy a sudden flood of female attention if I knew Mia was the cause? How could I spend a moment of time with a woman when every few seconds I'd be reminded that the woman was, at least in part, drawn to me because of Mia? Then I really started spinning out of control. How long would this last? Would it wear off? Or was this some kind of cruel joke, where I'd have non-stop come-ons from women that I could never act on because I'd always think of Mia? I wanted to scream.

So I screamed. Long and loud, months of frustration and pain fueling the howl of a wounded animal. I pounded the bed with my hands, letting the anguish overwhelm me. After about a minute, as I began to wear out and the scream trailed off, I heard a loud banging on the door. I dragged myself to the door, opened it, and saw my landlord standing there with a baseball bat in one hand and a look of concern and anger on his face.

"What the hell was that? Are you OK?" he asked.

I took a deep breath and replied, "Yes. Fine. Sorry. I, uh, dropped something on my foot. Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch." My landlord stared at me for a moment, the expression on his face not changing.

"Kind of over-reacted, didn't you?" he asked finally. I nodded sheepishly. "Try and keep it down and don't drop anything else." He said, and turned to walk away. And, under his breath he added "And grow a pair."

So I was able to add embarrassment to pain and anguish. Great. I walked back to my bed, flopped down and put a pillow over my face. And waited to calm down. And fell asleep.

I felt her before I saw her. Something woke me up -- not a sound or bright light. Just something. I hesitated for a minute, waiting for the sleep to clear out of my head, and then waited to see if I was actually feeling something or just imagining it. I slowly lifted the pillow off my head and scanned the room. There was a small silhouette framed by my window. Any other normal person would have immediately freaked out -- an intruder in their bedroom. But I felt her before I saw her. Mia.

I looked at the silhouette, waiting. I wanted to make sure she was real.

A small, frail voice from the darkness said, "Can you ever forgive me?"

I began to cry, bitterly. Months of slow recovery had been undone in a single evening out with friends and as the prospect loomed of a life forever tainted by my run-in with Mia, she reappears and asks if I can forgive her. I cried, and moaned. I pulled the pillow back over my head to muffle the sounds, wanting to avoid another visit from my landlord. After a couple of minutes my crying petered out and I was left panting and heaving beneath the pillow.

I finally pulled the pillow off my head and, staring at the ceiling, I whispered, "Are you alright?"

The tiny voice replied, "Yes. No. I'll be fine. In time." Some small relief washed over me. A dark, cruel part of me almost wanted to hear her say that she was terrible, devastated, inconsolable. But I heard all of that in her voice and was suddenly ashamed for wanting to hear it. But she was here and she said she was fine, and she was clearly alive, so part of me, a better part, was relieved.

But with that feeling of relief, the knowledge that she was ok, I was able to put aside the part of my emotions that was scared for her safety which left the door open for my hurt and anger to bully their way through. I uttered one word, softly but far more harshly than, in hindsight, I should have: "Why?"

The silhouette faded slightly. "To save us," the voice said. "It's complicated and I don't completely understand it all myself, but if I didn't go you'd have been lost, and that would have destroyed me." In the few hours I had spent with Mia, I had heard her be happy, silly, mischievous, wistful, even sad when she talked about her family and her past. I even, briefly, heard her frightened, when she said "I'm sorry" before vanishing. I had never heard pain. And that was all there was in her voice. Pain.

"I don't understand," I said.

"I'll explain it all, what I know anyway. But I can't now. Not now. I'm too weak. Soon. I promise." And like a dim light switching off, she was gone again.

I was adrift. I had no idea what I should do. That moment, the next day, or the rest of my life. Mia was alive, she had come back, and she vanished again. "Soon" she said. What does "soon" mean to someone who is 400 years old? And what do I do until then? My head was spinning. She said she'd explain but was there any explanation that could ever undo the damage? A longing started building up inside me. A longing, not for Mia, but for how life was with Mia, or even before Mia. My life was not spectacular before that bike ride four months ago, but it was enjoyable. It was a simple, unremarkable but satisfying life. Then for one day, not even a whole day, I was exposed to how rich and wondrous life could be. And was ruined for anything less. I longed for that wondrous life. Or the unremarkable life before, if I could just forget that one day. I'd take either, but could not survive being in between, where I appeared to be stranded.

She must know that, I told myself. What little I know of her, the years of wisdom and experience and her acute sensitivity to people would mean that she must be aware of the pain and frustration she caused. And, I began to realize, knowing that must be devastating her. For someone who lives off positive energy -- whose purpose in life is to find, nurture and create energy for the pleasure and happiness of herself and others -- living with the burden of having caused such pain to someone with whom she had become so intimate, even for a very short time, must be literally eating her alive. It finally dawned on me that four months of wallowing in my own hurt and loss was causing as much pain for Mia as it was for me.

That realization was the last thought that went through my head as the exhaustion of the day overtook me and I dropped off to sleep.

The dreams I had that night were like a highlight reel of the outrageous and frustrating dreams from the previous four months. But the endings were different. In one scene, Mia appeared wearing a little black dress, tasteful but very revealing; she had given herself ample breasts and her hair was as black as her dress, slicked back and glistening. She glided effortlessly toward me, the faint click of stiletto heels the only sound breaking the silence. In the dim light I realized we were in the bedroom at her home and I was sitting on that impossibly comfortable bed. A black tuxedo jacket lay on the bed beside me, my shirt half-unbuttoned and a bow tie, untied, hung around my neck. "I hope you enjoyed your evening, lover," Mia said as she approached the bed, "but it gets better from here. Much better." She placed her hands on my shoulders and straddled my legs, her dress gliding up to reveal her soft pale hips. With the slightest wave of her index finger, my zipper lowered itself and an unseen hand extracted my stiffening penis. Mia leaned in and kissed me as she lowered herself on to me, the invisible hand ensuring I slipped easily in, grazing her clit as I entered.