Dream

I awake from my dream, bathed in cold sweat.  Again each night, it is the same dream.  I sit up and hug myself, rocking myself gently, from side to side; to and fro, trying to reassure myself that it is just a dream.  It is just a dream, it can't hurt me.  I replay the dream, replay the events that have plagued my sleep.  It is all so real; all TOO real, and yet it is difficult to reassure myself that dreams cannot hurt.  But dreams can hurt; dreams can devastate; dreams can DESTROY.

I look upon my dream, trying to dissect it, to study it, to find solace in the fact that it is a dream; nothing more than a silly old dream.  I start at the beginning of the dream, see the beautiful woman behind the bar.  Her beaming smile is gorgeous, her eyes have a twinkle about them; the eyes that say "The ma n I'm looking at is all that matters".  The look is of absolute happiness, not a care in the world.  She glides about the bar, to and fro, to her customers, refilling the empty drinks in the hands of men and women with empty minds and empty hearts.  Her gaze always returns to the one man on the other side of the counter, the one man the twinkle is meant for.

A country song begins playing on the jukebox; a song of love, of desire, of longing.  "This is destiny," the man and barmaid both think to themselves.  She comes to him, mainly to check his drink, but also to be near him again.  He begins to sing the lyrics of the country song to her.  His smooth, velveteen voice melts her heart, her pulse quickens, and while she is replacing his empty beer can with a new, cold one, he reaches his torso over the bar and whispers in her ear.  "Will you dance with me?" he whispers.

The already quickened pulse of her heart begins to race.  "Of course," she answers, and they begin gliding across the dance floor, moving to and fro, like the ebb and flow of the tide; their bodies are so close together they could be one.

The man kisses her, just a small peck on the cheek; smiling at this show of affection, she kisses him back.  The kisses slowly become more passionate, their lips locking.  They stop, regretfully, to catch their breath.  Patrons of the establishment have taken notice to their barmaid's absence.  They grow restless waiting to obtain a refill of liquid emotion.  The song ends.  The man and woman separate.  She is blushing as she resumes her work.  He sits down and continues to be in awe of her beauty.

The night winds down, the patrons begin filing out of the bar; some satisfied that they have managed to fill the empty void within, using greasy deep-fried food and alcohol.  Others longing for satisfaction that the liquor and beer were unable to fill once again.  But, "There is always tomorrow" they think to themselves.  Soon the bar is empty, except for the barmaid and the lone man that cannot keep from admiring her.

They converse while she cleans; an unfortunate but necessary task.  They speak of their past experiences: the joys, the sorrows, the hurt; all parts of their lives.

Soon, they are locking their lips again, but there are no more pecks; passion is the only order of the night.  Soon they move from the counter to find a more comfortable spot.  Breathing is no longer important, the outside world is no longer important.  All that matters is them, all that matters is filling the emptiness.  Slowly, clothing is removed; a shirt on the floor, a shoe under the pool table.  Naked and together, they continue to kiss, continue to fill the void.

The warmth of their bodies is comparable to a fever, and perhaps they are both fevered out of lust.  She takes him, guides him; he enters her.  Slowly, passionately, lovingly, they begin to make love.  Her moans keep him going, each thrust causes her to moan; each moan causes him to thrust, deeper and faster, like a train gaining speed.  Finally they are finished, a glow about them from a slight sheen of sweat.  They are satisfied, the emptiness swallowed by their love-making.  They lay in each other's arms, thoughtless; no thoughts are needed in this moment of ecstasy.  Their empty clothes soon begin to be filled as they get dressed.

This is where the dream wakes me, where I awake in a cold sweat, where I feel my heart drop.  The dream is not beautiful, though it could be.  The dream that wakes me hurts, it tears at me from the inside, it breaks my heart; my spirit; my pride.  The dream is not just a dream; the dream is actually a reality: the woman my wife, but the man was not me.