French doors open and I come pouring out the back porch, the sun’s rays instantly embracing me with their warmth. I am euphoric, laughing with a frankness that I haven’t known in years. All my inhibitions about myself, my concerns about life, have washed off of me and it feels like I am left unclothed and unashamed, running naked and wild to declare to myself and the world: Here I am. Take me and accept what I offer to show and give or leave me alone to be. Freedom is not what I feel, but what I have become. I can see it, evident in my stride and movements. The twinkle in my eyes, the richness of my laughter, my aura.
I am running and he is running after me. Surrounding us are flowers of all sorts, bright and efflorescent, beckoning passerby to come and inhale their earthy fragrance. There are roses, lilies, sunflowers, and azaleas. Bushes of red dahlias and sumacs, red as a blush, fluffed with the touch of a painter’s brush. Lavender and blue delphiniums are scattered randomly about and peonies of various colors. Tulips aligned like majestic soldiers along the garden walls glow with similar brilliance and all around me there are other flowers as well, many of which I cannot identify, but have seen in one place or another. There are even a few trees scattered aimlessly about as if they were an afterthought by Mother Nature. When I inhale, the air is rich and redolent, all of the scents coalescing to form an intoxicating odor that reaches into me like pheromones. I am high off of it, off of everything, particularly from the excitement of being here with him.
As we run, the world becomes an iridescent blur. My black hair trails behind me like a silken scarf, my white dress is raised up to my knees, so as not to hinder the movement of my feet (the dress is beautiful and elaborately made, I still cannot understand how my imagination could have conjured such a thing) and I barely notice the perspiration forming on the surface of my skin; a light, tawny brown from exposure to the sun. Suddenly I stop, exhausted, and fall to the ground, shortly followed by him who kneels before me to rest. Our breaths come out hard and labored, but we feel good. I smile up at him and tap the ground next to me offering a spot to sit. He does, then after a moment or two of silence, together we laugh, exchanging words that are inaudible to me, but sound as if we’re talking underwater.
Within a few seconds, as if suddenly aware of how alone we are, both of us become quiet and stare at each other. Nothing is heard, but the chirping and frolicking of birds and the rustling of leaves and flowers in the soft, warm breeze. For the first time I begin to notice him: his white button down shirt, black slacks as dark as my hair, bare feet, the handsomeness and masculinity of his face softened by his kind eyes, the bareness of his arms, toned and slightly muscular, branching out of his short sleeves. My stomach twists in a not unpleasant way that surprises me.
He looks at me, in the way men notice a woman for the first time. I look back and see myself in his eyes, as if I’m staring at my reflection at the bottom of a well. In that moment a shift happens and we relinquish our denial. We both know the real reason we came here.
I reach out to tenderly stroke his face and as I do he touches my hand to encourage me, still staring intently into my eyes. Although I can’t hear, I can see myself mouth the words and as a spectator I find myself longing to actually say them. They are just three words, but words that mean the world to me.
He takes me into his arms and I reposition myself, wrapping my legs around his waist. He kisses me, first on my mouth, then on my cheeks, my chin, my neck, taking his time there, his lips wanting and tender, electric and fiery wherever they go. When his mouth comes upon my shoulder he pushes the fabric away to expose more skin, his kisses more passionate as he goes along. His hand tenderly squeezes my breasts, barely covered now with my dress. When he tries to pull the rest of the fabric down, I stop him and then swiftly lean forward to kiss him, hard and fast.
Impatience seizes both of us and we begin to move frantically. I hear only our breaths, see that our movements are quick, the wind and the birds chirping are all, but distant now. I rip off his shirt, his only top layer, to expose dark and sweaty skin. I kiss his hard chest and bite and suck on his nipples. The cool air feels so good against my hot skin, on the few areas that are uncovered, and I wish to take my dress off entirely, but I don’t. I want to tease his imagination, make him wonder what lies beneath the pure white fabric that covers my skin.
As often in dreams, time elapses suddenly and I find myself on top of him, his back flat on the green grass, almost as green as my eyes. His member is pushing up against his trousers and the feel of it makes me anxiously rip the last layer of his clothing, like a child unwrapping a gift.
Initially I want to take him between my lips, taste him in my mouth, but I decide that will come later. I’m wet, so much that I can feel myself dripping against my inner thighs, and my sex is aching to be relieved, the tension and pressure of it nearly driving me insane. I stand directly in front of him and as I do I gently, slowly lift up my dress. His eyes stare intently at my body, but the sudden slowness and emphasis of my actions grabs his attention and he turns, fascinated and curious, as the bottom half of my body gradually reveals itself. First my calves appear, my knees, then the curvature of my thighs. I am watching him watch me, he watches my body, stares at my legs, it’s as if he’s not sure which part of me to focus on. He becomes fixated as I raise my dress higher, higher, and then still higher, the full extension of my legs revealing themselves, glistening with sweat. When finally I pull the dress all the way up to my waist his eyes widen with carnal urge I’ve never seen in a man before. Underneath my clothing I am wearing nothing. When I put my finger inside of me and slowly, seductively lick the slickness off my finger like candy, I see his fists clench so tightly his knuckles whiten.
I take hold of his erect shaft, thick and warm within my fingers, and tip it straight up. I raise myself above it in such an exaggerated way as to make sure he sees this, then bring myself down on it, watching him groan and his back arch as I take him in. I grind on him until it feels like I’ll explode and dissolve, both become done and undone. I finish before him, but am eager to do more. I lift myself off of him and settle myself between his legs, on my knees. His hardness is stained with my pleasure and when I taste him I also taste myself.
I keep having this dream, over and over, each one as poignant and sharp as the one before. It is torturous yet soothing. Confusing yet relieving. Unusual and yet – beautiful. How long must I go on this way, serving him coffee every morning while he is unaware that his cashier is dreaming about him at night? Wanting him. In my heart, in my mind, I yearn to say what I said in my dream and do what I have done and it touches me and shocks me how much I want to commit to those actions. Maybe I don’t actually love him, maybe it’s the potential that fascinates me, the reason why I have fallen for him. The kindness in his eyes, the intelligence, compassion – in those few seconds that our eyes meet, are those characteristics that I imagine or are they truly there? Am I that lonely or is there truth to what I feel?
As I write this I miss him, but at the same time I’m comforted knowing that I’ll see him tomorrow morning and mornings after. Nothing is constant, the universe doesn’t quite work out that way. I know I have to do something. I know I have to do something soon.