Is it possible to relive the past? To go back and experience those rare, fleeting moments that made you grateful to be alive? Is it possible to turn back the hands of time and feel that rush when you first met the woman you were going to fall in love with?

I’m about to find out.

I walk through the museum, barely glancing at the incredible artwork adorning its walls. My mind is elsewhere. My heart is too. When I pass the painting by Picasso hanging to my left and turn the corner into the next room, I will be taking a step back in time. Back to the moment when I first met Ashley.

As the painting by Picasso gets closer, I can hear my nervous heart beating in my chest. The painting is one of Picasso’s earlier works – A Spanish Couple in Front of an Inn, 1900.

Years ago, when I was a struggling painter, I used to come to this very same museum to study the masters and marvel at their work. I always dreamed of being one of them – a great and famous painter whose work adorned the museums of the world.

My dreams came true. My paintings now hang in the same museums as Picasso’s. And I’m barely forty.

But at this moment, I don’t want to think about how grateful I am for all my success and wealth. I need to prepare myself for what’s going to happen next.

I take a deep breath as I walk past the Picasso and turn the corner into the next room.

That’s when I see her – a few feet from me. She’s wearing tight blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a dark purple cardigan. Her champagne-colored blonde hair cascades to her shoulders. When she senses my presence, she turns and politely smiles. That’s when I get a glimpse of her eyes. They’re the most beautiful and mesmerizing sapphire–blue eyes I have ever seen.

She turns her attention back to the painting.

She has no idea how enthralled I am by her presence. In a split-second, I vow to talk to her, to get to know her. After all, she’s more beautiful than any painting hanging in this museum… and much more captivating.

I take a few hesitant steps toward her, searching for an opening line.

“Do you like the painting?” I ask, unable to come up with anything better to say. She glances at me and then turns her focus back to the painting. I wait anxiously for a response. She takes her time as she studies the large canvass that takes up much of the wall – it’s covered in swaths of blue, red and orange – depicting a man in the throes of despair.

Then, she finally turns and offers me the most beautiful, sincere smile.

“I love it,” she declares. “I’ve been standing here for a while just marveling at it. It’s really powerful.”

I get a little closer to her. We both silently admire the painting before us, when I finally say, “You know the artist was actually in a really bad mood when he was working on this. He was three months behind on his rent, and to top it off, he broke his cell phone. And the phone company said they couldn’t replace it because it was no longer under warranty.”

She arches an eyebrow and shoots me a look. It’s at this moment, when she flashes me that curious look – just like she did seven years ago in this very same spot – that I realize my plan, although crazy, is also brilliant. Others may consider what I’m doing to be dangerous and unhealthy. But standing here, and staring into her beautiful eyes once again, makes it all worth it. I feel the same rush of emotions through my body that I felt seven years ago – that same nervous, sexual energy you experience when you meet the woman you will fall in love with for the first time.

“How on earth do you know that the artist broke his cell phone?” she asks suspiciously.

I grin and point to the nameplate next to the painting. “Because I painted it,” I confess. “And it took me five days to get a new phone.” Then I look at the painting and tell her something only a handful of people know. “When I was working on this painting, I was about to give up on my dream of being a successful artist. I told myself ‘if this one doesn’t sell, then I’ll quit, and move back home and figure out another way to make a living.’” I look at her, shrug my shoulders and smirk. “Lucky for me, it sold.”

“That’s unbelievable,” she cries.

“What? That I painted this?”

She shakes her head. “No. That when you were working on this painting, you were about to give up being an artist, and now it’s hanging in a museum.”

She has the most expressive, enthralling face. As I stare into her captivating eyes, I feel like I’m falling into a great unknown. Still dazed by her beauty, I simply shrug my shoulders – like the fact that this painting is hanging in a museum is no big deal. But if I’m being honest, when I was a struggling artist, fearful of how I would survive and feed myself, selling this painting for $10,000 to a stranger, three days after its completion, was a very big deal. And to have that same painting hanging in a museum I used to visit as an art student is nothing short of amazing. It’s something I’m eternally grateful for.

She turns her attention back to the painting. As she studies the colors on the canvas, I study her face and her body. She’s really turning me on.

“How long did it take?” she asks.

“To paint? About a week.”

“Incredible,” she says with an authentic smile. “I still can’t believe I wandered into this museum to pass the time, and was about to leave, when this painting caught my eye. It really drew me in. Then a few minutes later, the guy who painted it comes and talks to me.” She shoots me a suspicious and coy look. “Is that what you do? Wander around the museum, waiting for someone to check out your painting, and then come talk to them?”

I laugh – just like I did seven years ago when she said the same thing to me.

Rebecca is really doing a wonderful job playing Ashley.

I feel the same warmth and sexual desire running through my body as I did all those years ago.

“I only stalk people at the museum when I have nothing better to do,” I respond playfully.

“I guess it’s not a bad way to pick up a girl,” she replies with a flirtatious look in her eye.

She then turns away from me and begins admiring the other paintings in the room, none of which are mine. As I watch her sexy, curvaceous body walk away, I follow in a heated pursuit.

I can’t let her out of my sight. What I’m feeling for her is something unique. I’ve never had a woman’s presence enthrall me this way, stir me to life like this.

“Do you paint?” I ask, following close behind. I suddenly feel stupid. Do you paint? What kind of question is that?

She shakes her head and smiles. “Not unless you count finger painting. And I stopped doing that when I was seven years old.” She continues to study the rest of the paintings in the room, one-by-one. “I’m an actress,” she eventually says. “I guess struggling actress is a more apt description,” she adds.

“Have you been in anything I might have seen?”

She shakes her head with a hint of frustration. “Not unless you consider a commercial for gas relief,” she admits with some embarrassment. “I’ve just been doing a lot of off–off–off–off–off-Broadway stuff.”

I sense her frustration now turning into something more somber.

“Don’t give up,” I tell her. “I know when you’re starting out and struggling it can be really brutal. But if you keep at it, your luck will change.”

“I hope so,” she sighs. She looks at me and I detect that her mood has changed. Her eyes, once playful and flirtatious, are now filled with worry. “I really hope things change for me soon. I’m sort of in the same position you were when you finished that painting.” She points to my artwork hanging across the room. “If I don’t catch a break soon, I might need to move back to Iowa,” she confesses. “And I really don’t want to do that. I don’t want to go back home feeling like a failure.”

The worry I recognize in her eyes has now overtaken her body. She tenses-up. And I can feel her sadness and sense her anxiety about the future.

There’s something about her that has me captivated. It’s not just her beauty. It’s hard to describe. It’s like I can feel her emotions. I identify with her sadness, her worry.

“It was nice meeting you,” she says to me with a subdued smile. Then she turns and walks away.

Although I have only just met her, and she’s still very much a stranger to me, I can’t let her walk out of my life. I’ve been with enough women in my time to know when someone is truly unique. Her presence is special. And this girl has just become the center of my orbit. She’s a sexy mystery I need to solve. A woman I long to explore, both spiritually and physically.

I run up to her.

“What are you doing for lunch today?”

She turns and faces me. “I haven’t given it much thought,” she admits. “To be honest with you, I wandered into this museum because I just found out I didn’t get a part in this film that I really wanted. I don’t think I would be very good company during lunch. I’m in a sad sort of mood,” she reveals.

I step up to her and grin, trying to lift her spirits. “Then that’s even more of a reason to let me treat you to lunch.”

She ponders my offer. Then she shoots me a suspicious look. “You really haven’t done this before?”

I’m confused. “What?”

“Approached sad, lonely girls in museums who are admiring your artwork and asked them out to lunch?”

I shake my head slowly, my eyes fixed on hers the entire time. “You’re the first,” I reveal.

As we stare at each other, a nervousness rushes through my body. It’s like I’m in high school again. Please say yes. Please say yes, I think to myself.

She places a hand on her hip as she looks me up and down.

“As long as you’re not lying to me,” she states with a sexy smile. “And I really am the first woman you’ve asked out to lunch in this museum.”

“You’re the first. I promise. I know a great little French cafe nearby. My treat.”

She takes a moment but then finally agrees. “Okay. I’ve got nothing else going on today.”