Never a Lover

I'm younger; I can feel that immediately. It's not that I have fewer aches and pains, or even that I'm thin with perky breasts. It's more like my spirit feels lighter, less burdened by time. I breathe easier; again, not in a physical sense, but in the sense that I have yet to fill my lungs with air taken in gasps of fear or gulps of rage. My lungs are still breathing out whimpers of surprise, sighs of joy, moans of pleasure.

He's sitting here in front of me. I can see him clearly with my youthful eyes. His hair is a little redder, his face glowing white, and I know when I taste him, my mouth will fill with the spicy tingle of ginger his appearance suggests. His face isn't new to me; I recognized it right away. I remember him from before. I have always been looking for him, and I'm overjoyed to find we're together again. Finally.

I know this is a dream.

He's younger in this dream. Well, maybe not younger, but not as jaded, not as faded. He's sitting in front of me in living color, so bright. Kodachrome. So there. Maybe in this dream, he hasn't had to deal with the things that have erased his being, leaving room only for hiding behind a bottle or collapsing in fear. In this dream world, he's not been hurt as much, isn't hiding, has no need for the things he thinks define him, but which only really betray his loneliness.

I used to look for him in the waking world, hoping to find glimpses, not even knowing if he really existed. I saw him in the faces of actors who had the right color hair or the proper jawline. I saw him in Ziggy Stardust and The Doctor's shoes. When I finally found him, however, time was against us.

“You're here!” My heart skips a few beats.

“I thought maybe you had forgotten me. It's been so long.” He brushes a stray hair from my face.

“Not me,” I smile at him. “Never me. How could I forget you? I live for when we can be together again.” I brush his cheek lightly with one finger, “Maybe I'm dead now.”

“No.” He sighs, “Not yet. You're dreaming."

“Then I don't want to wake.”

**********

I wake up, the weight of years settling on me as I stir from sleep. I struggle - battle - to get back to him. I can't leave him there without me.

I drift in and out of sleep, but always find myself with him again. He's so beautiful with his demons not yet having taken a hold of his heart. He was beautiful in real life, only it was a biting beauty tinged with sadness. Reality is the place I try so hard not to return to. Reality is where I’m filled with insane quantities of love, and no place to put it. Reality is where I am content just having known him. Reality is where my capacity to love stopped with him.

He broke me.

**********

I think back to when I first met him in the real world. This was back when I measured time by check marks on the calendar every 28 days, instead of filling pill organizer trays every two weeks. His beauty was obvious, even to someone whose preferences were almost the polar opposite, like me. You could see it - his beauty, I mean - best when he didn't know you were looking, when he wasn't alone. Sometimes, however, the sadness demanded to be seen, and he couldn't hide it for long. The sadness sat in the corners of his eyes, pulling them down ever so slightly with its weight. It slipped behind his smile, so just as he started to shine, the light would dull as if he had suddenly remembered he didn't deserve to be happy. It clung to his shoulders, weighed him down, made him constantly move, almost dance from person to person, talking fast and making people laugh almost desperately. There was sadness there so old he thought it was a part of him. It made me want to hold him and change the past, alter the things that made his quiet beauty frantic, but never fix him. No, never fix him. All those things made him exactly who he grew to be. Without those experiences, he would have been just another guy. He was perfect exactly the way he was. I like it best, though, in my dreams, where our happiness outshines the sun, and colors are brighter, voices more melodic, and touch much more intense. Where we are together.

I wake briefly. My lips are dry. I try to lick them, but there's no moisture to spare. I reach up to move aside the wisps of hair from my face, now stuck to my cheeks with tears. I see the gnarled, bony protuberances that were once my hands, now more claw-like with age. I don't have the strength to turn over. I sleep and dream.

This long night of dreaming is stirring a part of me that has long been asleep. In my dream, I'm how I remember being, how I still see myself (which explains why I'm so startled whenever I look in the mirror; who is that old woman?). In the reality I'm living now I don't know how to make love in this body, but in my dream I can still move like I always did. The love-making is second nature, powerful, intense.

It starts with him leaning in and kissing me. Gods, I don't even know how to kiss anymore! My dream self knows, and takes over for me, brushing aside my now-brain that's getting in the way. I kiss him back. His tongue is in my mouth, and mine in his, and he tastes like the ocean, salty and fresh, leaving me thirsty for more. I drink him in, having been so long in the desert. Will be so long in the desert? The tenses are so hard to keep straight. Does it matter? It's all now, anyway.

I know it's only a dream.

My sleeping body now, as I dream this, is on fire like it hasn't been in a long while. My nipples want to harden, and slowly comply as they figuratively dust themselves off, remembering the feel of a tongue gently licking, lips softly sucking, fingers playfully flicking. They grow bold with the memory and rub against the fabric of the bedding as they remember what to do.

My body shudders in relief, and a moan croaks from my throat, waking me. I blink slowly, trying to peer into the darkness.

How cruel are the gods? I'm given the blessing of dreams so beautiful, I never want to leave, then get thrust back into reality. Do they laugh at me? Is this amusing for them, to torment an old woman? This time, when I sleep, I do not dream.

**********

I awaken with an audible pop, like bursting through a bubble into reality. For the first time in a long while I'm dry and warm. My lips are still chapped, though, and I try to lick them, but I don't seem to have the strength. I can't even open my eyes.

So thirsty. Seconds later I feel a cold, wet cloth press to my lips, and a few drops of wonderful water fall into my mouth. An angel read my thoughts. I try to open my mouth wider, a baby bird begging for worms, but I can't move. A few more drops of water - not nearly enough - and I hear the cloth being tossed into a metal bowl. There's a slight ring as the washcloth hits the inside of the bowl. Who knew we all have a catalog of sounds that we can identify without context? A moment later I feel something soothing and gooey being spread on my lips I sink back into sleep.

“They won't let you die.” He's holding me, nuzzling my neck and whispering in my ear. I can feel his breath vibrate the little hairs in my ears, and I scrunch my shoulder up to my ear.

“Why not?” I'm bewildered. I have nothing to contribute to society. Why must I be here? I have no knowledge to share, no wisdom to impart, and no one to impart it to if I did have a hidden nugget or two, so why are they wasting time on me? “What should I do?”

“Live.”

Without him?

I wake again. This time I can open my eyes. There's someone here, sitting by the bed, looking at something in his lap. I can't see his face, as he's looking down, but his deep auburn hair makes my heart jump. This can’t be real.

I can feel clean fabric against my skin, and the blanket is different than the one already on my bed. Someone must have changed the bedding while I was unconscious. My skin burns in embarrassment, and I know my cheeks are bright red. Did this stranger undress and bathe me? I turn my head and see the nightstand. There’s a metal bowl with water, a smaller bowl with broth or something dark in it, a jar of Vaseline, and cotton swabs. It must have been this guy who gave me water when I woke last. I hear the rhythmic call of a heart monitor.

I try to speak, to clear my throat and make sounds come out, but I think I've forgotten how. I must have made some noise, though, because the man by my bed looks up sharply. He has tear stains on both cheeks. Despite the auburn hair, I can see it’s not him, not the man I wish him to be. The hair color is the same, but the style is different, and that sharp, burning beauty doesn’t live in this person.

He closes the book he's reading and puts it on the bed. It's my old photo album. It's all I have left! Why does he have it? Who told him he could look at it? Hot tears form in my eyes and spill over. They burn as they roll down my face.

“No need for that, now.” His voice is smooth and silky. There's a slight accent I can't place, Boston, maybe, yet his voice is familiar. He reaches over and dries my tears tenderly, making me want to cry even more. The man I visit in my dreams was never my lover, sadly, but he was my friend. He was the last person to dry my tears, and now this man by my bed has taken that from me, as well. This stranger took my tears, the only thing I have left to give.

The newcomer leans over me and sits me up, putting more pillows behind me. When was the last time I was sitting upright? I never expected to wake up at all, much less sit up. I can't see clearly, and I realize I'm not wearing my glasses.

“Don't try to talk yet. Let's get you hydrated and a bit stronger. We have plenty of time to talk later.” He's whispering.

I see the photo album on the bed and reach for it. He picks it up and sets it on my lap. It's so heavy. All those memories have made the weight of this book almost unbearable. He opens the book to the first page, and there I am, smiling at my friend, not the camera. The pages show evidence of all those years I spent content to have him by my side; just a friend, though I longed for more. Time is a cruel prankster, however, and now it's too late.

I weep.