Suddenly, pop, gone, the bubble pricked. Leaving a hole and a bruise where before sweet fantasy ruled.
But so what, that’s what sexual love is, one part actuality, three parts dream. Take away the dream, the excitement evaporates. Leaving behind mere mechanics.
The airless London night quiet outside the windows. Tossing around on the bed, trying to understand. The world out there, an infinity of physical things, some more significant than others, the distinction lying in our minds. Does that make it all a dream? Probably. So, Carol, three parts dream, same as everything else.
So here I am in the heat, restless, my brain feeling like a garden with an uprooted tree, the earth all disturbed and ragged and hurting. Nothing to do but gently rake it over, smooth the surfaces, let it settle, let some plants regrow. Familiar feeling, part of having an active life. But still painful. And still demanding of time for recovery.
Giving up on sleep. Getting up from the bed, going to the kitchen, turning on the kettle, making tea. Thinking, this would have been the next step with Carol, spending the night together, getting up in the morning, making stuff in the kitchen for breakfast. Sleepy bodies hugging, her nipples behind a thin gown against my chest. Oh well, not to be.
Drinking a few sips of tea. Letting it go cold. Getting back to bed. My wife tuning over, sensing my restlessness, stroking my shoulder. Sweet woman, sweet in many important ways.
Finally, sinking into sleep, heavy and full of dreams. Seemingly a few minutes only, suddenly, the sound of curtains being opened and the room filled with sunshine. Another day arrived, time for action.
