Archive-name: Dreams/halflife.txt

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: Halflife of Dreams, The





   In the smooth blue mist of the night, a figure is dimly

visible in the distance.  As the shapes and sensations of barely

recognizable events drift past he pursues the figure, or he

thinks he does.  The pace of the shifting memories quickens, but

he will not be daunted, he feels passionately driven to fix the

vision of the figure before, before...  It seems to be getting

closer now, a woman with raven black hair.  As the distant figure

gathers out of the mist, others appear as well.  One of the

shapes edges towards him.



   At work, and his hands seem glued to the keytops of the

computer console.  One report after another flows from mind to

hand to screen to paper, they come and go so quickly that he can

hardly even remember what he's writing.  But he doesn't really

care, as his focus shifts to the small square of the cursor

blinking patiently, it always scoots to the right just in time to

avoid being trampled by yet another letter pursuing it's own

journey from mind to paper.  In the pulsing of the little square

he fancies he sees her.  Who?  But she's gone again, just a

fleeting tickle in the back of his mind, enough to stir him back

to the task at hand.



   Some more coffee just may banish this nagging vision long

enough to finish these reports.  As he picks up his mug and heads

to the other room for a refill the monitor blinks out, in seeming

approval.  Why don't they just let me DO what I do best, instead

of always writing these infernal reports about it.



   He walks the path to the coffee machine without the slightest

regard for his surroundings, completely preoccupied with his

thoughts.  Perhaps it's time for a change of jobs, or ... Yes, a

vacation.  



   The images cascade freely out as if they were themselves a

wave crashing upon the sand that courses between his feet.  The

sand crabs edge by skidishly as they forage for the tidbits that

float in the brine.  The coast is a wonderful place to loose it

all, always touching some primal place in his soul.  A day could

be as simple as a swim and a read, or stretch out to include

sumptuous dinning and lively conversation.



   The smell of the coffee snaps him back. The sand crabs return

to a darkened recess of his mind where they continue their

business undisturbed, until called upon once again to dance

across the playing field of his mind.  He takes a sip of the warm

coffee as he starts back to his office, stepping nimbly aside as

the commuter train whisks by toward Oak Park.



   If I catch the 10:18 I'll get to O'Hare by 11.  He still

hadn't checked to see whether the secretary had pre-booked the

seat or not, but either way he'd have enough time.  He places his

coat over the back of the seat and once again removes the plastic

cover from his coffee, still hoping that by the time he finished

the cup it would clear his mind of the remaining wounds from the

previous night's drinking.



   As he surveys the faces of his fellow passengers he feels a

sense of consolation as many of them slowly nurse a cup of joe,

or gaze out through dark sunglasses, in spite of the gray

overcast that obscures the sky, from the lake well into the west. 

He settles for a lazy view out the window, as the scenery bounces

by.



   In the distance, down a broad alley, he sees the Blue Moon,

the dance hall where he had often drank as a teenager.  This is

where he played his first game of pool, learned to polka and slam

dance, even bought his first condom, from the machine in the mens

room.



   Sheila was older than he was, but after much prodding from

Tom, the bartender whom he'd known since he was a kid, and some

number of vodka-tonics, he finally makes his move.  He plunks a

couple of quarters into the jukebox and picks out a few songs. 

First a song a little slower than whatever is playing, anything

would prove a welcome respite to the incessant Barry Manilow and

Bee-Gees, then a classic show tune, and then the polkas.



   Wednesday nights are his favorites, the crowd is a good mix of

young and old.  The working stiffs are tired, and will leave at

the slightest provocation once the clock gets past ten-thirty -

his song selection providing that impetus.  The older folks, his

real friends, were in no hurry, they lived for their polkas,

bingo and gin.  Those that remained were either other kids like

himself, the invisible hangers-on that slipped in and out of

society as it suit them, or else people with a need - a shoulder

to cry on, a drink to lean on, or a body to press against in the

night, to wash away whatever chains of shame or loneliness or

guilt bind them into that closed box of urban night life.



   She's in this last group, he's sure.  He slowly winds his way

over to her, dodging the remaining pool players and dart boards

as he approaches her table near the dance floor.  Sheila

nervously pushes about the butts in her ashtray with her

smoldering Salem, hoping that the recent exodus of people from

the bar won't mean another night ending at bar time, with her

barely sober enough to make the drive home.  She's brushing her

long black hair from in front of her face as he makes it to the

table.



   He asks her if she wants to dance.  She's a bit apprehensive

at first, this lanky kid in the shark skin suit isn't exactly her

type, but the very idea of being asked to dance a polka by anyone

younger than thirty peeks her interest.  As soon as they hit the

floor he's on automatic pilot.  Ol' Frankie had taught him well,

he knew that.  There's barely a soul on this side of town who can

polka like he can, and before long she's caught up in the energy

and excitement of the dance.  The old timers give him plenty of

room on the floor, he's their boy, as they keep dropping quarters

into the record machine.



   By the time the music stops they're laughing and giggling as

they applaud their own performance.  For the first time since

seeing her from the bar he sizes her up on the way back to her

table.  Her black hair flies out in a wild spray from her head,

with curls so chaotic that they had to be real.  The sweat from

the dancing outlines her breasts perfectly in the now nearly

transparent fabric of the danskin she wears.  An ankle length

denim skirt, cut to hug from waist to hip, and habatchi sandals

complete the outfit that marks her as someone not given to the

trend of the moment.



   He drops into the empty seat, already envisioning her body

riding up and down on him with the same careless energy and

rampant lust for excitement that she displayed on the dance

floor, when she surprises him with the question.  She is still

standing, one hand on the back of her chair the other on her out

thrust hip, as she asks simply, "Do you want to come over to my

place, I've got a dance I'd love to teach you."



   The night turns into one long delirious orgasm, neither of

them noticing the sun's tentative arrival in the eastern sky.  He

buries his face between her legs, wanting, for once, to give a

woman the greatest pleasure he can, rather than just satisfying

some inner feeling that this is what she expects.  As he tastes

the saltiness of her musk he feels driven from deep inside,

eliciting shrieks and moans from her without a single thought for

what he is doing.  He hardly even feels his own erection bouncing

against her leg as he focuses on, even feels, her excitement

building.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that

what he'd been doing up until now was having sex, this is making

love.



   With a deep guttural moan she pushes him back, and then pulls

him up to face her.  As he props himself up on his hands, she

grasps his erection with one hand, spreading her lips with the

other, pulling him into her.  He is amazed at his own passiveness

in all of this, he is drawn along, his every motion directed by

some other mind.  With every thrust they stare into each other's

eyes, a tantric lust passing between them far surpassing any

single sensation he has felt before.



   For awhile her ear or shoulder or knee becomes a point of

focus for him.  He has not a single thought other than to consume

her, or feel her.  She rubs his chest and nipples with one hand

while slowly, gently consuming him.  Slowly drawing him into her

mouth and then tickling him with her tongue while pulling away.  He finds even

more arousal in watching her movements, her lips on

him, the clarity in her face, her breast sliding up and down

along his thigh, than in the sensations coming from his groin.



   Then she rises, half silhouetted in the breaking dawn, and

mounts him.  There's no question but that she is in control,

although he senses from the look in her eyes that she too is

being lead by some deeper spirit.  As she rides him up and down

he remembers his impression from earlier in the night, as he

imagined the diaphanous fabric of her danskin melting away and

her skirt falling in threads as she humped him wildly.



   But now it was not wild.  Last night seems so far away - he,

in his shark skin suit, out for a piece of ass, and she, another

lonely drinker praying that the night would soon end, even though

a lifetime of them lay on the horizon.  As he felt yet another

orgasm building he looks up to her eyes.  Her face is cast in the

mold of Aphrodite, eyes closed and a mouth without a smile

displaying the most sublime pleasure.  They move together toward

the precipice.



   "Would you like some more tea?", his mother asks.  He wheels

around, profoundly embarrassed at the sound of her voice.  Even

as he realizes the absurdity of her presence here in Sheila's

apartment the world starts do slip away.  "Mom!  What are you

doing here?" barely makes it's way out of his mouth than he

starts to sense the room around him, and the sound of the morning

traffic report blaring through the tinny speaker of the clock

radio.  With a swing befitting a Golden Gloves boxer fighting for

his right to the belt he smacks the snooze button and rolls over.



   Closing his eyes he starts to plunge deep into his mind

fighting against time to catch the remaining vestiges of the

image.  Racing against the clock, and the diminishing halflife of

dreams.



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