It Comes And It Goes
It is in my dream, some time ago, when we are meeting in the lobby of a hotel I cannot remember. I am well dressed in a suit, like something out of a James Bond film, sitting in a chair with sunglasses and a brow that is creased, looking about, waiting for something, but nothing in particular. And then I see what I am meant to see, meant to meet: you, walking through a revolving door and in heels. Cover page photo shoot. What is this nonsense?
“What’s good?” I say, taking you by the shoulder, closing the gap.
“Same old story, Bub,” you say, and with a kiss to the cheek.
“Let’s go this way.”
We’re walking out the back, some backdoor that happens to be there. The street bustles and I think for a second about ant colonies. You’re taking my arm, for whatever reason, because in this dream I am not built to understand this relationship. Or, rather, I knew it once, so maybe we’re in the future now and I’m not so sure. We step side to side, passing this person and that, light footed and with some purpose.
We come to a bridge. It’s a movie scene.
“This is cliché,” you say. “Why did we stop?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” The wind turns up a gust and your hair whips about your face. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
We’re walking again, in this dream, down some street somewhere, some place with history, a foreign country, maybe, but I wouldn’t know. I only know things I see on a screen. Again, we stop. This time we’re back at the lobby, in a hotel, the place we started. Some big circle. But now we’re in the bar, in the corner. It’s lit fine enough. You’re smoking.
“Do you mind?” I say, reaching for one of yours.
“Not at all.”
It goes on like this for a time, just us there, sitting in the half-lit room. Music is playing but I don’t know what. Something or other jazzy-like tune probably. But it’s irrelevant. I’m looking at you. You’re looking at me. I say, “I’m over this. I’m tired. I’m spent. I’m over it.”
“Over what?”
“This game.”
“What game?”
“Not with you. With these girls.”
“I’m not following, bub.”
“They’re not…well, are you honestly going to make me say it?”
“I’m not making you say anything.”
I sigh. Then I’m ordering a drink, or rather, I already have one. It’s there now. I don’t question it.
“Look,” I’m saying, “I’m just tired of this, is all. You catch my meaning, no?”
“I think so.”
“So?”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. But you should know-”
“I get it. You don’t have to say it.”
“Good.”
We sit there, still staring, still drifting. I am feeling the end coming, the end of the dream. I’m thinking of standing, of getting up and walking out of this bar, out into the lobby and on through the door and to the street. I don’t. I stand up.
“Well, what do you say? Care to dance?”
“Sure.”
I’m leading you to an open space, somewhere close to the stage but a shade to the left. By the shoulder again I’m taking you, pulling you close. “I’m not much of a dancer,” I whisper.
“I know,” you say. And just as I’m waking, into my ear, soft and warm, you say, “don’t worry. Just let me lead us.”
