Halflife of Dreams, The

Halflife of Dreams, The

In the smooth blue mist of the night, a figure is dimlyvisible in the distance. As the shapes and sensations of barelyrecognizable events drift past he pursues the figure, or hethinks he does. The pace of the shifting memories quickens, buthe will not be daunted, he feels passionately driven to fix thevision of the figure before, before... It seems to be gettingcloser now, a woman with raven black hair. As the distant figuregathers out of the mist, others appear as well. One of theshapes edges towards him.
At work, and his hands seem glued to the keytops of thecomputer console. One report after another flows from mind tohand to screen to paper, they come and go so quickly that he canhardly even remember what he's writing. But he doesn't reallycare, as his focus shifts to the small square of the cursorblinking patiently, it always scoots to the right just in time toavoid being trampled by yet another letter pursuing it's ownjourney from mind to paper. In the pulsing of the little squarehe fancies he sees her. Who? But she's gone again, just afleeting tickle in the back of his mind, enough to stir him backto the task at hand.
Some more coffee just may banish this nagging vision longenough to finish these reports. As he picks up his mug and headsto the other room for a refill the monitor blinks out, in seemingapproval. Why don't they just let me DO what I do best, insteadof always writing these infernal reports about it.
He walks the path to the coffee machine without the slightestregard for his surroundings, completely preoccupied with histhoughts. Perhaps it's time for a change of jobs, or ... Yes, avacation.
The images cascade freely out as if they were themselves awave crashing upon the sand that courses between his feet. Thesand crabs edge by skidishly as they forage for the tidbits thatfloat in the brine. The coast is a wonderful place to loose itall, always touching some primal place in his soul. A day couldbe as simple as a swim and a read, or stretch out to includesumptuous dinning and lively conversation.
The smell of the coffee snaps him back. The sand crabs returnto a darkened recess of his mind where they continue theirbusiness undisturbed, until called upon once again to danceacross the playing field of his mind. He takes a sip of the warmcoffee as he starts back to his office, stepping nimbly aside asthe commuter train whisks by toward Oak Park.
If I catch the 10:18 I'll get to O'Hare by 11. He stillhadn't checked to see whether the secretary had pre-booked theseat or not, but either way he'd have enough time. He places hiscoat over the back of the seat and once again removes the plasticcover from his coffee, still hoping that by the time he finishedthe cup it would clear his mind of the remaining wounds from theprevious night's drinking.
As he surveys the faces of his fellow passengers he feels asense of consolation as many of them slowly nurse a cup of joe,or gaze out through dark sunglasses, in spite of the grayovercast that obscures the sky, from the lake well into the west. He settles for a lazy view out the window, as the scenery bouncesby.
In the distance, down a broad alley, he sees the Blue Moon,the dance hall where he had often drank as a teenager. This iswhere he played his first game of pool, learned to polka and slamdance, even bought his first condom, from the machine in the mensroom.
Sheila was older than he was, but after much prodding fromTom, the bartender whom he'd known since he was a kid, and somenumber of vodka-tonics, he finally makes his move. He plunks acouple of quarters into the jukebox and picks out a few songs. First a song a little slower than whatever is playing, anythingwould prove a welcome respite to the incessant Barry Manilow andBee-Gees, then a classic show tune, and then the polkas.
Wednesday nights are his favorites, the crowd is a good mix ofyoung and old. The working stiffs are tired, and will leave atthe slightest provocation once the clock gets past ten-thirty -his song selection providing that impetus. The older folks, hisreal friends, were in no hurry, they lived for their polkas,bingo and gin. Those that remained were either other kids likehimself, the invisible hangers-on that slipped in and out ofsociety as it suit them, or else people with a need - a shoulderto cry on, a drink to lean on, or a body to press against in thenight, to wash away whatever chains of shame or loneliness orguilt bind them into that closed box of urban night life.
She's in this last group, he's sure. He slowly winds his wayover to her, dodging the remaining pool players and dart boardsas he approaches her table near the dance floor. Sheilanervously pushes about the butts in her ashtray with hersmoldering Salem, hoping that the recent exodus of people fromthe bar won't mean another night ending at bar time, with herbarely sober enough to make the drive home. She's brushing herlong black hair from in front of her face as he makes it to thetable.
He asks her if she wants to dance. She's a bit apprehensiveat first, this lanky kid in the shark skin suit isn't exactly hertype, but the very idea of being asked to dance a polka by anyoneyounger than thirty peeks her interest. As soon as they hit thefloor 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 canpolka like he can, and before long she's caught up in the energyand excitement of the dance. The old timers give him plenty ofroom on the floor, he's their boy, as they keep dropping quartersinto the record machine.
By the time the music stops they're laughing and giggling asthey applaud their own performance. For the first time sinceseeing her from the bar he sizes her up on the way back to hertable. Her black hair flies out in a wild spray from her head,with curls so chaotic that they had to be real. The sweat fromthe dancing outlines her breasts perfectly in the now nearlytransparent fabric of the danskin she wears. An ankle lengthdenim skirt, cut to hug from waist to hip, and habatchi sandalscomplete the outfit that marks her as someone not given to thetrend of the moment.
He drops into the empty seat, already envisioning her bodyriding up and down on him with the same careless energy andrampant lust for excitement that she displayed on the dancefloor, when she surprises him with the question. She is stillstanding, one hand on the back of her chair the other on her outthrust hip, as she asks simply, "Do you want to come over to myplace, I've got a dance I'd love to teach you."
The night turns into one long delirious orgasm, neither ofthem noticing the sun's tentative arrival in the eastern sky. Heburies his face between her legs, wanting, for once, to give awoman the greatest pleasure he can, rather than just satisfyingsome inner feeling that this is what she expects. As he tastesthe saltiness of her musk he feels driven from deep inside,eliciting shrieks and moans from her without a single thought forwhat he is doing. He hardly even feels his own erection bouncingagainst her leg as he focuses on, even feels, her excitementbuilding. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes thatwhat he'd been doing up until now was having sex, this is makinglove.
With a deep guttural moan she pushes him back, and then pullshim up to face her. As he props himself up on his hands, shegrasps his erection with one hand, spreading her lips with theother, pulling him into her. He is amazed at his own passivenessin all of this, he is drawn along, his every motion directed bysome other mind. With every thrust they stare into each other'seyes, a tantric lust passing between them far surpassing anysingle sensation he has felt before.
For awhile her ear or shoulder or knee becomes a point offocus for him. He has not a single thought other than to consumeher, or feel her. She rubs his chest and nipples with one handwhile slowly, gently consuming him. Slowly drawing him into hermouth and then tickling him with her tongue while pulling away. He finds evenmore arousal in watching her movements, her lips onhim, the clarity in her face, her breast sliding up and downalong his thigh, than in the sensations coming from his groin.
Then she rises, half silhouetted in the breaking dawn, andmounts him. There's no question but that she is in control,although he senses from the look in her eyes that she too isbeing lead by some deeper spirit. As she rides him up and downhe remembers his impression from earlier in the night, as heimagined the diaphanous fabric of her danskin melting away andher 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, anotherlonely drinker praying that the night would soon end, even thougha lifetime of them lay on the horizon. As he felt yet anotherorgasm building he looks up to her eyes. Her face is cast in themold of Aphrodite, eyes closed and a mouth without a smiledisplaying the most sublime pleasure. They move together towardthe precipice.
"Would you like some more tea?", his mother asks. He wheelsaround, profoundly embarrassed at the sound of her voice. Evenas he realizes the absurdity of her presence here in Sheila'sapartment the world starts do slip away. "Mom! What are youdoing here?" barely makes it's way out of his mouth than hestarts to sense the room around him, and the sound of tharing through the tinny speaker of the clockradio. With a swing befitting a Golden Gloves boxer fighting forhis right to the belt he smacks the snooze button and rolls over.
Closing his eyes he starts to plunge deep into his mindfighting against time to catch the remaining vestiges of theimage. Racing against the clock, and the diminishing halflife ofdreams.