“But it’s not enough,” I whisper. My fingers twist together, twining and untwining like restless snakes, held before my heart. I feel its thud, too heavy, squeezing in all the beats skipped in the past; it is a pulse point the size of a planet.
“When the dreamer wakes, the dream is not done it is undone. That’s all I remember.”
His watery blue shrink eyes try to bore over the tips of studiously steepled hands held in front of his chin but fail to hit their mark. It is a look that speaks of being practiced in a mirror: this should be your super serious face.
I arch an eyebrow back at him, a look that I freely admit to having practiced in a mirror. Silence does not make me feel awkward or prone to chatter. Silence is my default setting. I’d often wished that I had a mind with a criminal bent, simply to test my demeanor against their interrogation. There’s still some time, I suppose.
After a pointless minute of this strange stare off, he clears his throat and adjusts his bony ass on the leather chair with a whisking sound that makes me flinch. Wings, silky wings and gossamer wings and broken dirty and decaying wings, beating around my face, floating my hair in a nimbus of static. I flinch and stand abruptly.
“I’m going to leave now,” I begin, holding up my hand when he makes as if to speak. “This isn’t a break up, there’s no give and take, so please just shhh.” I hadn’t brought anything up here with me and I head for the door unhindered, unencumbered. I don’t want to tell this man anymore about my dream.
As I close the door behind me I hear him start to speak. “Well, what the fuck…” The door clicks, coolness and blessed silence on the other side, finally alone, finally enough oxygen so I do not have to share my deep breath.
Down to the sidewalk, cross the street, my car barely squeaked in before a No Parking sign standing sentry of nothing but an expanse of concrete curb. I tilt my head up, let the afternoon sun beat a staccato tattoo of warmth against my eyelids, let the sweat drip down my back unheeded.
The icy breath of the dream that was not a dream, the dream that is not yet undone, gusts around me, billowing linen pant legs out like little parachutes. My eyes are open wider than they’ve ever been and still sight escapes me, the world of heat and sun, the world where my hand clamps on my door handle, an anchor for my feet, my reality.
The man had come to me while I slept. It was a good sleep, a deep sleep, the sleep where you wake in the exact same position with a little puddle of drool on your pillow because your body has given itself over completely to its own natural machinations and you wake feeling like someone slipped you a Xanax in the night. Blasphemous, to intrude on this type of sleep.
He whispered in my head. He whispered that he had things to show me, and asked did I want to see. I want to see all there is to see, and how could I not? The whispers turned into skitters that reached groping fingers and I was enveloped in the dream.
I had thought it just a dream and while the dangers of dreams are well known I had counted on my thorny and threatening roving gang of thoughts to keep me safe from intruders.
He insisted. He cajoled. Against my wishes, he delivered his messages and he showed me what he wanted to show me. He showed me all of it, the end of it. The end of me. And there isn’t enough time. There isn’t enough me.
For this weeks Master Class, Professor SAM (http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com/) chose Tara to head up our class because she wrote a piece about a father taking justice into his own hands that delivered a punch to the gut (http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com/2013/04/12/a-fathers-right/). Tara chose Christopher Moore’s Lamb for her prompt this week:
That’s all I remember.