It must have been a dream is all I can think these days, because when I see him sitting there with hair in hands I see me too, nestled within the warm space between his thighs. I see his perfect arms wrap themselves around my waist, his furrowed brow pressing into my stomach as he sighs in weary resignation. I hear him sigh and instinctively my hands find his hair, my fingers wear his curls like wedding rings and I know what he must feel though he says nothing. It must have been a dream, his smell, the steady thump thump of his heart, the goosebumps along the line of his collarbone. I dreamed it all.
*****
It was a moth, your standard moth really, black around the edges and beige through the middle, soft yet strong, fluttering and fluttering in the light. We stopped to watch hockey practice but I was more interested in the moth, and the moth was not at all interested in me, drawn to the light reflecting off the ice and wondering why oh why, why is it so close yet so far away? He kept just out of reach, and no matter how far I stretched my fingers, stiff from so many hours away from the keyboard, he fluttered by and by. I don't know if he knew I meant no harm, it was just that I was in such awe of his talents, and for him to alight even for the briefest of seconds upon my inquisitive knuckles was more than I could have ever hoped.
Tired of my insistent inquisition the moth flew away, and we wandered to the nearest bar, he and I, strangers to the land and each other both. We nested in a dark corner, nibbled fried seafood and whispered meaningfully in each other's ears, nibbled each other's ears and lips and sipped Pabst Blue Ribbon from a can, consumed each other when food and drink just wouldn't do. We sat by candlelight and I remember wanting to stay by candlelight, there, with him, forever and ever amen. I wanted to stay when the only thing inked onto our calendars was to leave.
It was the best of best times to be sure, but it was worse still, to reach for light which cannot be held, to hope for what is not yours to take, to eat and drink to drunken deliriousness. It was but a dream, and that above all else is what I need to remember now that I'm awake.
*****
This week on The Collective: We contract a particularly itchy case of VD.
I bet the itchy VD is from all the hypothetical sex last week.
ReplyDeleteI never remember my dreams. That probably helps.
ReplyDeletehaving dreams does tend to complicate things.
ReplyDeleteI like dreams best when they are good and real and your life; they're worst when you wake up from said dream.
ReplyDeleteMost of the time I'm glad I don't remember my dreams. No disappointment then, you know?
I think the best dreams are the ones that end in longing.
ReplyDeleteI loved this post, kat.