Memory from a dream

The night was bitter, the serpentine cold biting at toes and nipping noses.  Once inside the dilapidated house with peeling red paint however, bodies sardine together; pink cheeks and alcohol tinged breath coloring the festivities.  Down a short set of steep stairs the base thumps and a flock of bodies swarms around a table; cheering on their compatriots as they down plastic cups filled with red and orange liquid. 

I alone am dancing, feeling the pulse of the darkness seep into my bones.  There you are, dark hair falling into your eyes.  I have never noticed the way your hair crinkles in the front before.  Charmant.  I know you feel me here.  I know that you are noticing me for the first time too.  In one move you push yourself away from the wall and somehow I find you behind me, hands on my waist and breath in my hair. 

Later we slide over frosted asphalt, ten or twelve of us talking and laughing about nothing in particular.  Tracks in the snow indicate herds of fellow revelers, all with the same destination; I can almost taste the fried cheesy sin smothered in marinara sauce.  Before I can even smell the oils from the frialator, your arm slips under my elbow and suddenly we are alone, going in the entirely wrong direction for food.  Cobblestone streets make it hard for walking in tall shoes, your arm catches my elbow as I nearly clatter my way into a snow dune.

The house when we get there is dark and smells of incense and stale wood.  Your hand is creeping towards my curves, and I am crumpling second by second.  I slide to the ground, pressing the wall into my back as an anchor to this reality.  Opening my eyes a hair I see the world curving away from me towards a coffee table and an old worn couch.  I slide to the ground, pressing the wall into my back as an anchor to life. 

Arms come into my reality.  Reaching.  Grabbing.  Lifting. 

Grey light, softness.  Mumbling white noise. 

Black.

 ****

It’s eight am according to the bells from the chapel.  I am in a room filled with haphazardly discarded men’s clothing.  I am in a room with haphazardly discarded men’s clothing, and I can’t find my underwear.  It’s not on the bed, not on the floor.  Here there is a door, and going through it I find a living room with a sad old couch and a blank wall where the television should be.  My shoes sit by a coffee table, three inches tall and caked with road salt. 

Opening the door, I step outside barefoot.  I’m home before anyone sees me.

****

The next week, my phone rings.  Addy is engaged, she is crying.  He asked her this morning.  She is laughing through her sobs, telling me how she loves this boy with dark brown hair that crinkles in the front.  I tell her she will be happy.  I tell her he will love her.  I tell her these things like they are the truth.