Through the night, she dreams dainty dreams. She dreams of some other, not the one next to her. Such is the fate of her choosing, yet she does not have a say in who will own her night, tonight. Eyes wide shut, the mind sheds inhibitions, dreams betraying secrets too shameful to admit to in broad daylight. Conventions unbound, possibilities endless, she dreams of other faces, in familiar/new places, exploring the hidden spaces where iron will and desire so often tangle under the bedsheets.
Why is resistance always so conspicuous by its absence?
She’s both the observer and the lead actress, picking out every sultry detail, then acting it out. It remains a dream, but her pulse is racing. The butterflies in her stomach are all too alive. The soft skin yielding under the touch of strong hands feels exactly the same as on the other side of dawn-break. Funny, how the details feel so vivid, yet mere moments later she’s moved on, to a different titillating vignette.
Perhaps the details stand out precisely because they contrast with the drab reality of day so starkly?
Sometimes, when she’s gone under, a preternatural fear claims her. As if this was all the making of someone else, a master puppeteer. The charming devil, playing cat-and-mouse games with her defenses. Yes, that must be it, like in the stories of yore, where forbidden dreams were the dark work of the incubus who had invited himself to her bedroom, and lay on her breast, the seducer, while she dreamed out her fantasies. This must be the work of someone else. Her mind wouldn’t dare come up with any of this. Repeatedly.
Stop-and-start, the night is, the dreams liquid silver, spilling through fingers, over too fast. Yes, she knows this is only a spell weaved by the night, ephemeral, not destined to last. Everything will settle back to its normal groove. Her eyes blink open, again, frustratingly, meeting darkness and she turns to her alarm clock. 3:17 am. She looks to her side with sleep-glued eyes. The others will become the one, again. The one who snores. She sighs softly as she sinks back into her pillow. Feeling robbed of a denouement. Vaguely remembering she was dreaming something pleasant, that she was right on the cusp. The dream does not resume where it left off.
That is the way of dreams, of course.
It’s wishful thinking, to remember, and she knows it by now. The memory of the night just passed will last only until the aroma of the first-morning coffee assails her nose. After the first sip, there’s no time for dreams.
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