The House

It was the same house, as it had always been in my dreams. White, perched over the cliff. The kitchen windows faced the flowering backyard that extended to the ocean. But it felt a little different, this time. I could feel it in my gut, as I walked into the kitchen, it felt airy, and lived. I could see you then, in that green shirt, hovering over the sink, peeling vegetables. It dawned on me this might not be my house, the one I often dreamed, and retreated to.

It was the winter of 1999. Snowboarding was in. I had rented a Tahoe ski cabin with a bunch of young kids who worked at a San Francisco web start up company. They were geeky and girl crazy, sensitive in ways they should not be, and clueless when it came to love. But they had pot and lots of them, and for that reason I tolerated these awkward, unsophisticated frat boys. Then one night this fresh-faced, younger boy asked me out on a date for Valentine's Day.  I wondered at the time it was a dare, because I was the older woman by 2 years. I remember the boy was excited when I said yes, while he helped me to unpack goodies from Dean & Deluca. I had just returned from Manhattan that evening, and saw him for what was really the last time we were officially together.

That night, the house came into my dreams.  It looked like the houses I had stayed in the Cape with him, but decided Long Island in style. I was there alone, happy, longing for his return. But he never did.  The house stayed with me over the years. I found solace in knowing that it would always be there, whenever I was troubled, my dream would take me back to that house. I could rest my foot, smell the roses, and stare out into the Atlantic. I claimed it to be my own, even though it was never more than a dream.

This ocean was unlike the one I had come to know. It had sailboats out and about, the sky sunny and cheerful. My ocean was vast, empty, angry at times, but most of all, lonely. The way I had liked.

So I decided to explore this altered version of the house. My subconscious told me I was in a dream searching for another dream, but my curious mind told me to continue.

"Good morning dear." You sensed me, without looking back. I analyzed your tone, and did not detect sarcasm (Note I did not write "DEAR"). I relaxed a little, well, as relaxed as I could be under the circumstance. A sense of peace was running through my core. It felt right. Being there, in that house. Seeing you.

I wore black. Like the city I came from, where black was always in style.  This house did not like black. I had decided. But what the hell, I packed nothing but black.

Suddenly, my scrambled, dream state of mind recovered another piece of memory: it jolted and unnerved me. In this dream, I came to realize that I did indeed wonder where you had been over the years, so much so that I had once dreamed about a house you lived in, in your perfect life, far removed from mine. That house looked distinctively different from this one still: it was built of wood, lit, like a castle, hanging over a cliff, severe, massive, and mysterious, like you had always been to me. You were happily married and I could see your shadow casting over the kitchen window. You had two children, one boy, one girl, and you were laughing with them. It was a dark night, pitch black in fact, like the outfit I wore. I had been on the outside, in the cold, looking in. I ought to be happy for you, but I woke up crying. How odd, then, the suppressed memory would come back to me then.

I wondered then, when you had asked me if I had thought of you over the years, I answered "no" in earnest, and a little too quickly. Was it because I truly believed it, or because admission to the otherwise would be too much to bear?

I could feel that I was off my game this time. I was out of practice and my guard was down. I used to be such a master of long distance, no-string-attached relationships.  My emotions were always bottled up and only retrievable in the most private moments, and often long after everything ended. But I knew you felt it too this time, and that gave me the courage to step closer to you.

My hair was in a pony tail, I had not made up my mind to stay in, or go for a jog. At that precise indecisive moment of mine, you dropped the vegetables into the sink, hands still wet, and you leaned over and kissed me.  So the next step of the action was unexpected, even for my dream. I found myself unbuckling your belt, fumbling somewhat, but the intent was there. I wanted to go down on you in the kitchen. It was primal desire overtaking the logical side of me. Then again, because it was my dream, I needed no explanation.

You gently but firmly pushed me away.

"I have some friends over soon."

I felt foolish, and self-pity all of sudden.  Worse yet, I did not know if your comment was in fact a way of asking me to leave. So my worst nightmare was confirmed - this was NOT my house, I was not in control of this dream. Somehow I had stumbled into your house, and I was an overnight guest who had over extended her welcome.

"Should I leave?"

"You should do what you want."

There. I always knew I would not like your answer.

"I should leave." I proceeded to the bedroom and started packing.   

You followed me in. "Stay", you said, rather, you commended. I wanted to go back to my house. I wondered how to return to my own dream house, the one that overlooked Atlantic Ocean, my very own private sanctuary.

You came behind and lifted me up and I found myself falling with you, into that massive bed of yours. Suddenly, it was no longer your house. It was the one that first appeared to me nearly four weeks ago, when I first thought of you, before we met.  You had said, in that house, to me, "This was not over." I had worn a black skirt in that dream, just like this one. You had lifted the skirt up and took me from behind, it was the first time I felt a stir, for more than a decade.  "I told you this was not over." You repeated that familiar sentence. I saw a twinkle in your eyes again, before I could react, you had turned me over, and entered me.  I was tense, then relaxed. I felt belonged, my craving satisfied, having you inside of me.

The door bell rang, again, just like the first dream. I cursed, "Fuck. Why did the damn door bell ring! It was supposed to be my dream and I should be able to will the outcome of my dream."

"I need to get the door". You frowned and straightened your shirt. I was conscious of the messed up hair and make up, particularly my lips - without the rouge, I felt naked all of sudden.

At that moment, I knew what I didn't know, or wanted to know all along. The craving would not go away. It would go on unsatisfied, this persistent longing of you. It manifested itself into these repeat, different versions of the same dream, until you would be mine.

I re-applied my make up. My mind was made up. When I walked out that bedroom door, I would have a story to tell your guests. I would tell them that I was an old friend of yours, came in town for work. I would only introduce myself by my first name. I would be charming and collected, I would be engaging, not over do it of course, and be liked, as I would always manage to do among perfect strangers.

So I replied, more to myself than to you, "I'll stay".

As you walked out of the door, to greet your guests, I wondered if deep inside, you knew before I ever did: Whatever THIS is, it is not over.