"I painted this portrait before we met. When you came into the restaurant, I was astounded! You were exactly like the man in my portrait! You were him..." But... who is he?" I asked, still not following Ellie's strange statements."He's... you, I think," Ellie said. "When I painted him, he was just... an ideal." An... ideal? Your ideal?" The concept seemed strange to me, on several levels. First of all, the young man in the portrait was pleasant-looking. He looked sweet-natured, peaceable -- even. When it was just me in the house I did a slow burn as I cried to myself."Oh Mr. Powers, you are so not going to get what you want, buying thevery thing I have been after the last few months. Go ahead and fuck mymother's brains out, but you are not going to get my acceptance." Butsomething in the back of my mind told me I was going to end up the loser.They still weren't home at eleven thirty when I went to bed. And I pulledon my favorite nitie figuring that he'd taken her to a motel again likehe. More

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