It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, that's how the dream started. He took her to see a friend, who lived in the good part of San Francisco, the part where young or youngish couples congregated and procreated. Children spread like weeds in a spring garden. She took hers, two kids, one boy and one girl, in the same car with him. An old friend, she told the children, visiting from afar. They didn't care. They were told that the house was built on an old racetrack field; the windows were wide and ginormous. The living room with floor to ceiling windows faced onto a meadow, with wild flowers growing and wild turkeys roaming. She told the kid the house was shaped like a castle, for the house had many rooms, funky nooks and crannies, a perfect house to play hide and seek, that was enough to get them to come with her, and him.
She had not seen him for a number of years. He was still fit like she remembered, his hair was darker: it used to be very light, blond, perhaps, now it was darker, but they were just as curly and there was no sign of thinning, to her secret relief. Now in his mid forties, he seemed to have matured, but she hardly knew him then, and as far as she recalled, being good looking was one thing that remained constant about him.
They arrived at his friend's house. A quick introduction and the children were off playing with the other kids. The house used to be the clubhouse of a sort, where folks drank and bet on the horses. It had all the original wooden windows: wide ones, from one side of the house to another, from floor to ceiling. Surprisingly, the living room still felt dark.
He took her upstairs, to show her where he usually stayed when he visited his friend. It was at the top floor. Because the house had a gabled ceiling, the room looked like an old attic conversion, constructed by a previous owner.
He closed the door half way and stood next to her, his head tilted, he did not speak, he smiled, and she noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. They weren't there when they first met many years ago, or perhaps they were just less prominent then. She didn't speak, in return. He put his lips on top of hers. It felt surprisingly cool. She kissed him back, ever so gently. Then she turned her back on him and hiked up her skirt. He noticed she was not wearing any underwear. She was then facing the wall. On the left side of the room the bed sat, she just noticed. A teenager would fit well in the bed, but not he. She felt him grabbing her from behind. Then he entered her, with so much force that it startled her.
He took her upstairs, to show her where he usually stayed when he visited his friend. It was at the top floor. Because the house had a gabled ceiling, the room looked like an old attic conversion, constructed by a previous owner.
He closed the door half way and stood next to her, his head tilted, he did not speak, he smiled, and she noticed the wrinkles around his eyes. They weren't there when they first met many years ago, or perhaps they were just less prominent then. She didn't speak, in return. He put his lips on top of hers. It felt surprisingly cool. She kissed him back, ever so gently. Then she turned her back on him and hiked up her skirt. He noticed she was not wearing any underwear. She was then facing the wall. On the left side of the room the bed sat, she just noticed. A teenager would fit well in the bed, but not he. She felt him grabbing her from behind. Then he entered her, with so much force that it startled her.
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He put his free hand over her mouth, as if to keep her from making any noise. So the room felt quiet, nearly silent. She noticed the white, wrinkled pillow on the bed, and how the bed was oriented the same way as his old bed, in his old apartment in San Francisco, lined up against one side of the wall, the front of the bed faced a window, she recalled. In this room, there was no window above the head of the bed; the window, which faced the same meadow, opened to the side of the bed. She was all sudden made aware by how close she was in his old bedroom, in his old apartment in San Francisco: it was as if she could touch his bed, and then she saw herself, a much younger version, lying on it, gazing into his face, eyes wide open, he was on top of her, his eyes were shut.
He put his free hand over her mouth, as if to keep her from making any noise. So the room felt quiet, nearly silent. She noticed the white, wrinkled pillow on the bed, and how the bed was oriented the same way as his old bed, in his old apartment in San Francisco, lined up against one side of the wall, the front of the bed faced a window, she recalled. In this room, there was no window above the head of the bed; the window, which faced the same meadow, opened to the side of the bed. She was all sudden made aware by how close she was in his old bedroom, in his old apartment in San Francisco: it was as if she could touch his bed, and then she saw herself, a much younger version, lying on it, gazing into his face, eyes wide open, he was on top of her, his eyes were shut.
Suddenly, the young self arched her back, lifted her head, her long hair draped over her naked side, she turned her naked back towards him. She then turned her face to look back at him, and smiled. It was a foreign smile, one she used while seducing someone, a flirtatious one, one she had no use for, for over a decade. She saw the young self let out a moan, and she knew he was behind her then, he was inside of her, just like he was now.
But she knew he no longer lived there, and she had not visited his old neighborhood, for at least ten years. He had moved away. He had also married. And never to be heard from, until now, until in this room, in his friend's house.
"He is here with me", she was surprised by her acknowledgment to herself. It cemented his existence somehow. She wondered how her mind would travel so far, when he was so close, so near, and so inside of her. It felt that it could not have been real, for she would not have wondered off like this, and she would have wanted to nurse her ache.
But she knew he no longer lived there, and she had not visited his old neighborhood, for at least ten years. He had moved away. He had also married. And never to be heard from, until now, until in this room, in his friend's house.
"He is here with me", she was surprised by her acknowledgment to herself. It cemented his existence somehow. She wondered how her mind would travel so far, when he was so close, so near, and so inside of her. It felt that it could not have been real, for she would not have wondered off like this, and she would have wanted to nurse her ache.
The ache was going away, she could feel, he had cured it; rather, she corrected herself, he had delayed its return. She focused on his touch, soft, but so far away, it felt like a dream. He moved his hand down; to touch her smooth, shaven parts, but she grabbed his hand, and said, "no". He stopped his hand, and moved up. She felt it was the right way to reconnect with him, he only saw the back of her, he would not see her face, or her eyes. She wanted to cry, but no tears would come, there was a distant but constant voice, hushing, "Wake up. This is not real. He is not with you."
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Then all of sudden, the ache returned. They could hear someone at the front door, downstairs, the host, his friend, opened the door, greeting the arriving guests. She felt him pulling away, and her body hollowed, she knew it was over.
"We should return to downstairs," he said.
Then all of sudden, the ache returned. They could hear someone at the front door, downstairs, the host, his friend, opened the door, greeting the arriving guests. She felt him pulling away, and her body hollowed, she knew it was over.
"We should return to downstairs," he said.
"Yes, of course." she touched his arm.
"It's not over, this." He said in a low voice, eyes steady on her. His smile was gone.
It was the way she remembered of him, he only smiled at her when he wanted her, in his own place. He was distant and disengaged, otherwise. But in the crowd, among his other friends, he smiled broadly, often spoke loudly with others on the topics of the latest technology, full of animation. But it was never with her. She remembered how she would fantasize a real conversation with him, having a candle lit dinner in a cheesy restaurant full of lovers on Fillmore Street. It never happened. He emailed, instant messaged, but he rarely called. Now she understood why she could not remember his voice.
They walked downstairs, the dark living room. There was a large plumeria flower patterned chair, unoccupied. It ought to belong in Kauai, in a plantation house near Hanalei, she thought to herself. He plopped himself down on that chair. She took a corner of this oversized chair, with his legs dangling on the side of her own high-heeled feet. He leaned back on the chair and stretched his legs.
They walked downstairs, the dark living room. There was a large plumeria flower patterned chair, unoccupied. It ought to belong in Kauai, in a plantation house near Hanalei, she thought to herself. He plopped himself down on that chair. She took a corner of this oversized chair, with his legs dangling on the side of her own high-heeled feet. He leaned back on the chair and stretched his legs.
Her two kids ran in front of her, chasing the other kids. She woke up violently. It could not be possible; she couldn't be with him. It would be wrong. But then she felt his legs move. He was still near. She knew subconsciously he was no more than a figment of her imagination, yet she let her mind drift back to sleep. She remembered, how she longed for his embrace, the embrace that never came.
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As far as she was concerned, men like him were the norm during those days she dated them. They seemed to feel that they were the elite class of intellectual supremacy. They surrounded themselves with those others who were like them. In their world, there were only two kinds of women: the smart, intelligent Ivy Leagues who dabbled in their world, power suits and fancy B-school degrees; or, women like herself, attractive, exciting, some more bimbo-ish than others, some held a professional job, negligible at best, of course, and often exotic, as in Asian. Young and attractive Asian women were a fad back in the 90s, they were hip to date, and they often appealed to certain type of men. He was that certain type of men, she would later recall.
Women of this latter type were treated as a pass-time, she was his pass-time, sometimes. Because there were always many pass-times, they were interchangeable. She was twenty something, and was very aware that there was always a fresh crop of new pass-times, lined up waiting to take her place.
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As far as she was concerned, men like him were the norm during those days she dated them. They seemed to feel that they were the elite class of intellectual supremacy. They surrounded themselves with those others who were like them. In their world, there were only two kinds of women: the smart, intelligent Ivy Leagues who dabbled in their world, power suits and fancy B-school degrees; or, women like herself, attractive, exciting, some more bimbo-ish than others, some held a professional job, negligible at best, of course, and often exotic, as in Asian. Young and attractive Asian women were a fad back in the 90s, they were hip to date, and they often appealed to certain type of men. He was that certain type of men, she would later recall.
Women of this latter type were treated as a pass-time, she was his pass-time, sometimes. Because there were always many pass-times, they were interchangeable. She was twenty something, and was very aware that there was always a fresh crop of new pass-times, lined up waiting to take her place.
She often agonized about her image, and wondered how she could break the mold. Could she cross over if she had never gone to a fancy school, she being foreign-borned and had limited means and exposure? She had to raise herself, and had no one but herself to count on. That was always in the back of her head, but she never let on, she took pride in preserving the image she had carefully created.
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In the months followed, they met a few more times, she thought. But it had been so long ago, that she couldn't recall how, when, or where. Then she knew it was over. The way she remembered it: he had never indicated she was anyone special, she wanted him physically, he did not say no. She might have wanted more but she never asked where it was going, she was afraid of the answer. There was no time to recover from any heartache. She could not have allowed herself to fall, and he made it easy, he was emotionally disengaged and was never quite ready to share anything but his bed with her.
Then one day he visited her just before his next business trip. He had somehow forgotten his aftershave at her place and she kept it to this date. He said in a hurry, in the morning, “I’ll see you soon.” But he never returned, and she never saw him again, not in an intimate way anyway.
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A decade had passed. He was there again, in that castle-looking house with her. It seemed surreal to her somehow, like a dream. He was fidgeting. He said that it was time to leave. He got up, and she got up with him. He then lowered his head, and was all of sudden inches away from her face. He looked into her eyes, it was the first time she remembered what he looked like. For ten plus years, she had tried to not remember, and had thought she had forgotten about him, the last person she was unsettled by.
He said, "I like this arrangement. This arrangement of you and I."
She realized that he was talking about the fact she was married, and he would come to see her sometimes, when it was convenient.
"We will finish this, you and I." Then he smiled. There was a twinkle in his eyes. Her heart tightened, like a knot, it physically hurt her, and she felt that she was twenty something again.
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The sun was shining. She woke up. All of it was just a dream, she quickly realized. She was relieved and a little sad, at the same time.
It was always about how you ended things: like how you left a job. People remembered the last moment before you leave a job, not when you were working with them. The last impression was often the one that counted.
So for her, the last impression of him, though he may not know it, was how he left her. The way he said goodbye, so nonchalantly, as if he’d return from his business trip, and see her again, but he never did.
The next time they saw each other, it was several months later. By then it felt as if they were just barely friends. They acted cordial, friendly, but distant, as if nothing had ever happened between them, as if they were never together, and neither one of them made a fuss.
Such were the days. When nothing seemed to have mattered, when everything just flowed, and when no one had time to feel, or to heal. Such were the days, when people were happier, simpler, and life was full of dreams and potentials.
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