I need to dream to sleep
Present
The kids and I walked to the beach this afternoon after school. I always find myself searching the crowds for Faith. Hoping I’ll see her standing on her milk crate with her free hugs sign. She’s never there, and every time I kick myself for not fighting for her. I didn’t have a choice, though, did I? It was my kids or her. So, I dream about her instead. Every night. I don’t have to sleep to dream, but I’ve found lately that I do need to dream to sleep. I dream about her until I drift off…and then I dream about her some more.
It’s Friday night. Miranda moves out this weekend. We all watched a movie together at home. The kids ate popcorn. Miranda had a glass of wine. And I had a few beers in quiet celebration because shouting, “Yay, you’re finally leaving!” would be a dick move. Getting buzzed and thinking, Yay, you’re finally leaving! was much more discreet.
After I put the kids to bed, I’m already dreaming of Faith, but I don’t want to go to bed yet. I’m restless and missing her. Most days I think about her smile, or those eyes, or how she made me laugh, or how she accepted me exactly the way I am, flaws and all; but tonight I’m thinking about our last night together. The way she looked, how she tasted, the sounds she made. It was perfect. I need some fresh air, I feel claustrophobic. Maybe I had too much to drink.
Maybe I didn’t have enough to drink.
As if she heard that last thought, Miranda joins me outside. “You look like you can use this.” She’s holding a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.
I almost hesitate because I don’t want to get drunk. But then I figure what the hell, Yay, you’re finally leaving! “Sure, why not.”
She pours two and I throw it back before she toasts. She pours two more and says, “To the future.”
I was trying to ignore her, but I mutter, “To the future,” before I toss it back and finish the thought, and you leaving, in my mind. I’m leaning against the railing looking down below at Faith’s scooter, that’s no longer Faith’s scooter. The tequila is mixing with the beer in my system. And slowly everything starts blurring and there’s a whooshing sound in my ears.
“One more,” Miranda offers.
I shake my head. I don’t want it. I want to go inside, take off my clothes, crawl into bed, and dream about Faith.
She pours anyway and hands it to me. “I don’t want it,” I say immediately after I drink it. Then I hand her the empty shot glass and stagger inside. I shut my bedroom door behind me, and as I take off my clothes, all I see is Faith. Naked. And so fucking beautiful. And before I know it I’m naked in my bed, taking care of business, and pretending it’s her. The big finish comes quickly, but it doesn’t stop me from continuing the dream while I drift off to sleep.
Her weight on top of me is welcome, her presence foreplay in itself. It’s dark, I can’t see her, but her lips are working their way across my chest, up my neck, across my jawline.
“Kiss me,” I beg.
She does. Lips, tongue, teeth, they’re all in play. Slow, languid sweeps of her tongue. Teeth pulling playfully at my bottom lip. Lips so soft.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper between kisses. “I’ve missed you so much.” I’m talking to her, and to me, and to us.
The rest of my body awakens as her nakedness grinds purposefully against mine. Legs draped on either side of my hips. Flesh on flesh creating friction that speaks to nerve endings and sends jolts of pleasure through both of us.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
I freeze. I’ve dreamt about those words coming out of Faith’s mouth.
But that wasn’t Faith.
And this isn’t a dream.
It’s a goddamn nightmare.
I push her off me, climb out of bed and turn on the light.
Miranda is lying naked in my bed.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, as I search for my boxers on the floor and slip into them. This can’t be happening. “Get out.”
She grins, but it’s complete humiliation as she covers herself with the sheet. “You thought I was someone else.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement saturated with embarrassment and regret. Uncharacteristic.
I look her in the eye and nod. “I’m drunk. I was dreaming. In the privacy of my own bed,” I add to remind her how warped this whole scene is. “Yes, I thought you were someone else.”
“Faith?” she questions.
I nod again.
“What is it about her, Seamus? Why is she so special?” I would expect this to sound whiney or pouty, but she sounds sad like she’s finally come to the realization that we’re over and there will never be a second chance.
I don’t want to have this conversation, especially in my current state and hers, but I also fear that if I don’t air this, we’ll revisit it again because Miranda is nothing, if not persistent. “Her heart. It rules her. Every action, every smile, every word, every touch, is driven by it. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that?”
She pulls back the sheet and climbs out of bed, immediately pulling on her nightgown. “I do.” She shrugs. “She’s you.” She walks out without another word. Understanding firmly in place.
Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system muddying it up, but I feel bad for her. It’s overwhelming pity; that downgrades hate to dislike, with disclaimers that ward off lifting the veil to allow forgiveness in. Damn her; hate is preferable where Miranda’s concerned.