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on A Vivid Dream - 2005-12-23
In the dream you are standing right in front of me, a small smile on your face. "Curiousity killed the cat, you know." You say, but today you are glad that I am cat-like. "I assume this is your note?" I ask, trepidation making me prim and proper, as always. I am holding the note I found on my seat when I returned from the washroom. 'Meet me at the viewing room.' It says. It is unsigned. You nod, conceding the fact. You don't say anything else. "Well?" I ask, a little impatient. They are showing a movie on the passenger deck that I have been meaning to watch, and I do not appreciate being made to miss it, especially when you could have simply told me whatever it is you wanted to say, instead of all this mystery. "Take a moment." You say in the voice that could calm stormy sea. "Look around you." I do - a quick glance at first, then a slower one that takes in more than it overlooks. Flights have changed so rapidly since the ones I took a decade ago. Cramped seats have given way to entire cubicles for yourself or your family, with plush couches and a large television set. Distances now take half the time to traverse because new technology has enabled us to push further away from the earth at less cost. So far in fact, that tiny oblong aeroplane windows have been replaced by viewing rooms with wall-to-wall glass just so that passengers can fully enjoy the view of space. Glorious, spine-chilling, infinite space, stretching out further than the mind could grasp, dotted here and there with the array of stars. And below, just within view if you pressed your nose against the glass, was Earth, with those familiar blue oceans that you know I love. "I've missed this." I murmur, forehead against the cool glass. How many times have I taken these flights? At first I could hardly tear myself away from the viewing room, even after we had landed. Then, slowly, as it became more prudent to work or rest during the three hour flights, I would stay confined to my cubicle, content to simply know that the stars were out there. "I know." Your whisper is louder than I expected - you have joined me by the window, your forehead also pressed against the glass, mimicking me. I look up at you. This is a new angle. "Do you remember how we met?" You ask, and I smile. "I do, in fact. You were trying to steal my wallet." "Only as a demonstration!" "Oh, please." "It's true!" "So you've said." We've had this conversation before. Our responses are always the same. In my mind I am already sounding out your retort. So, when you say something completely different, it takes me by surprise. "You've never brought it up yourself. Not once." You say. Your gaze is disconcerting in its intensity. "It doesn't matter how we met." I say, shrugging. "The point is that we did." "Yes." You say, as if you already knew what I was going to say. And then you take my hand, which makes my heart skip a beat. "The point is that we did." "Hey..." I begin, frightened. Yes, frightened. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. About how I feel." You interrupt. Then, as if you do not want to give me a chance to interrupt in turn, you plunge on. "I like you. I have, for a while, I just never felt like I was someone you could love back. But the more I get to know you the more I realise that if I don't take this chance, if I never even try, I'm never going to forgive myself for letting you slip through my fingers. I don't know if I love you - I'm sorry, I know you want someone passionate, but I don't know if I love you - but I'm damn willing to try." You stop. Finally. My head is spinning from your words, and I would run away, but for the warm anchor of your hand on mine. "What are you thinking?" You ask. "That these are really horrible shoes." I offer in a pained voice. You choke back a laugh - or a frustrated scream, I don't know. "I'm sorry! You've got to admit this is really sudden." "I thought you liked this kind of thing." "I do! I just... I always assumed that when this happened, I'd... I'd at least like the guy back." The look of hurt and rejection that crosses your face instantly makes me regret my choice of words. "I didn't mean... Oh, I'm handling this awfully." I take my hand from yours so that I have the full use of both hands to cover my face. "Look... You don't have to say anything. I was stupid for even trying." You say, and my heart breaks at the resignation in your voice. "The thing is," I say even as you begin to walk away. "I've just never thought about you as more than a friend, so I don't even know how I feel about you in a non-platonic sense." Something in my voice is giving you the faintest glimmer of hope, and you are latching onto it like a dog onto a sausage chain. "And if you think about it?" You ask. "Well, I might come to... some kind of conclusion?" I am not being coy. I am stalling, unable to give you an answer either way. There is a long pause. I am waiting for you to say something. In the meantime I distract myself with thoughts about high school physics, and ellipses. "Well?" You burst out all of a sudden, which startles me. "Well what?" I ask. "Have you come to a conclusion?" "Oh!" I stammer. "You meant think right now! Oh." I tilt my head. "I'm afraid I'm going to need a little more time than that." You make a strangled sound like I am slowly driving you to your grave. "I'm sorry." I say, making a face. "It's all right. I'm just grateful that you're, you know, even thinking about it at all." "And I'm really flattered!" I offer earnestly, hoping it might make you feel better. It doesn't, but it was worth a shot. The pilot makes an announcement, politely requesting that we return to our seats. As if on cue, we awkwardly bump into each other on our way to the stairs. The brief contact, before we nearly hurt ourselves to break it, is warm. I blush. "Ladies first." You mutter, scratching your head. "No, it's okay. I'd like to linger a bit." I say, gesturing to the windows. I will be taking this flight again a week later, but the stars will never again look like they do now. "Do you want me to stay?" You ask. "No, it's okay. I'll be down in a minute." I reply. You pause for a moment, watching me. It's not hesitation, it's something else all together. Then you leave, and I am alone in the viewing room, the wonders of the galaxy all to myself. "Well this is a pretty pickle." I murmur with a sigh, staring at Earth, which is now rushing up at me alarmingly fast. The alliteration, however, tickles me and, suitably cheered, I descend to join you in the cubicle. You plunge into a discussion about scuba diving hamsters, and I laugh, grateful that you understand and are giving me my space. Maybe, just maybe, this is how love comes about. Not suddenly, with an electric charge, a whirlwind romance, fireworks and two crazy kids, but slowly, with time and patience and friendship that develops into something more. It gives me something to think about, when I finally do wake up. Conclusions to come to so maybe when, in the waking world, you come to steal my wallet for a 'demonstration', I will have an answer for you.
- - 2006-05-29 |