Man of Her Dreams

He was everything she had ever wanted. He was stunningly handsome, irresistibly sexy, intelligently witty, excessively kind, and unselfishly considerate. He put her first in everything. He was even a generous lover.

She often had joked with him that he was the closest thing she could get to someone like herself, so it was a perfect fit. Although there hadn't been any type of official ceremony, in her mind they were as together as any happily married couple. They loved as a married couple. They lived as a married couple. They made love as a married couple in love.

In the hard times that inevitably came, their love was so strong that they managed through without as much as an emotional speed bump. Theirs was an all-in partnership, a "tenants-by-entirety" relationship. They each owned the whole relationship. It persevered solidly and kept them afloat--financially and emotionally. He was as much a part of her self-actualization as her own intrepid will.

One night he was awakened by her from some particularly tumultuous tossing-and-turning. She even had struck him in her frenzy. He sat upright and it was enough for his motion-sensitive watch, on the night table, to display the time: 3:00 AM.

To her it was an episode only as memorable as its fleeting evanescence, as many mid-night peeks, out from between phases of sleep, are. To him, the memory stuck, for he woke up the next morning with a sore shoulder.

When she awoke, however, she was cross with him, which amused him as he felt the victim. She was terse and cold.

He searched for what might have happened to so distance them but was clueless. He searched for anything he might have done. Then he recalled again, how she punched him in her sleep. He remembered the 3:00 AM time; it popped up in his mind, unfolding, a memory holding on by the fingertips, like when we fight to reconstruct our dreams with untrustworthy synapses well into decay.

"Do you remember a dream you had around 3 o'clock, my love?"

She was still in the bed, supine, arms folded. "I don't want to talk about it," she said with finality. (Her synapses were firmly wired together.) Her cold affect continued well into morning until, at breakfast, she finally broke.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just had a bad night. A terrible dream."

"Would you like to talk about it?" he asked.

"I don't know. What do the mental health experts say? Should I just ignore it? Should we discuss it? It was just a dream, after all. Some stupid dream."

"Well," he replied, "I think the mental health experts feel that any introspective explorations, especially about things that are troubling, can only help."

"Sure...sure, I can't disagree with that," she agreed.

"So?"

"It was about you," she began.

"Oh," he replied.

"Yea, you were in my dream. And you had left me for another woman."

"Impossible," he replied.

"And it was a woman with children. And you even liked that about her."

"Right there!" he laughed. "You know that could never be me. Now I have to wonder who you're dreaming about. It's not me."

"No. Right," she agreed. "That's definitely not you."

They had never said it out loud, but they had agreed, intuitively, that children in their lives was not for them. Then she sat up and looked at him severely. She slapped him on his shoulder. The same one.

"What?"

"It was you."

"I'm glad it's me here now, and not that stupid me you dreamed about," he said with a smile. "I like the me that's with you. I like us." She smiled, which was reassuring. Then he put his hand on her face and asked, in mock sincerity, "Was she hot, though?" She shoved him playfully.

That night, in a hypnogogic phase between her living day and her otherworldly night, against her better judgment, she recalled his question. Hot? she asked herself. Yes, she was! And children, too! Not even their children! This consternation matured into an outrage by which she fell asleep that night.

Hours later, he was awakened by shouting. It wasn't anything coherent she cried out; a simple monosyllable that blended shock, anger, and the pain of betrayal. Again he was able to note the time.

Again, 3:00 AM.

Again, the entire episode was re-moored back into its dreamscape slip, docked in a landlocked, isolated and choppy cerebral lake unnavigable to the oceans of reality.

Next morning, she was more than cross; aloof became personally hostile. Her wakened self had discovered a pass from her dreamlake and had made a wakened beachhead, ready to defend against an enemy.

"You didn't kiss me good morning, love," he complained.

"That's right."

"Uh-oh," he said. "What'd you dream about me this time? What'd I do? Leaving toilet seats up--stuff like that?" She wouldn't respond. It had gone beyond pet peeves or merely irksome clichés.

And so it went.

He was with two different people--one who finally warmed up to him--albeit later and later--each day, and the other suffering increasingly disturbing 3:00 AM affronts she dreamed at his hands. Morning after morning, outrage accumulated incrementally, and she became more belligerent. Ultimately, his loving partner was gone altogether: he was only with one person, a person who would never warm up to him by day's end. Someone who was acting like she hated him.

"We should go see someone," he finally suggested. He knew that all this was not what she had bargained for in a relationship--and certainly not with him. "Let's make an appointment for you."

"For me?"

"OK, for both of us. Get ourselves back on track. We certainly can go see someone together, if that's the way you want."

"See someone together? With you? I don't think so. There's something evil going on here. And it's not with me. Did you know you're beating me every night now?" He found this ironic, as he was the only one getting battered each 3 AM. "The things you're doing to me!" she continued. "You tie me up. You lock me in closets. You push me down. You throw lit cigarettes on me."

"My God! Who is this you're talking about? I don't even smoke, for Christ's sake! Sweetheart, please! There are issues you have with me, clearly. But our love is strong. You know that. We need to identify those issues, defuse them, so you can love me as much in the middle of the night as you did before."

"Last night you sexually assaulted me! That's the last straw!"

"They're not real straws!" he shouted, clearly vexed. "They're dream straws. They don't count. You're drinking the Kool-Aid from bad straws."

"Not funny," she quipped angrily.

"Wow," he sighed. Then, in exasperation, "They're dreams! Put this into perspective, my love. It's not me. We need counseling. Y'know, like the mental health experts say."

"No!" she said. "We're not salvageable! I don't want you. I deserve better. I'm pretty and young, still."

"What's that supposed to mean! I love you so much. More than anyone could. Do you really think you can find someone who loves you more than me? That would be impossible!"

"Oh, but I can. I will. It's easy. I dreamt you up, didn't I? I can just as easily dream up someone else."

That night she slept alone, relieved, unburdened, and available.