Archive-name: Dreams/halflife.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Halflife of Dreams, The


   In the smooth blue mist of the night, a figure is dimly
visible in the distance.  As the shapes and sensations of barely
recognizable events drift past he pursues the figure, or he
thinks he does.  The pace of the shifting memories quickens, but
he will not be daunted, he feels passionately driven to fix the
vision of the figure before, before...  It seems to be getting
closer now, a woman with raven black hair.  As the distant figure
gathers out of the mist, others appear as well.  One of the
shapes edges towards him.

   At work, and his hands seem glued to the keytops of the
computer console.  One report after another flows from mind to
hand to screen to paper, they come and go so quickly that he can
hardly even remember what he's writing.  But he doesn't really
care, as his focus shifts to the small square of the cursor
blinking patiently, it always scoots to the right just in time to
avoid being trampled by yet another letter pursuing it's own
journey from mind to paper.  In the pulsing of the little square
he fancies he sees her.  Who?  But she's gone again, just a
fleeting tickle in the back of his mind, enough to stir him back
to the task at hand.

   Some more coffee just may banish this nagging vision long
enough to finish these reports.  As he picks up his mug and heads
to the other room for a refill the monitor blinks out, in seeming
approval.  Why don't they just let me DO what I do best, instead
of always writing these infernal reports about it.

   He walks the path to the coffee machine without the slightest
regard for his surroundings, completely preoccupied with his
thoughts.  Perhaps it's time for a change of jobs, or ... Yes, a
vacation.  

   The images cascade freely out as if they were themselves a
wave crashing upon the sand that courses between his feet.  The
sand crabs edge by skidishly as they forage for the tidbits that
float in the brine.  The coast is a wonderful place to loose it
all, always touching some primal place in his soul.  A day could
be as simple as a swim and a read, or stretch out to include
sumptuous dinning and lively conversation.

   The smell of the coffee snaps him back. The sand crabs return
to a darkened recess of his mind where they continue their
business undisturbed, until called upon once again to dance
across the playing field of his mind.  He takes a sip of the warm
coffee as he starts back to his office, stepping nimbly aside as
the commuter train whisks by toward Oak Park.

   If I catch the 10:18 I'll get to O'Hare by 11.  He still
hadn't checked to see whether the secretary had pre-booked the
seat or not, but either way he'd have enough time.  He places his
coat over the back of the seat and once again removes the plastic
cover from his coffee, still hoping that by the time he finished
the cup it would clear his mind of the remaining wounds from the
previous night's drinking.

   As he surveys the faces of his fellow passengers he feels a
sense of consolation as many of them slowly nurse a cup of joe,
or gaze out through dark sunglasses, in spite of the gray
overcast that obscures the sky, from the lake well into the west. 
He settles for a lazy view out the window, as the scenery bounces
by.

   In the distance, down a broad alley, he sees the Blue Moon,
the dance hall where he had often drank as a teenager.  This is
where he played his first game of pool, learned to polka and slam
dance, even bought his first condom, from the machine in the mens
room.

   Sheila was older than he was, but after much prodding from
Tom, the bartender whom he'd known since he was a kid, and some
number of vodka-tonics, he finally makes his move.  He plunks a
couple of quarters into the jukebox and picks out a few songs. 
First a song a little slower than whatever is playing, anything
would prove a welcome respite to the incessant Barry Manilow and
Bee-Gees, then a classic show tune, and then the polkas.

   Wednesday nights are his favorites, the crowd is a good mix of
young and old.  The working stiffs are tired, and will leave at
the slightest provocation once the clock gets past ten-thirty -
his song selection providing that impetus.  The older folks, his
real friends, were in no hurry, they lived for their polkas,
bingo and gin.  Those that remained were either other kids like
himself, the invisible hangers-on that slipped in and out of
society as it suit them, or else people with a need - a shoulder
to cry on, a drink to lean on, or a body to press against in the
night, to wash away whatever chains of shame or loneliness or
guilt bind them into that closed box of urban night life.

   She's in this last group, he's sure.  He slowly winds his way
over to her, dodging the remaining pool players and dart boards
as he approaches her table near the dance floor.  Sheila
nervously pushes about the butts in her ashtray with her
smoldering Salem, hoping that the recent exodus of people from
the bar won't mean another night ending at bar time, with her
barely sober enough to make the drive home.  She's brushing her
long black hair from in front of her face as he makes it to the
table.

   He asks her if she wants to dance.  She's a bit apprehensive
at first, this lanky kid in the shark skin suit isn't exactly her
type, but the very idea of being asked to dance a polka by anyone
younger than thirty peeks her interest.  As soon as they hit the
floor he's on automatic pilot.  Ol' Frankie had taught him well,
he knew that.  There's barely a soul on this side of town who can
polka like he can, and before long she's caught up in the energy
and excitement of the dance.  The old timers give him plenty of
room on the floor, he's their boy, as they keep dropping quarters
into the record machine.

   By the time the music stops they're laughing and giggling as
they applaud their own performance.  For the first time since
seeing her from the bar he sizes her up on the way back to her
table.  Her black hair flies out in a wild spray from her head,
with curls so chaotic that they had to be real.  The sweat from
the dancing outlines her breasts perfectly in the now nearly
transparent fabric of the danskin she wears.  An ankle length
denim skirt, cut to hug from waist to hip, and habatchi sandals
complete the outfit that marks her as someone not given to the
trend of the moment.

   He drops into the empty seat, already envisioning her body
riding up and down on him with the same careless energy and
rampant lust for excitement that she displayed on the dance
floor, when she surprises him with the question.  She is still
standing, one hand on the back of her chair the other on her out
thrust hip, as she asks simply, "Do you want to come over to my
place, I've got a dance I'd love to teach you."

   The night turns into one long delirious orgasm, neither of
them noticing the sun's tentative arrival in the eastern sky.  He
buries his face between her legs, wanting, for once, to give a
woman the greatest pleasure he can, rather than just satisfying
some inner feeling that this is what she expects.  As he tastes
the saltiness of her musk he feels driven from deep inside,
eliciting shrieks and moans from her without a single thought for
what he is doing.  He hardly even feels his own erection bouncing
against her leg as he focuses on, even feels, her excitement
building.  Somewhere in the back of his mind he realizes that
what he'd been doing up until now was having sex, this is making
love.

   With a deep guttural moan she pushes him back, and then pulls
him up to face her.  As he props himself up on his hands, she
grasps his erection with one hand, spreading her lips with the
other, pulling him into her.  He is amazed at his own passiveness
in all of this, he is drawn along, his every motion directed by
some other mind.  With every thrust they stare into each other's
eyes, a tantric lust passing between them far surpassing any
single sensation he has felt before.

   For awhile her ear or shoulder or knee becomes a point of
focus for him.  He has not a single thought other than to consume
her, or feel her.  She rubs his chest and nipples with one hand
while slowly, gently consuming him.  Slowly drawing him into her
mouth and then tickling him with her tongue while pulling away.  He finds even
more arousal in watching her movements, her lips on
him, the clarity in her face, her breast sliding up and down
along his thigh, than in the sensations coming from his groin.

   Then she rises, half silhouetted in the breaking dawn, and
mounts him.  There's no question but that she is in control,
although he senses from the look in her eyes that she too is
being lead by some deeper spirit.  As she rides him up and down
he remembers his impression from earlier in the night, as he
imagined the diaphanous fabric of her danskin melting away and
her skirt falling in threads as she humped him wildly.

   But now it was not wild.  Last night seems so far away - he,
in his shark skin suit, out for a piece of ass, and she, another
lonely drinker praying that the night would soon end, even though
a lifetime of them lay on the horizon.  As he felt yet another
orgasm building he looks up to her eyes.  Her face is cast in the
mold of Aphrodite, eyes closed and a mouth without a smile
displaying the most sublime pleasure.  They move together toward
the precipice.

   "Would you like some more tea?", his mother asks.  He wheels
around, profoundly embarrassed at the sound of her voice.  Even
as he realizes the absurdity of her presence here in Sheila's
apartment the world starts do slip away.  "Mom!  What are you
doing here?" barely makes it's way out of his mouth than he
starts to sense the room around him, and the sound of the morning
traffic report blaring through the tinny speaker of the clock
radio.  With a swing befitting a Golden Gloves boxer fighting for
his right to the belt he smacks the snooze button and rolls over.

   Closing his eyes he starts to plunge deep into his mind
fighting against time to catch the remaining vestiges of the
image.  Racing against the clock, and the diminishing halflife of
dreams.

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