I wish you were real, I thought as I brushed my lips across his.

He didn't move.

My fingertips trailed over the contours of his face, traced patterns down the length of his broad shoulders. Still, he made no move to touch me, or kiss me back. The only acknowledgment I received was from his cock. I released him, and slowly he opened his eye, and looked at me inscrutably. Deliberately I reached for him, grabbing his waist, and I eased myself down to my knees.

"What?!" he cried out in surprise, but my only answer was to take his lovely cock into my mouth. My hand firmly held the base of his penis - I wasn't about to let him get away while my tongue and lips were busy with him. One of his hands touched the top of my head reverently, and I could hear his breath become harsh.

This was definitely a dream - I wasn't getting tired at all, despite my lack of recent practice.

I continued with zeal.

"No," I heard him whisper. "I - I'm not supposed to have these kinds of dreams," he rasped.

I stopped.

His hand fell away, and he looked down at me, astonished. I looked up at him, equally astonished. "You stopped," he said softly, and I couldn't tell if he were relieved or distressed.

"I could go on, if you want me to," I offered.

His lips parted, and he stopped, unsure. I stood.

"You're not supposed to have dreams like this?" I asked him.

He nodded, looking at me cautiously. "I'm a monk, no da," he replied.

"But I'm the one dreaming!" I cried. Then: "Why on earth am I dreaming of making love to a monk?"

"Don't ask me, na no da!" he returned. "I'm still trying to figure out why I'm dreaming of having sex with a girl who dreams of having sex with monks, no da!"

We stared at each other, shocked.

"You're dreaming this?" we both asked each other simultaneously. Only he added, "No da?" to the end of his question.

I stepped backwards, away from him. "Where can I find you?" I asked him.

"I don't want you to find me, no da!" he cried, hands forward as if to ward me off.

"Please," I insisted, "I must know - "

I awoke.

But I'm the one dreaming!

Chichiri shook his head to rid himself of her voice. He sat up, body instinctively seeking his meditative pose. She was no demon, he knew that for sure. Demonic entities left traces, like a bad smell or lingering foul aftertaste. Her chi had been bright, unsullied by diabolic taint. She was as human as he.

And she certainly had proved his humanity, hadn't she?

Acknowledge and let go, he told himself. It is nothing, only the body.

The body in question was quite insistent that it most certainly was not nothing.

Let go.

For hours, he prayed. The beads passed between his nimble fingers, as he sought comfort, and answers.

Neither were forthcoming.

Long after the sun cleared the horizon, Chichiri stood, ignoring the stiffness in his muscles, and gathered his few belongings. "I did not want to have to do this, no da."

He teleported to Mount Taikyoku.

I took a cold shower. It didn't work, and it was unpleasant, besides. So I took a hot shower.

Chichiri.

I frowned as the hot water pelted down onto my skin.

"It's a dream," I muttered as I scrubbed. "It's a fucking dream, he doesn't fucking exist."

I threw the scrunchie scrubby thing at the wall opposite me. It hit the tiles with an unsatisfying splop, and I watched as the suds streamed out of it, towards the drain. "I don't need this ag-gra-vation," I sing-songed, turning to face the spray. What could it mean? I rubbed the tickly spot in the center of my forehead. "He's a product of my subconscious," I said to myself. Of course, that left the question of, What on earth is my subconscious thinking?

Shutting the water off, I exited the shower and wrapped myself in a towel. I wiped the steam from the mirror and studied my reflection through the haze. Oval face, pointed chin, ski-jump nose - I took inventory of my looks as if I were inventorying my paints. The corner of my lips quirked. "Of course, I'm not really pretty enough to tempt a monk except in my dreams," I said to my reflection. The reflection smiled back at me. "Now, shy foreign exchange students on the other hand," I said to her. My reflection and I laughed. I started to dry my hair, watching my reflection, idly wondering, not for the first time, what lay on the other side of mirrors.

The image was a misty one, as if steam had occluded the mirror she was looking at. Chichiri kept his eyes on Taiitsu-kun as she studied the girl through the mirror. "Now, shy foreign exchange students on the other hand," she laughed. Chichiri glanced at the mirror, and saw that the girl's face become serious again.

She seemed to be looking straight at him.

He looked back to Taiitsu-kun.

"Very interesting," said the wizened old woman. "Interesting indeed."

He waited.

"What do you think Chichiri?" Taiitsu-kun asked.

He thought, his mind tracing all the avenues of possibilities that he had already covered mentally. At last, he spoke with great care: "I cannot say, Taiitsu-kun. I do not know why she invades my dreams the way she does, but I believe that she thinks it is her dreams which are invaded, no da."

"Actually, Chichiri, I was asking you as the only monk present whether or not she was pretty enough to tempt a monk," said the old woman slyly.

Chichiri blushed behind his mask. He stayed silent, not dignifying his sensei's remark with any response. Taiitsu-kun guffawed as if she had made a great joke, and Chichiri suspected, not for the first time, that Taiitsu-kun could see straight through his mask. He merely sat patiently, waiting for the old woman to finish her fun before moving onto serious matters.

Taiitsu-kun dabbed away her tears of mirth, and gestured at the mirror before her. The image in the mirror wavered, to be replaced with a more mundane reflection of Taiitsu-kun's Mirror Room. She glanced at the monk who, seven years past had served Suzaku no Miko as seishi. She turned to him now, wafted close enough to him so that she could put a finger under his chin and tilt his head up, as if he were a child and not a man of thirty-one.

"You have learned well, Chichiri," Taiitsu-kun told him. "But your lessoning is not over yet. I cannot tell you your course of action, nor can I advise you in this."

"What must I do, then?" he whispered. "Sensei, this is completely outside of my experience."

"Precisely," said the old woman. "I cannot hold your hand forever, my son."

With that, she left.

I did not go to class.

When I had told Keisuke that I simply wanted to create, I did not lie. I stayed home, and anything that was blank and vaguely paper-like became the ground for pictures, illustrations, designs, portraits. Juicy markers cut swaths of color over bristol board, images growing out of the conglomeration of broad strokes and narrow. Delicate representations came into being with the feathery marks left by colored pencils. Nightmare scenes were borne of conte crayon, detailed studies formed under the knowledgeable strokes of graphite.

Sometime during all of this came a knock at my door. I ignored it, but it was insistent, repeated. "Maeve?" came the muffled voice. Eileen. "Maeve? Are you all right? I didn't see you in class today."

I left my work long enough to unlock the door. I don't even think I said hello as I returned my attention to the sketch that currently held my attention.

Eileen stood by the table for a very long time before sitting. She watched as I applied broad strokes of pastels onto the rough paper, softening, blending, brushing the dust away. I knew exactly what she was seeing. It's magical, watching an artist create an image out of nothing but a surface, a medium, and an image in the mind.

Finally, I sat back, wiping my hands on the hem of my t-shirt. "Maeve," Eileen whispered. "I don't think I've ever seen you like this before."

I looked at her. She was staring at me with wonderment. "What time did you get here?" I asked her.

"An hour ago?" she guessed.

"Oh. I'm hungry. Do you want something?"

She shook her head slowly, so I wandered into the kitchen to find sustenance. The coffee was cold and nasty, so I put a fresh pot on and rummaged for food. From the front room I could hear the shuffle of paper as Eileen looked at everything I had done today. I exited the kitchen with coffee in one hand, roast beef sandwich in the other.

Looking up at me, Eileen said, "My god, Maeve, was this all you did today?"

"No," I told her. "There's more in the bedroom."

Her lips shaped the word "more" with astonishment. She looked about her at the piles I had resting around the room. I had indeed worked feverishly today; most of what I had done were rough sketches and studies, only a few pieces were very detailed and worked in the less expansive media of pencil. I invited her to go see for herself with a motion of my chin, she did not need to be urged twice.

She came out some while later; I had finished eating by then and was sitting under a lamp, reading. "What," she asked, "no more drawing?"

"My hands are tired," I told her as she sat on the couch next to me. "I've been up since . . . I don't know, since before dawn. It was still dark out."

I leaned back into the corner of the couch, and sprawled out, enjoying the change in position. "I don't know what got into me today, Eileen. I just didn't feel like going to class. I just - I just had to do all this." I waved my hand at the room.

She silently handed me a sketchbook that she had brought back from the bedroom. My breath caught when I caught sight of the subject. Him. Chichiri.

"I dreamt about him again last night," I told her softly.

"I know," she said. "I gathered that."

Her expression was neutral. She wasn't giving anything away. I wondered what she was thinking. I grinned at her, but it felt so - so fake. "I certainly don't dream up ugly men, do I?"

Eileen slowly shook her head, never taking her eyes off of me. I glanced down at the sketchbook, took in the quick, sure strokes that I had laid onto the paper with soft pencil. I closed the book and set it aside, and drew my legs back up, tucking my feet close to my butt.

"He's only a dream, Eileen," I said softly, though I myself didn't believe it.

Her eyes glittered. After a moment, I realized they were tears, unshed, quickly blinked away. "I worry so much about you, Maeve," she whispered. "I just want you to be happy."

Silently I put my feet down and scooted down the battered couch towards her. I embraced her in the silence, and she hugged me back. "I know, Eileen," I whispered. "Please don't cry."

She pulled away from me, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'm not crying. Bitch."

I burst into laughter, and after a moment, she joined me. "I have a question for you," I said to her after the laughter died down.

"I have an answer," she replied, following the forms of an old joke.

"Are you happy?"

She froze, startled. All this time we'd been friends, and I'd never asked her about her happiness. I was a little ashamed of myself.

"I'll be happy when you're happy, Maeve," said Eileen.

"That's not an answer," I told her.

"It's all the answer you're getting for that question," she retorted archly.

I gazed at her for a long moment. "You know, Eileen, you spend too much time worrying about my happiness. When will you worry about Eileen's happiness?"

"I'll be happy when you're happy, Maeve," she repeated.

And that was all the answer I got out of her.