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amulJust woke up from a strange dream. I was trying very hard not to flirt with this redheaded waitress at some kind of restaurant, but she kept interpreting everything I said as a come-on. For example, I was having trouble hearing her recite today's specials, so I asked her to come closer and speak louder, and she acted like I was just trying to get her closer to me.
LDB shows up with my family a little bit later, right as the food arrives, and there was this uncomfortable dichotomy as she tries to encourage me to ask the waitress out (the waitress's name had three Ds in it. Dierdred? Diodored? Something with a Da-uuh-DAA-dee sort of rhythm to it. Like I said, she was speaking softly), while helping me hide my interest in the redhead from my parents. I was all kinds of conflicted -- I didn't want my parents to see that I loved LDB, or that I was interested in the waitress. I didn't want the waitress to see that I loved LDB, and I didn't want her to talk to my parents (which would have been embarrassing). I wanted to show LDB affection and appreciation of her support, without actually having to, you know, express emotions to her.
My family was insisting that there was somewhere we had to be, and that I should get my food To Go. We left the restaurant, and I realized that I'd left the food behind, and that my parents would never forgive me if I wore these shoes to wherever we were going. I had to sit down and change them. The waitress caught up to me while I was putting on new shoes, and gave me her number.
I take her back to my apartment, only the entire thing is just an extra-spacious version of my bedroom. She undresses and starts trying to rub up against me while I insist that I want to get to know her, that it can wait a little bit. She tells me that she doesn't have much time.
We compromise on some heavy petting and small talk. I become very emotionally attached to her -- I can distinctly feel the love, the desire, the need to cherish her swelling up inside me. It's dizzying. LDB walks in at some point, sits down next to the bed and watches, with this kind of dorky, gleeful smile on her face. She strokes the new girl's hair and makes suggestions. The dry-humping and caressing isn't like real sex, it's more like an orchestra playing a symphony on my emotional strings. Touches don't feel like touches, they feel like some kind of mystic forging of connection. It is story-book love-making, intimacy as I imagined it would be as a child. Occasionally, she (LDB) applauds at a particularly adept movement.
I continue to protest meekly, but both the new girl (Dredaeda?) and LDB really want me to have sex with her. LDB wants to join in, but I draw the line there -- not when it's our first time together. Sex is quick, sweet, engulfing. While the foreplay up until now was more fantasy than sex is in real life, now that we are naked and my phallus is erect, it is that much less than reality, as if it were a book and the entire rest of the scene was described in one sentence. "Theyhad sex made love.") I quickly drift off to sleep.
My dream vision is pointed down at the bed I am laying on, the sheets tangled and bunched, a riot of fabric. My new love is hidden under the covers, her foot is resting on the pillow, and my arms are wrapped tightly around her bare leg, the only part of her not covered by the sheets. I wake up, and try to pull her toward me, but there is only the leg. It now feels like a mannequin leg. I freak out and go looking for her.
I enter a hotel lobby, and find her sitting on a couch. She is cold, distant, unfeeling. She reminds me that she had said she only had a little time. I try to pull her toward me, but once again find myself holding only a mannequin limb -- this time, her arm. She's sitting on the couch still. A perfect copy of her walks past us. I follow the new version of her with my eyes and see that the lobby is filled with copies of her. The version on the couch leaps up and runs away from me.
I catch up to her outside. Her father is hitching a trailer to their car. The trailer is filled with ornate stained glass windows, which he has made. She has a younger brother and sister who are standing around, being churlish and childish to each other. My love moves to help her father as he prepares to leave.
Her father tells me that he's disappointed in me, that I didn't make the best use of the time I had with her, and now they must leave because they can no longer afford to stay. She's trying not to cry, but I know her intimately, and can tell she is upset. I try to be brave and say goodbye like a man, but her siblings are ruining the moment.
A stranger walks up and inquires about buying one of the stained glass windows. Her father quotes outrageous prices to the man and I know that he loves his creations and does not want to part with them. I become angry, realizing that it's not my fault this romance has ended so soon, it is his fault -- his hubris, his unwillingness to "soil his creations" with commercialism.
I take a large rubber mallet, which looks kind of like a maul, and threaten to destroy his most precious creations, since he cannot afford to keep them all. Her father tries to block me from the trailer, falling neatly into my verbal ploy. I had meant his children, not his precious art.
You should have been my role model, I scream at him. What better way to feed and clothe your children than by doing something you love and doing it well?
I remember that line quite distinctly. It's the only part of the dream that felt like real dialogue, like someone had spoken the words and not just written their general meaning into the outline of the scene.
Her father takes her by the hand, and runs from me, her siblings disappear as well. I chase after them, grief-stricken, already feeling the loss of the woman I cared so much for. I find her father and siblings in some kind of steam-filled bath house sort of place. I demand to see her. Her father, taking up the role of the worldly-wise man, speaks to me of love and loss, of determination and the hard choices we must make in life. The siblings offer to fetch her for me. They will not show me where she is, but will bring her to me.
But her brother and sister are playing a trick on me. Her brother returns with a bird in a gilded cage. Her sister holds a fish in a jar. They mock me for my feelings, naming it a weakness they will always exploit. They throw the caged pets at me, and I shield my face. The animals fall to a grate on the floor, where steam is rising from.
I become angry, an anger so intense it robs me of my senses (although I didn't feel this anger the way I had felt other intense emotions during the dream. It was more like a poorly acted script. "He became angry and lost control," written on a page, not an actual feeling). I lash out at the children, slamming the girl into the wall and knocking the boy to the floor. I press my foot against his skull, choke her by the neck, and scream obscenities at them, vaguely aware that they would not be like this if they had a proper parent, believing that if I were with the woman I loved, I would end up raising these children, would be responsible for their behavior.
I found the idea galling, yet strangely tempting also. Would I be able to raise them well?
She appears then, catching me in the act of hurting her family. I am overwhelmed by the relieved sense of loss, the horror at the position she's caught me in. My love for her a torrent of pulsing blood through my veins, entwining with the complicated mass of emotions I'm already struggling with.
The emotional charge is too strong to be held within the confines of the dream, and pushes me into wakefulness. I push up out of the covers, panting hard, the emotions surging through my real-life body. I begin to realize that it has all been a dream, which calms me a little, but I also realize that the woman I loved so intensely was nothing but a dream-figment. For a few moments, which felt longer than they probably were, I want to cry over this loss. She was nothing but a dream, and knowing it hurts.
Even after writing it out, trying to exorcise this fairytale, it hurts.
Not just because I loved her so deeply, so purely, and feel betrayed to discover her nothing more than an invention of my own making, but it also hurts because I know I will never see her again, and before dissolving into whatever world lost dreams go, the last thing she saw was my rage.
Even after writing it out, even now, I feel the pressing weight that comes with knowing I'll never get a chance to tell her, I'm sorry.
LDB shows up with my family a little bit later, right as the food arrives, and there was this uncomfortable dichotomy as she tries to encourage me to ask the waitress out (the waitress's name had three Ds in it. Dierdred? Diodored? Something with a Da-uuh-DAA-dee sort of rhythm to it. Like I said, she was speaking softly), while helping me hide my interest in the redhead from my parents. I was all kinds of conflicted -- I didn't want my parents to see that I loved LDB, or that I was interested in the waitress. I didn't want the waitress to see that I loved LDB, and I didn't want her to talk to my parents (which would have been embarrassing). I wanted to show LDB affection and appreciation of her support, without actually having to, you know, express emotions to her.
My family was insisting that there was somewhere we had to be, and that I should get my food To Go. We left the restaurant, and I realized that I'd left the food behind, and that my parents would never forgive me if I wore these shoes to wherever we were going. I had to sit down and change them. The waitress caught up to me while I was putting on new shoes, and gave me her number.
I take her back to my apartment, only the entire thing is just an extra-spacious version of my bedroom. She undresses and starts trying to rub up against me while I insist that I want to get to know her, that it can wait a little bit. She tells me that she doesn't have much time.
We compromise on some heavy petting and small talk. I become very emotionally attached to her -- I can distinctly feel the love, the desire, the need to cherish her swelling up inside me. It's dizzying. LDB walks in at some point, sits down next to the bed and watches, with this kind of dorky, gleeful smile on her face. She strokes the new girl's hair and makes suggestions. The dry-humping and caressing isn't like real sex, it's more like an orchestra playing a symphony on my emotional strings. Touches don't feel like touches, they feel like some kind of mystic forging of connection. It is story-book love-making, intimacy as I imagined it would be as a child. Occasionally, she (LDB) applauds at a particularly adept movement.
I continue to protest meekly, but both the new girl (Dredaeda?) and LDB really want me to have sex with her. LDB wants to join in, but I draw the line there -- not when it's our first time together. Sex is quick, sweet, engulfing. While the foreplay up until now was more fantasy than sex is in real life, now that we are naked and my phallus is erect, it is that much less than reality, as if it were a book and the entire rest of the scene was described in one sentence. "They
My dream vision is pointed down at the bed I am laying on, the sheets tangled and bunched, a riot of fabric. My new love is hidden under the covers, her foot is resting on the pillow, and my arms are wrapped tightly around her bare leg, the only part of her not covered by the sheets. I wake up, and try to pull her toward me, but there is only the leg. It now feels like a mannequin leg. I freak out and go looking for her.
I enter a hotel lobby, and find her sitting on a couch. She is cold, distant, unfeeling. She reminds me that she had said she only had a little time. I try to pull her toward me, but once again find myself holding only a mannequin limb -- this time, her arm. She's sitting on the couch still. A perfect copy of her walks past us. I follow the new version of her with my eyes and see that the lobby is filled with copies of her. The version on the couch leaps up and runs away from me.
I catch up to her outside. Her father is hitching a trailer to their car. The trailer is filled with ornate stained glass windows, which he has made. She has a younger brother and sister who are standing around, being churlish and childish to each other. My love moves to help her father as he prepares to leave.
Her father tells me that he's disappointed in me, that I didn't make the best use of the time I had with her, and now they must leave because they can no longer afford to stay. She's trying not to cry, but I know her intimately, and can tell she is upset. I try to be brave and say goodbye like a man, but her siblings are ruining the moment.
A stranger walks up and inquires about buying one of the stained glass windows. Her father quotes outrageous prices to the man and I know that he loves his creations and does not want to part with them. I become angry, realizing that it's not my fault this romance has ended so soon, it is his fault -- his hubris, his unwillingness to "soil his creations" with commercialism.
I take a large rubber mallet, which looks kind of like a maul, and threaten to destroy his most precious creations, since he cannot afford to keep them all. Her father tries to block me from the trailer, falling neatly into my verbal ploy. I had meant his children, not his precious art.
You should have been my role model, I scream at him. What better way to feed and clothe your children than by doing something you love and doing it well?
I remember that line quite distinctly. It's the only part of the dream that felt like real dialogue, like someone had spoken the words and not just written their general meaning into the outline of the scene.
Her father takes her by the hand, and runs from me, her siblings disappear as well. I chase after them, grief-stricken, already feeling the loss of the woman I cared so much for. I find her father and siblings in some kind of steam-filled bath house sort of place. I demand to see her. Her father, taking up the role of the worldly-wise man, speaks to me of love and loss, of determination and the hard choices we must make in life. The siblings offer to fetch her for me. They will not show me where she is, but will bring her to me.
But her brother and sister are playing a trick on me. Her brother returns with a bird in a gilded cage. Her sister holds a fish in a jar. They mock me for my feelings, naming it a weakness they will always exploit. They throw the caged pets at me, and I shield my face. The animals fall to a grate on the floor, where steam is rising from.
I become angry, an anger so intense it robs me of my senses (although I didn't feel this anger the way I had felt other intense emotions during the dream. It was more like a poorly acted script. "He became angry and lost control," written on a page, not an actual feeling). I lash out at the children, slamming the girl into the wall and knocking the boy to the floor. I press my foot against his skull, choke her by the neck, and scream obscenities at them, vaguely aware that they would not be like this if they had a proper parent, believing that if I were with the woman I loved, I would end up raising these children, would be responsible for their behavior.
I found the idea galling, yet strangely tempting also. Would I be able to raise them well?
She appears then, catching me in the act of hurting her family. I am overwhelmed by the relieved sense of loss, the horror at the position she's caught me in. My love for her a torrent of pulsing blood through my veins, entwining with the complicated mass of emotions I'm already struggling with.
The emotional charge is too strong to be held within the confines of the dream, and pushes me into wakefulness. I push up out of the covers, panting hard, the emotions surging through my real-life body. I begin to realize that it has all been a dream, which calms me a little, but I also realize that the woman I loved so intensely was nothing but a dream-figment. For a few moments, which felt longer than they probably were, I want to cry over this loss. She was nothing but a dream, and knowing it hurts.
Even after writing it out, trying to exorcise this fairytale, it hurts.
Not just because I loved her so deeply, so purely, and feel betrayed to discover her nothing more than an invention of my own making, but it also hurts because I know I will never see her again, and before dissolving into whatever world lost dreams go, the last thing she saw was my rage.
Even after writing it out, even now, I feel the pressing weight that comes with knowing I'll never get a chance to tell her, I'm sorry.