When Miranda opened her eyes, dawn was leaking through the curtains of her room in the little B&B near Durango, Colorado. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to go back to sleep, but her bladder wouldn’t let her. Reluctantly, she pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her stomach lurched. Her head roared like a blender whipping up a batch of daiquiris.
Way too many daiquiris, she lamented as she stumbled into the bathroom. She peed, then splashed cold water on her face. What a night. She glanced at herself in the mirror, decided, I look like hell, and searched through her toiletry case for some Alka Seltzer.
That cute Jamaican guy with the dreadlocks had sure done some amazing things with rum. And with his tongue. Miranda smiled, remembering how he’d brought a tray of frozen strawberry-and-banana cocktails to her table beside the swimming pool. She was sitting with three women who’d invited her to come with them to a party given by a software tycoon at his mountainside mansion.
The Jamaican’s flowered swimming trunks hung low on his hips, revealing six-pack abs and a hint of curly dark hair peeking above the waistband. His sleek skin shone like polished mahogany. He caught Miranda sizing him up and grinned, his teeth sparkling like stars. As he leaned forward to set her glass on the table, his hand brushed her shoulder and he spilled some of the icy drink on her arm.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Let me clean it up.”
He knelt beside her and slowly licked her arm with his long, soft tongue. Every nerve ending in Miranda’s body tingled. When he’d finished, he stood up and lewdly ran his tongue over his lips before sauntering off to serve another table.
Giggling, Miranda held her cold drink to her flushed cheek, trying to cool off.
“Oh my God.”
“Down, girl!” one of her companions hooted and fanned Miranda with a napkin.
They clinked their glasses together as the band launched into a reggae tune.
During the course of the evening, they clinked glasses again and again as the Jamaican brought a variety of fruit concoctions laced with golden rum to their table. Miranda lost count of how many she consumed. She remembered dancing the salsa, the rhumba, and the cha-cha. Then someone swept her into a conga line that wound between the tables and around the pool. From time to time, she noticed the Jamaican guy watching her.
When she broke away to go to the bathroom, he was waiting beside the door. He pulled her in, locked the door, and lifted her onto the vanity. Almost before she realized what was happening, he’d removed her swimsuit top and begun making lazy circles around her breasts with his silky tongue as if he were eating an ice cream cone.
Gradually, the circles grew smaller, the tip of his tongue twirling her nipples until she felt herself melting.
He ran his tongue down to her belly, toying with her navel as he slid off the bottom half of her swimsuit. Spreading her legs, he continued his descent. His dreadlocks tickled her thighs as his hot, wet tongue slithered into her seam. The tip of his nose nuzzled her clit as his tongue lapped up her juices. Next he explored her ass. Then he started making delicious, maddening circles around her clit with his tongue, flicking it lightly, and sucking it until she was ready to scream. By the time he thrust his throbbing cock into her, Miranda was delirious with pleasure.
Now, she downed her Alka Seltzer and crawled back into bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Finally she got up again, pulled the curtains aside, and gazed out over a park ringed with trees. A thin mist hovered near the grass. In the faint, yellow-gray light, she could see the ground moving. It rolled and swayed, rising and falling in undulating waves.
Miranda’s first thought was I’m still drunk, followed by Oh my God, it’s an earthquake!
As she grabbed her clothes, the movement took shape. From the shadowy mist human figures emerged—dozens of them—all bending, twisting, turning, and gliding together in a synchronized manner, like dancers performing a strange sort of ballet. Most of them wore baggy white trousers and tunics, as did the slender, bald man who appeared to be leading them. It took her a few moments to realize they were doing tai chi.
Miranda stared at them, transfixed. Men and women, young and old, Asian and Caucasian, moved in harmony with effortless grace. Once or twice she could’ve sworn the leader looked up at her, but how could he know she was watching? When the group finished, parting like the mist dissipating beneath the sun’s rays, she felt an inexplicable sense of peace. Maybe I should try that, she thought as she headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.
By lunchtime, Miranda felt almost normal again. She spotted a Korean restaurant and decided to try it. A string of red, yellow, blue, and green cloth squares hung over the entrance, gently fluttering in the breeze. Inside, she was greeted by exquisite paintings of Asian landscapes on the walls and delicate statues carved from ivory, wood, and jade displayed in ornate cases.
She took a seat and scanned the menu a Eurasian teenage girl brought her. My stomach’s probably not ready yet for anything spicy, she decided. When the girl came back with a pot of tea, Miranda ordered seaweed soup and a noodle-and-vegetable dish called chapahae.
“What are those squares of cloth above the front door?” she asked the girl.
“Prayer flags.” Seeing Miranda’s look of confusion, the girl continued. “A Buddhist tradition. We write prayers and blessings on the cloth, so that when the wind blows it will carry the prayers around the world.”
“What a lovely tradition,” Miranda said. “And the artwork here, it’s beautiful.”
“It’s my father’s work.”
“Your father is very talented.”
“Yes, I think so, too.”
Several minutes later, the girl set Miranda’s lunch on the table and handed her a business card. “My father’s gallery, if you wish to stop by.”
“Thank you. I think I will.”
The Golden Gallery, she noticed, was only a few blocks away. So far she hadn’t devoted much time on this trip to artistic pursuits. Only a little sketching here and there, some photographs, a couple visits to museums. I’ve been more concerned with indulging my body than my mind. Miranda tucked the business card in her purse and dug into the chapahae.
I’ve been here before, Miranda thought as she entered the gallery with its yellow walls and polished wooden floor. But that’s impossible. This is my first trip to Colorado.
Yet as she gazed at the paintings and sculptures, she couldn’t shake the feeling of déja vu.
Even the incense, burning in a bowl beside a Buddha statue, smelled familiar.
“Good afternoon,” a bald, middle-aged man with pale amber skin and gently sloping eyes greeted her.
He wore a mustard-colored silk shirt with a persimmon ascot, dark brown trousers and loafers. But Miranda saw him barefoot, dressed in the saffron robes of a Buddhist monk. He smiled and his face suddenly seemed much younger, his features more distinctively Asian. My eyes are still playing tricks on me. I’d better stick to wine in the future—no more rum!
Even more peculiar was her immediate and intense attraction to this stranger. Her heart seemed to leap from her chest and dash toward him, as if he were a long-lost lover for whom she’d been desperately seeking. What the hell is going on? she wondered, struggling to regain her composure.
“Your daughter gave me your card,” she managed to say.
He nodded. “I am Lee Golden. Welcome to my gallery.”
“Golden doesn’t sound like a Korean name.”
“My mother is Korean, my father American.”
“Is all this your artwork?”
“Yes.”
“I’m very impressed.”
“You honor me. Are you an artist?”
Miranda answered, “Yes. Most of my work is abstract.”
She turned her eyes away from him, trying to rein in her feelings, and studied a painting of a beautiful woman pouring water from a vase onto the ground. “Is this a Korean goddess?”
“That is Kwanseieun, one of the most beloved deities in many Asian cultures. In China she is called Kuan Yin.”
“I’ve heard of her,” Miranda said. But where ? How do I know that name?
“This is Dae-Soon, the Korean moon goddess.” Lee indicated a picture of a female figure silhouetted against a silvery moon. “And Yondung Halmoni,” he pointed to another painting, “is the goddess of the wind.”
As Miranda examined the paintings and sculptures, Lee explained the mythology behind them. Oddly, the deities seemed as familiar to her as the Catholic saints she’d been raised with. Yet I know absolutely nothing about Korean spirituality.
His fingers brushed her elbow, sending sparks shooting up her arm, across her shoulder, and into her chest. Butterflies danced in her stomach. As he guided her into another section of the gallery, she saw a tall, stone statue of a man wearing a hat shaped like a Hershey’s Kiss. He looks like a giant penis, Miranda mused.
As if reading her mind, Lee said, “This is a Tol-Harubang statue. They are considered powerful sources of fertility.”
When she touched the statue, it burned her fingertips and she drew back quickly.
“It’s hot.”
“Is it?”
Suddenly, she felt dizzy. Her vision blurred. The walls of the gallery fell away.
Casting her eyes down, Miranda saw a long silk skirt where her jeans should have been.
At her feet, a youth wearing the robes of a Buddhist mendicant monk knelt and held out his begging bowl. She filled it with rice and milk. As the youth thanked her and rose to continue on his way, their eyes met. Her heart fluttered and a most unspiritual sensation flickered between her legs. Then someone called her name, “Sang-hee,” and she hurried inside a richly furnished house.
Each day she waited for the young monk, and when he arrived she put rice and milk in his begging bowl. All day and night she fantasized about him. She prayed to the goddesses—Kwanseieun, Dae-Soon, Yondung Halmoni, and Mulhalmoni—to dissolve the betrothal her parents had arranged for her to a wealthy old merchant. She prayed for the youth to be released from monastic life so that she might marry him.
One afternoon, Sang-hee slipped out of the house and visited a tiny shop frequented by women who sought lovers, or who could not conceive. She smelled the incense as she entered the shop and saw pictures of goddesses hanging on its yellow walls. The matron gave her a small vial of oil and a smooth stone as long as her hand, shaped like a man. That night as she lay in her bed, burning with desire for the young monk, Sang-hee rubbed the oil on the man-stone and slid it into her opening.
When the monk appeared at her door the next day, Sang-hee told him to meet her at a secluded spot beyond the town walls. There, they embraced passionately. With mounting hunger, their hands and mouths devoured each other’s bodies. He is smooth and hard, like the Tol-Harubang, Sang-hee thought as she guided his living man-stone into her opening that was so wet with longing, she needed no oil to ease the way.
In the months that followed, Sang-hee’s belly swelled. Now they must let us marry , she thought. Instead, her mother flew into a rage, screaming, “You have disobeyed the law and our traditions. You insult your family.” She slapped her daughter and pulled the girl’s hair, calling her terrible names. Sang-hee’s father hit her with a stick and cast her out of the house. When she went to the monastery to find her lover, she was told he’d been sent away.
Sang-hee’s heart ached with unbearable sadness. Everywhere she turned, she met with loathing. Finally she found refuge in a neighboring village, where she was forced to perform the lowest, most degrading chores in order to feed herself and her baby. She never saw the young monk again.
When Miranda came to, she was lying on a futon in a room at the back of the art gallery, surrounded by canvases, paints, and brushes in glass jars. Lee Golden sat beside her holding a cup of tea.
“You fainted,” he said. “How do you feel?”
Confused and embarrassed, Miranda answered, “I’m afraid I’m not quite well today.”
“I hope my daughter has not served you something that made you ill.”
“No, I drank too much last night. I’m still hung over.” But that doesn’t explain the weird dream I just had.
She sat up and accepted the tea Lee offered her, struggling to make sense of what she’d experienced. Sipping it, she again felt a curious attraction to him. And she knew she’d seen him before.
“I saw you in the park this morning, doing tai chi,” she said. “What a coincidence.”
“Coincident means occupying the same space or time,” he told her. “Some people, such as myself, believe the past, present, and future exist concurrently, not consecutively. Time is an artificial distinction, a limit our minds impose to simplify our lives. It doesn’t really exist.”
His smile exuded such serenity and compassion that Miranda decided to tell him her dream. When she’d finished, he laid his hand over hers.
“I think you may have temporarily erased the boundaries of time,” he suggested.
“You mean that girl was me in another lifetime?” she asked, squeezing his hand.
“Were you the young monk?”
“Perhaps.”
“Can we pick up where we left off in that previous incarnation?” Her heart beat faster at the thought.
Lee smiled kindly at her. “I am married.”
“Another limit imposed to simplify life?” Miranda asked, disappointed.
“If you wish, you can see it that way. The choices we make do create limits and responsibilities. Voluntarily assumed, they give meaning and structure to human existence.”
“But fate has brought us back together,” she insisted.
“Yes, but not necessarily as lovers.”
“What then?”
“As fellow artists. I suspect we have things to teach each other. Would you like to paint with me?”
Miranda glanced around the room filled with art supplies. “Yes, I would.”