He walked in the purple haze. The light filtered by the dust motes, softly falling on her phantasmal visage or mirage? His feet lucidly trudging the moss floor. The errant pounding of the massive stereos now a soft thumping on the ground, his steps mirrored the beat. The graciously poured alcohol had started making its intentions clear. His hands instinctively ran through his floppy hair.

He could smell the smoke from this distance, the familiar scent of the wild mingling with soot from the cedars. He trembled a little, a small part of him afraid to disrupt this perfect Shangri-La. He quirked his lips remembering, “Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?” He steadied his breath and set his gaze on the magical enchantment especially conjured from his personal hell.

“Will you paint me?” she laughed quietly, her eyes playing with the light. His eyes fell on the Art supplies at her feet. She smiled a lost smile, a trick of the eyes he guessed. “I guess I have time” he scrutinized her face, probing for an indication for this hour to be a dreamer’s paradise. “I am getting old here” she chortled, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. He sat down on the grass, his back against a cedar trunk. Never once did he let  his gaze off her, worried if she’d fade away. She was wreathed by an Elysian glow, the kind we read in folklore. Her head was swaying to some imaginary tune he wished he could hear too.

The charcoal in his hands glided on the paper unceasingly, his eyes lost in the valleys and moons of her facial world; every part of it was a revelation. He remembered something from a book he’d read awhile ago, the unworldly maiden who was perpetually lost in the woods. Her hair tangled into the branches and she became one of the trees.

 She held still but there was fluidity to it. The Sun kissed the horizon and the world became a balmy breeze.

“Do you come here often?” he asked her with palpable curiosity, he was finished with the portrait. His fingers lightly brushing the shadows, lingering wistful stroke on her lips.  “Yes, whenever you do.” She murmured, her voice becoming dreamy.

He looked up to find an empty space, just in time to realize that he had invented her all along.

P.S. This story doesn’t imply that your beloved author writes under chemical influence. Also, it’s magical to write in a toasty blanket- of- dreams on a chilly Winter evening.