My dream life and my waking life seem determined to be at odds with one another. Dreams that weave webs holding me in deep sleep reveling in their silken embrace seem tainted and full of thorns when I wake.
Even thinking back on them some part of my mind is soothed, it croons, my pulse quickens while the rest of me recoils in something near disgust. My cheeks flush, my heart races and I feel like I need to put my brain in the shower.
All of it from dreams that would, at most, be rated R and more likely PG13. Somehow I have become infected with Disney script writers in my subconscious. Short of the obligatory Disney need for parental death, my dreams could all easily be edited to fit into Anastasia or Beauty and the Beast (I'm the beast, btw). If we were going to keep the R rating, though, I suppose it gets a bit more interesting, but it's still horribly formulaic.
It's almost always Him in them. Mr. Accepting of all of my flaws, ready to love me regardless. He's quiet and contemplative, that nerd thing that so many intelligent women swoon over. A professorial countenance, with the awkwardness of a gangly young man, mixed with the promising glint of mischief in his eye. In short: smart, vulnerable, understanding, and fun.
Hmm, who should we cast for this part? A younger Gary Oldman, possibly? And what about my part, what actress should get my role. It's a dream, after all, so how about a chubby going on fat Jody Foster.
Ok, good, we have our two main characters. Let's put them on a cruise ship, each with an inattiventive significant other. Neither of them are married, but, perhaps not far from it.
The scene: A fairly nice bar, dark wood, a couple of portholes on the far side of the room that really look out on one of the decks. The room is nearly empty, post the dinner crowed and pre the night time clientel. A bored looking waitress folds napkins at a table and talks to the bartender who's slicing limes at the far end of the bar. The lights are dim, and there's a jazz ensemble taking their time setting up on the small stage.
She sits at the bar doodling on a napkin, a large mixed drink halfway gone near at hand. She's wearing a full length black skirt, a black raw silk tailored shirt open over a delicate lacy cream top with a scooped neck. Jewels glint from her left hand and right wrist. She is terribly over dressed and clearly a sad case.
He comes in wearing black pressed suit slacks, a crisp white shirt with wrinkles pressed into the back, the top button undone and his tie loosely knotted three buttons below it. He puts his dinner jacket over the back of the barstool and orders a beer.
And so they meet, and cheer each other up with a few shared smiles and noncommittal chit chat. It isn't anything of note, but there's a small spark and inwardly chastising herself for again noticing how the corer of the right side of his mouth goes up a moment before he smiles, how his hands look as he holds his beer...she finishes her drink and leaves.
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