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We celebrated at the Montmartre café sharing drinks with the artists who began a long day of drinking. One leaned over Mother and whispered. She kept saying no. Then she relented, telling him she'd come by in a couple days. He seemed satisfied, gave a quick kiss and returned to his compatriots. "He needs to finish the painting," Mother explained with a wink."Who is that?" asked my sister. When my mother told her, her eyes went wide."Do you want to meet him?" asked my mother."No. What would I say?" Show him your drawings," said Mother."They're like children's finger painting to him," said my sister. Mother grabbed them and went to the artist and unrolled them. The artists gathered around the drawings, pointing and commenting like debating art critics."Where's the gallery?" asked Mother.My sister wouldn't say. I told them. They nodded and continued appraising. We headed there next."We sold two already," said the gallery owner. "I had them framed early this morning." She took the. I was still on the floor pushing myself backwards as it moved slowly closer. Was I still allowing the hallucination theory to prevail? It was a struggle to maintain the idea that this was only a dream as dreams and real life have their own distinct texture of reality. The floor was cool and vaguely vibrated Zhaan gave off an ordor that triggered a sense memory of a electrical applicance burning out and gave off that scent of oozone. It was not a bad scent. It was like Mia Farrow's sudden reaction in Rosemary's Baby: "This is no dream...this is really happening!" Zhaan leaned slowly down and extended her left arm, one finger pressed to my forehead. On closer inspection her face was quite beautiful and had a distinct "feminine" quality. Her smile never faded. It put me at ease. "My name is Zhaan. I come from a planet that is slowly dying. We need to replenish our supply of sperm and we have come periodically to your planet to collect more," she said. Neela's appropriated voice.
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