I was telling you about that apocalypse dream I had. Do you remember? The one where everybody from work got blown up by a bomb- everybody but you and me. You were smiling with your sea-moss eyes and paying close attention to every word I said. You seemed to like the way I used my hands to portray how huge the explosion was and you laughed when I threw in sound effects.
You told me I have the craziest dreams of anyone you know, and I should write them down in some sort of dream diary and take it to a psychiatrist to be analyzed. I tried to tell you about the blog, but for some reason, I stopped short of telling you how to find it, because I remembered what had been written there.
The goblins giggled as they passed us by on their makeshift raft made of a refrigerator door. They teased us with a childish playground song about k-i-s-s-i-n-g. You stuck out your stick to push the annoying little bastards further away. One of them grabbed it and tried to take it from you, but you were prepared for that kind of devilry from them. Two smacks to the head, and that goblin was mermaid food. I never imagined that goblins can't swim, although I seem to recall some rule about not getting them wet. Or maybe that's gremlins.
Satisfied, you nested the stick into the special crevice you'd made for it and asked me to tell you another dream.
.
.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Other people's dreams
I fell into somebody else's dream last night- a man with two wives, one white, one black. He'd kept them secret from one another, but one had discovered his deceit.
The white wife, who'd always demanded the best of everything from him, followed him to his other house and discovered that he'd been keeping another wife with two sons in a small, dingy, inner-city, two bedroom house with only one wall heater and no curtains.
The black wife was beautiful and loved her husband and sons very much. She struggled at a job waiting tables and gazed out her windows when her husband was away.
The white wife saw her husband enter this strange woman's home with a smile on his face and arms open wide to embrace his family. Oddly, this had no effect on her. She spotted the bare carpet, worn down by time; she noted exactly four presents under the Christmas tree; she crinkled her nose at the tuna casserole on the kitchen table.
She backed away slowly, ignoring the laughter of the children, returned to her Audi and drove home to her mansion. Once there, she instructed the cook to prepare a four course meal, complete with dessert.
Her husband would no doubt be very hungry for some real food when he got home.
The white wife, who'd always demanded the best of everything from him, followed him to his other house and discovered that he'd been keeping another wife with two sons in a small, dingy, inner-city, two bedroom house with only one wall heater and no curtains.
The black wife was beautiful and loved her husband and sons very much. She struggled at a job waiting tables and gazed out her windows when her husband was away.
The white wife saw her husband enter this strange woman's home with a smile on his face and arms open wide to embrace his family. Oddly, this had no effect on her. She spotted the bare carpet, worn down by time; she noted exactly four presents under the Christmas tree; she crinkled her nose at the tuna casserole on the kitchen table.
She backed away slowly, ignoring the laughter of the children, returned to her Audi and drove home to her mansion. Once there, she instructed the cook to prepare a four course meal, complete with dessert.
Her husband would no doubt be very hungry for some real food when he got home.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Determination
Somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear my grandmother's voice shouting out, "You'll fry your balls off!"
I didn't have any balls to speak of, but she said it with such determination, I understood that if I continued with my pursuit, vital parts of my body might become seriously maimed.
This seemed to be of no consequence to me. I needed to get to the other side of that chain-linked fence. I was making good progress, despite the barbed wire curled into the top and the electric wire that ran right through it. This was not a fence designed to keep anything in. No hardened criminals prowled the perimeter searching for weaknesses in the construction. No gun-wielding, sharp-shooting guards were placed strategically in corner towers. This was a fence whose purpose was to keep everything in the world out. Mainly me, I supposed.
My aim was dead on. It took me a long time to figure out how to use the neighboring tree limbs to my advantage, but eventually, I was able to climb up high enough that gravity and a little bit of luck set me down in the middle of the old lady's back yard. I lit on the flat top of the tree stump in the middle of the yard. My toes curled over the edges, as if peeking down and taunting the broken shards of glass that covered the barren ground. I curled my self into a ball and braced for the attack of whatever snarling creature lurked in the shadows. No such thing happened, but I wasn't about to tease the poor thing. I opened one eye and scanned my surroundings.
The creature lay in the corner of the yard in a massive heap of matted black tangles. I knew it would be there. I'd seen it before, from the other side. Although I watched it steadily for what seemed like an hour, I detected no movement of fur, no rise and fall of steady breathing, no quiet grumblings of dreams it might be having. Several possibilities crossed my mind. It could be lying in wait for me to make a move, ready to pounce the moment I stepped off the tree trunk. Or it could have already eaten for the day and wasn't interested in an afternoon snack. Or it was dead from starvation.
I know it's hateful, but I was hoping for Option Three.
After the initial wave of paralyzing fear dissipated from my body, I was able to slowly uncurl myself and stand upright, hands on my hips, chest thrust forward. I'm not sure who I was trying to convince of my fearlessness, the creature or myself. I should have worn a cape. All the best superheroes had them.
But even with a cape, I couldn't fly like a superhero. I was left to my own devices to figure out how to get from this stump to the back door of the house. (Something you may not know about me: I had a lot brothers growing up, so I was a Boy Scout.) I came prepared.
I'd fashioned a sturdy wooden dowel with a metal hook embedded in the end, and I used it to reach out and grab the electrified clothesline that ran the length of the yard. There was no time to speculate whether or not you could actually use that clothesline to hang your clothes. I wasn't able to stop and snicker at the idea of a whole load of crispy undies waving in the breeze. I hooked my big stick onto the line, gave a little jump and I was whizzing off toward the screen door to the mudroom of my grandma's house. The glass shards beneath my feet seemed to come alive as I passed over them, undulating in perfect rhythm, reaching up for my bare toes and all parts connected to them. I'm sure I could identify the unique color of dried blood encrusted on the edges of those razor sharp pieces. I slammed into the screen door, and from the corner of my eye, I saw a bulky black blur rushing toward me. Its snarling was loud enough to vibrate my entire body.
I guess it had been Option One after all.
No worries. I was in the door, and I shut it in his face just as he reached me. The handy 2"x6" nested into its brackets just as the beast was throwing itself into the door, determined to have his meal. I watched and waited for the thumps to subside. The deafening snarls eventually faded away.
"You're late," Aunt Mary accused me. I turned to see her standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking down at me with a glint in her eye.
"And you're dead," I reminded her. She threw back her head and laughed at me. We hugged and sat down around the kitchen table with the others.
Somebody handed me a beer, and Aunt Mary dealt me in.
.
.
I didn't have any balls to speak of, but she said it with such determination, I understood that if I continued with my pursuit, vital parts of my body might become seriously maimed.
This seemed to be of no consequence to me. I needed to get to the other side of that chain-linked fence. I was making good progress, despite the barbed wire curled into the top and the electric wire that ran right through it. This was not a fence designed to keep anything in. No hardened criminals prowled the perimeter searching for weaknesses in the construction. No gun-wielding, sharp-shooting guards were placed strategically in corner towers. This was a fence whose purpose was to keep everything in the world out. Mainly me, I supposed.
My aim was dead on. It took me a long time to figure out how to use the neighboring tree limbs to my advantage, but eventually, I was able to climb up high enough that gravity and a little bit of luck set me down in the middle of the old lady's back yard. I lit on the flat top of the tree stump in the middle of the yard. My toes curled over the edges, as if peeking down and taunting the broken shards of glass that covered the barren ground. I curled my self into a ball and braced for the attack of whatever snarling creature lurked in the shadows. No such thing happened, but I wasn't about to tease the poor thing. I opened one eye and scanned my surroundings.
The creature lay in the corner of the yard in a massive heap of matted black tangles. I knew it would be there. I'd seen it before, from the other side. Although I watched it steadily for what seemed like an hour, I detected no movement of fur, no rise and fall of steady breathing, no quiet grumblings of dreams it might be having. Several possibilities crossed my mind. It could be lying in wait for me to make a move, ready to pounce the moment I stepped off the tree trunk. Or it could have already eaten for the day and wasn't interested in an afternoon snack. Or it was dead from starvation.
I know it's hateful, but I was hoping for Option Three.
After the initial wave of paralyzing fear dissipated from my body, I was able to slowly uncurl myself and stand upright, hands on my hips, chest thrust forward. I'm not sure who I was trying to convince of my fearlessness, the creature or myself. I should have worn a cape. All the best superheroes had them.
But even with a cape, I couldn't fly like a superhero. I was left to my own devices to figure out how to get from this stump to the back door of the house. (Something you may not know about me: I had a lot brothers growing up, so I was a Boy Scout.) I came prepared.
I'd fashioned a sturdy wooden dowel with a metal hook embedded in the end, and I used it to reach out and grab the electrified clothesline that ran the length of the yard. There was no time to speculate whether or not you could actually use that clothesline to hang your clothes. I wasn't able to stop and snicker at the idea of a whole load of crispy undies waving in the breeze. I hooked my big stick onto the line, gave a little jump and I was whizzing off toward the screen door to the mudroom of my grandma's house. The glass shards beneath my feet seemed to come alive as I passed over them, undulating in perfect rhythm, reaching up for my bare toes and all parts connected to them. I'm sure I could identify the unique color of dried blood encrusted on the edges of those razor sharp pieces. I slammed into the screen door, and from the corner of my eye, I saw a bulky black blur rushing toward me. Its snarling was loud enough to vibrate my entire body.
I guess it had been Option One after all.
No worries. I was in the door, and I shut it in his face just as he reached me. The handy 2"x6" nested into its brackets just as the beast was throwing itself into the door, determined to have his meal. I watched and waited for the thumps to subside. The deafening snarls eventually faded away.
"You're late," Aunt Mary accused me. I turned to see her standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking down at me with a glint in her eye.
"And you're dead," I reminded her. She threw back her head and laughed at me. We hugged and sat down around the kitchen table with the others.
Somebody handed me a beer, and Aunt Mary dealt me in.
.
.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Mood Swings
My first get-together at the new place on a warm night with a light breeze. A few friends from work and a few friends from out of town. We were all having a good time sitting in a circle in the garage with the overhead door open so we could enjoy the beautiful weather. Some edgy, raw music played in the background in contrast with our unified laid-back mood. Each guest had his favorite drink in hand.
Bubbles floated by, and we realized that as they popped the music became louder. We made a game of this, reaching up and popping as many as we could. Amanda used the cherry on her cigarette to stab them. When she did this, the song changed, and then the mood changed.
Something was wrong.
My guests started to hustle about and crowd around the edge of the garage, looking at something out in the neighborhood. I pushed through them. Bryan grabbed my arm to hold me back. His black eyes met mine with a fear, not of the scene he saw, but for my reaction to it. I pulled away from him, now desperate to see what had caught everyone's attention.
A freezing gust of wind shot through the garage and we pulled our heavy coats around us. About two inches of snow blanketed the ground, giving the neighborhood a false sense of peace. The world was dark and silent. I stepped into the snow, and then I was alone.
My house was gone. My friends were gone. There had never been a party. There had never been music or bubbles.
There was nothing but snow and silence.
Until I heard the gurgle. A familiar sound that I couldn't quite place, but soon enough I saw the man unconscious in the snow. The crunch of my shoes in the hardened snow echoed in my ears like the beat of my heart as I approached him.
I fell to my knees, distraught at the condition of my son. Blood pooled into the ice around him. Steam rose like fog, obscuring us from the rest of the world. A bestial, guttural roar ripped through the air, and a moment went by before I realized that the sound had come from somewhere deep within me.
My son lay lifeless on a freezing blanket of ice. When I scooped him into my arms, his pieces fell away. Somebody had chopped him up and now his arms and legs were rolling away like discarded shoes and socks. I grabbed at them and tried to put him back together in my arms. He could be fixed if we acted quickly enough, if I could scoop all the blood back into him fast enough, everything would be okay. Blue steam shot from his mouth, and one last gurgle rose from his throat. All the life escaped him then, but there was no convincing me.
I woke in the warm darkness of my bedroom, scooping the blankets toward me, scooping the blood that wasn't there, grasping at air where my son's lifeless body had been.
.
.
.
Bubbles floated by, and we realized that as they popped the music became louder. We made a game of this, reaching up and popping as many as we could. Amanda used the cherry on her cigarette to stab them. When she did this, the song changed, and then the mood changed.
Something was wrong.
My guests started to hustle about and crowd around the edge of the garage, looking at something out in the neighborhood. I pushed through them. Bryan grabbed my arm to hold me back. His black eyes met mine with a fear, not of the scene he saw, but for my reaction to it. I pulled away from him, now desperate to see what had caught everyone's attention.
A freezing gust of wind shot through the garage and we pulled our heavy coats around us. About two inches of snow blanketed the ground, giving the neighborhood a false sense of peace. The world was dark and silent. I stepped into the snow, and then I was alone.
My house was gone. My friends were gone. There had never been a party. There had never been music or bubbles.
There was nothing but snow and silence.
Until I heard the gurgle. A familiar sound that I couldn't quite place, but soon enough I saw the man unconscious in the snow. The crunch of my shoes in the hardened snow echoed in my ears like the beat of my heart as I approached him.
I fell to my knees, distraught at the condition of my son. Blood pooled into the ice around him. Steam rose like fog, obscuring us from the rest of the world. A bestial, guttural roar ripped through the air, and a moment went by before I realized that the sound had come from somewhere deep within me.
My son lay lifeless on a freezing blanket of ice. When I scooped him into my arms, his pieces fell away. Somebody had chopped him up and now his arms and legs were rolling away like discarded shoes and socks. I grabbed at them and tried to put him back together in my arms. He could be fixed if we acted quickly enough, if I could scoop all the blood back into him fast enough, everything would be okay. Blue steam shot from his mouth, and one last gurgle rose from his throat. All the life escaped him then, but there was no convincing me.
I woke in the warm darkness of my bedroom, scooping the blankets toward me, scooping the blood that wasn't there, grasping at air where my son's lifeless body had been.
.
.
.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Out There
Blind.
That's what I was, and I was thankful that I'd practiced being blind as a child...just in case.
But this, this was not the same as toe-ing my way across my safe bedroom, bumping into soft, upholstered furniture, giggling at my own awkwardness.
I crawled sightlessly across a strange, cold, cement floor on my stomach. The coppery, pungent smell of thick blood filled my nostrils, and I realized that the blood was mine. There was little pain at this point. I'm not sure if that's because I wasn't hurt as badly as I made myself out to be, or because my subconscious was repressing the pain in an effort to keep me sane enough to escape this increasingly perilous situation.
Somebody had done something bad to me, and now that it was over and the Bad One had gone away, it was time to find my way back home. Blindly.
My fingertips traced the cracks in the floor. I pushed into them, using them for leverage to pull my weak and damaged body along. The slipperiness of the warm blood helped me to slide myself more hastily.
I had no idea where the exit was. A welcoming waft of air blew past me. I turned my face into it and smelled the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked blueberry muffins.
Mom.
Home.
Safety.
I followed. I grunted as I scooted, scaring myself by not crying. Surely I should be crying. How inhuman could I be that I didn't think this was worth a few sobs?
Fuck it, I thought. I'll cry later when I'm safe at home with my mom and a basket full of muffins.
But that couldn't happen either. Mom was already gone. Much more gone than I was at that point, and I almost cried at the memory of that, but stifled it when I remembered that I was wasting time thinking about this nonsense. I should have been concentrating on getting the hell out of there.
A wall. I bumped into it and felt along the bottom, struggling to reach a doorway. It seemed to take a very long time, but the closer I came, the louder the low hum of an air conditioner became. I don't know why I didn't notice that before. I could have used it as a guide.
I think I was in a garage. I began to notice the stench of my father, like motor oil and cigarettes swirling in my head. This made sense to me, because he had been a mechanic all the years I lived with him growing up. Nowadays, he's a truck driver, and I have no idea what he smells like.
Irrelevant!
The passageway was there. I felt along the bottom where the door meets the threshold, and I pulled myself up by grabbing the knob and hoisting my body against the wall. I was heavier and weaker than I had ever been. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk after this. Just my luck to be blind and crippled in one little outing. This is why I should never have left the house. These are the kinds of things that happen out there.
The light spilled over me like pink, silk ribbons.
Mom.
Home.
Safety.
That's what I was, and I was thankful that I'd practiced being blind as a child...just in case.
But this, this was not the same as toe-ing my way across my safe bedroom, bumping into soft, upholstered furniture, giggling at my own awkwardness.
I crawled sightlessly across a strange, cold, cement floor on my stomach. The coppery, pungent smell of thick blood filled my nostrils, and I realized that the blood was mine. There was little pain at this point. I'm not sure if that's because I wasn't hurt as badly as I made myself out to be, or because my subconscious was repressing the pain in an effort to keep me sane enough to escape this increasingly perilous situation.
Somebody had done something bad to me, and now that it was over and the Bad One had gone away, it was time to find my way back home. Blindly.
My fingertips traced the cracks in the floor. I pushed into them, using them for leverage to pull my weak and damaged body along. The slipperiness of the warm blood helped me to slide myself more hastily.
I had no idea where the exit was. A welcoming waft of air blew past me. I turned my face into it and smelled the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked blueberry muffins.
Mom.
Home.
Safety.
I followed. I grunted as I scooted, scaring myself by not crying. Surely I should be crying. How inhuman could I be that I didn't think this was worth a few sobs?
Fuck it, I thought. I'll cry later when I'm safe at home with my mom and a basket full of muffins.
But that couldn't happen either. Mom was already gone. Much more gone than I was at that point, and I almost cried at the memory of that, but stifled it when I remembered that I was wasting time thinking about this nonsense. I should have been concentrating on getting the hell out of there.
A wall. I bumped into it and felt along the bottom, struggling to reach a doorway. It seemed to take a very long time, but the closer I came, the louder the low hum of an air conditioner became. I don't know why I didn't notice that before. I could have used it as a guide.
I think I was in a garage. I began to notice the stench of my father, like motor oil and cigarettes swirling in my head. This made sense to me, because he had been a mechanic all the years I lived with him growing up. Nowadays, he's a truck driver, and I have no idea what he smells like.
Irrelevant!
The passageway was there. I felt along the bottom where the door meets the threshold, and I pulled myself up by grabbing the knob and hoisting my body against the wall. I was heavier and weaker than I had ever been. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk after this. Just my luck to be blind and crippled in one little outing. This is why I should never have left the house. These are the kinds of things that happen out there.
The light spilled over me like pink, silk ribbons.
Mom.
Home.
Safety.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Two Lost Souls
The world was ending.
Well, I think I'll rephrase that.
Our world was ending; the world as we knew it was coming to a violent and abrupt cessation. The population had already gone violent, and the ocean levels had begun to rise. The sirens had long been silenced by an angry mob of looters, rapists or killers. No humans were expected to survive.
Sadly, there were no zombies.
I've always wondered what the end of civilization would be like. What could have caused it? A T-virus? Global warming? Unfortunate planetary alignment? The Bomb?
And how would I react to the knowledge that these were the last days? What would I do? Who would I call? Would there be tears? Would I suddenly develop certain conviction in my so-called faith? Would I repent and pray?
Of course not.
I spent it cuddled up on a couch with that green-eyed, prank-playing, cigarette smoking hero who's been the star of too many of my dreams lately. If he ever bothered to read this, he'd recognize himself in a heartbeat, and probably think I'd become some kind of obsessed stalker, but he'd be wrong. My subconscious picks him because he's safe. My subconscious understands that I'm afraid of commitment, and he's afraid of commitment, so he's been listed permanently under the "Fantasy Only" column. Safe. No commitment- no heartache. Safe.
Yet, there we were, doing the crossword together in the middle of the swirling ocean, floating past pieces of debris that used to be structured buildings and vehicles that we once called part of daily life. I knew it was crazy to be doing that thing with that person, even as I dreamed it, but it didn't keep me from enjoying the situation.
"Twelve down, a dead person, five letters, second letter O."
"Goner," I said, and laughed. and then he laughed too, because were were pretty much all goners at that point.
"You're so sexy when you do that," he said, and I pulled back a little to look him square in the eye. He's never said anything like that to me. He never gave me any indication that he thought I was attractive at all. He was supposed to be safe. Calling me sexy was not safe.
"What is wrong with you?" I asked him.
"I'm trying to flirt with you." He grimaced.
"We are sitting on a tipsy couch floating in the middle of a trash-filled, turbulent ocean with an undetermined amount of time left on this disintegrating planet, and NOW you want to try and flirt with me? Where are your priorities?"
"I must not be very good at it. I've been flirting with you all along. You just never noticed."
I wasn't horrified by his confession, but I was dumbfounded. Had I really dismissed him so easily? Have I been moving through life blind to his affections? As I turned back to my crossword to think more about it, he wrapped a strong arm around my shoulder and kissed my temple. We floated along, content with the warmth of each other.
"The brownies are done," he told me. And then I woke up. The kitchen timer was beeping.
Thank goodness. It was just a dream after all. Of course it was just a dream, I knew that, silly me. He hadn't actually been flirting with me.
I'm still safe.
Well, I think I'll rephrase that.
Our world was ending; the world as we knew it was coming to a violent and abrupt cessation. The population had already gone violent, and the ocean levels had begun to rise. The sirens had long been silenced by an angry mob of looters, rapists or killers. No humans were expected to survive.
Sadly, there were no zombies.
I've always wondered what the end of civilization would be like. What could have caused it? A T-virus? Global warming? Unfortunate planetary alignment? The Bomb?
And how would I react to the knowledge that these were the last days? What would I do? Who would I call? Would there be tears? Would I suddenly develop certain conviction in my so-called faith? Would I repent and pray?
Of course not.
I spent it cuddled up on a couch with that green-eyed, prank-playing, cigarette smoking hero who's been the star of too many of my dreams lately. If he ever bothered to read this, he'd recognize himself in a heartbeat, and probably think I'd become some kind of obsessed stalker, but he'd be wrong. My subconscious picks him because he's safe. My subconscious understands that I'm afraid of commitment, and he's afraid of commitment, so he's been listed permanently under the "Fantasy Only" column. Safe. No commitment- no heartache. Safe.
Yet, there we were, doing the crossword together in the middle of the swirling ocean, floating past pieces of debris that used to be structured buildings and vehicles that we once called part of daily life. I knew it was crazy to be doing that thing with that person, even as I dreamed it, but it didn't keep me from enjoying the situation.
"Twelve down, a dead person, five letters, second letter O."
"Goner," I said, and laughed. and then he laughed too, because were were pretty much all goners at that point.
"You're so sexy when you do that," he said, and I pulled back a little to look him square in the eye. He's never said anything like that to me. He never gave me any indication that he thought I was attractive at all. He was supposed to be safe. Calling me sexy was not safe.
"What is wrong with you?" I asked him.
"I'm trying to flirt with you." He grimaced.
"We are sitting on a tipsy couch floating in the middle of a trash-filled, turbulent ocean with an undetermined amount of time left on this disintegrating planet, and NOW you want to try and flirt with me? Where are your priorities?"
"I must not be very good at it. I've been flirting with you all along. You just never noticed."
I wasn't horrified by his confession, but I was dumbfounded. Had I really dismissed him so easily? Have I been moving through life blind to his affections? As I turned back to my crossword to think more about it, he wrapped a strong arm around my shoulder and kissed my temple. We floated along, content with the warmth of each other.
"The brownies are done," he told me. And then I woke up. The kitchen timer was beeping.
Thank goodness. It was just a dream after all. Of course it was just a dream, I knew that, silly me. He hadn't actually been flirting with me.
I'm still safe.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Just When I Least Expect It
I don't remember why I had that half-man, half-monster face down on a cold, concrete floor with my knee shoved into his back. I can vaguely recall some sort of wild chase, some violence and shouting. The one thing I do remember for sure was that I was scared and unsure that I would be able to handle the situation on my own. The creature had uneven, nasty, sharp teeth protruding from his face, and my hand was inches from being devoured. I knew I was going to need that hand for later. I struggled to maintain the hold I had.
I was concentrating on that when my green-eyed hero showed up to rescue me. I had dreamed of him before, but he had never done much more than keep me company.
He charged in and made quick work of the monster. I can still hear the snarling and snorting and grunting. Some from the monster, some from him. His focus was more on disposing of the creature, not on saving me, but that didn't keep me from being grateful to him and his beautiful sea moss eyes.
When it was all over, I wrapped my arms around his neck to thank him. He seemed stunned at first. He hesitated. I could feel his confusion, but it only lasted for a moment. His arms wrapped around me, not only to return the hug, but to comfort me. I could feel his face turn into my neck. I felt the quick kiss against my hair.
Then I froze.
I can count on one hand the number of times I've been comforted by a hug. It always throws me off when somebody does it simply to make me feel better. It is a kindness I do not receive often and never expect when it happens.
Even in my dream, it threw me off kilter, but at least in the dream, I was able to relax. I laid my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes and accepted the warmth.
I was concentrating on that when my green-eyed hero showed up to rescue me. I had dreamed of him before, but he had never done much more than keep me company.
He charged in and made quick work of the monster. I can still hear the snarling and snorting and grunting. Some from the monster, some from him. His focus was more on disposing of the creature, not on saving me, but that didn't keep me from being grateful to him and his beautiful sea moss eyes.
When it was all over, I wrapped my arms around his neck to thank him. He seemed stunned at first. He hesitated. I could feel his confusion, but it only lasted for a moment. His arms wrapped around me, not only to return the hug, but to comfort me. I could feel his face turn into my neck. I felt the quick kiss against my hair.
Then I froze.
I can count on one hand the number of times I've been comforted by a hug. It always throws me off when somebody does it simply to make me feel better. It is a kindness I do not receive often and never expect when it happens.
Even in my dream, it threw me off kilter, but at least in the dream, I was able to relax. I laid my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes and accepted the warmth.
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