When Dreams Are All That's Left

Crystal Lake, Sullivan County, New York

Last night I had a dream. Vivid. Dusturbing. Sort of. Yet pleasant. Perhaps it’s the creatine supplement I’ve been taking before bed to maintain muscle mass, or the Oscar-winning short films I’ve been watching, or the election results I’ve been mulling over. Or maybe I’m just getting old, and dreams are the only thing that seem to make sense anymore.

In my dream I’m tall and handsome, and I know what’s what and where to put it. At least for a while.

Here it goes, so help me God.

An AI generated image ( Chatbot App)

“I’ve never swum naked in a lake, or done LSD, or robbed a bank.” She’s listing the things she’s never done. Let’s call her Olga, a dental hygienist who wants to try everything at least once. We met two hours ago. The inside of her arm brushed against my lips as she was water-picking my molars and telling me about obnoxious Americans in her native Haiti.

The bustling markets in Port-au-Prince, the vibrant colors, the intoxicating rhythms. I could see it all—women in patterned dresses carrying baskets of fruit on their heads, children playing soccer with makeshift balls. Maybe I was imagining Gauguin’s Tahiti, but it felt authentic somehow.

My wife, trying to wake me up

I’ll never know what possessed me—my mouth open, my eyes closed—to invite her to skinny-dip in Liberty, NY, and watch the sunset from my summer house on the lake, where migrating birds stop for a drink and deer forage in the backyard for mushrooms. She’d agreed even before I felt guilty for lying (the house belongs to my friend, and I’m not a pharmaceutical rep.)

Somewhere over the rainbow. Upstate NY.

My friend is abroad, my wife’s at a yoga retreat in Ecuador, and my heart’s beating as fast as it did in high school. No, faster—a hazard at my age. Yet I try to stay cool (years of practicing alone), letting her light a joint in the car and rest her feet on the dashboard (something I never let my wife do, even when we were dating).

By the time we arrive, the fog has swallowed the sun and is now rolling over the lake in paper-thin sheets, like pages torn from an ancient manuscript. My palms haven’t been this sweaty since 1982, when my friend had three of his ribs fractured in a karate class and asked me to take his girlfriend to prom.

Sunset. Cochecton, NY

As we step out of the car, Olga undresses to a pulsating internal music and runs into the water, giggling. “Come! Come!” she chirps. Do I need this right now? Dear God, why have you forsaken me? Time is crawling, the water must be freezing, the leaves have turned to rust.

I stand frozen at the shore, toes numb in the sand, watching her float in the dark water, weightless. She laughs from the lake, and I pretend to smile, an ache settling somewhere deep, where the thrill used to be. The fog thickens, veiling her silhouette. It’s almost beautiful, the way things fade.

Now I just have to convince my wife that Olga was a stand-in for her. You know how dreams are.

Walking somewhere. Upstate NY

Thanks for reading and being a subscriber.

‘Til next time.
ak