Chapter 2

2

She wakes me with her breathing, heavy and metered. She stirs...her eyes flutter. Lost in deep sleep she is dreaming, but not of me. It is too romantic to allow the notion that we dream of those lying next to us. No one is that happy with his or her current situation.

For example, last night we made love twice before cuddling into each other, preparing our bodies for sleep, yet my thoughts while dreaming were focused on the abstract. I was swimming in the ocean alone, the sea itself warm and serene. The sand on the beach, combed by the surf, was untouched by human hands. No footprints or sandcastles...only one distant house, withered with age, faded by neglect.

I begin to swim toward the shore, but, after several strokes in the same direction, the shore falls further and further away. I paddle a bit more until the shore is completely out of view. Good. Better to accelerate the inevitable than prolong it. Now I am all alone at sea, bobbing like a buoy with the waves gently falling upon my shoulders.

The sky begins to gray. Dark ominous clouds surround me and the breeze begins to pick up considerably. I am being pushed into the growing waves, doused by spray, covered in salt. There is no hope for me now. I will succumb to the surf eventually; the sea will swallow me whole.

My arms grow weak, my body temperature drops with the atmosphere's. I stare into the sky, imagining what lies beyond the cumulous. Will heaven or hell await? In mere seconds I will know for sure.

My head submerges and then surfaces again, bobbing like a buoy with the waves thunderously crashing upon my shoulders. The sky opens up, briefly revealing a giant red orb of a sun. Not the Earth's sun, but some sun, staring down at me, mocking its loftiness.

In the distance a funnel descends from the clouds. My imagination conjures Dorothy, Toto, Kansas and ruby slippers. I smile at the notion that my savior is heading towards me. I gurgle and spit the tossing waves.

And then I wake. The savior in the dream never arrives, yet I never seem to drown. The dream could have carried on for days and I would never receive the fate that awaits. My mouth tastes of salt, my toes are numb with fear. Still, I hear her breathing, heavy and metered like that of a ticking clock or dripping faucet.

She doesn't dream of me. Life is never that romantic. She dreams of dancing.