Crepuscular Rose
In the dream there were rolling hills like green flannel over bent knees. She gazed out at her feet, fascinated by the glinting shards of grass, while he, standing tall and proud, gazed straight ahead, towards the horizon line. They stood blinking in the bright light, holding hands. Before them was a little man who beckoned them forward.
“Now, if you’ll just repeat after: me one step forward, two steps back, three steps forward, one step back…”
They repeated the lines carefully and as they did, a soft wind picked them out, swirling through their hair, and slowly they glided forward.
There wasn’t much to see. The sky stayed blue as the hills rolled forward. After awhile, they began to look at each other. It was there the change was wrought. No sooner had they started gazing at each other than the man’s hair did seem dry and grey while her hand in his became dry and leathery.
She woke up with a fright. The bed she lay in was hard and there were more pillows than she could remember. She turned her head to the right and saw two men, slumbering beside her. She felt around her and saw her feet, still covered with shoes. The emerald dress she wore was crumpled and damp. She had a feverish memory of people standing around her, in the dark, asking about, not knowing their faces. A vaguely acidic chemical smell still curled around her nose, making the whites seem more sterile.
There was a sound from the adjacent room. She peeled herself quickly off the bed, found her jacket, opened the door quietly and slipped out into the cool morning air.
She was a young married woman, in her early thirties, still filled with the bloom of teenage youth. It was an early Sunday morning and the normally bustling streets were empty and rose coloured. The infrequent cars passed by like dark random sheets of paper. Every other second she saw herself reflected in the glass, unchanged.
Climbing up the final block, her anxiety mounted. Her husband would be at home, having slept alone there the whole night. Soon her key would pass in the lock, the lavender orange smell of the kitchen would be the same, and she would be able to shed her clothes and take a shower.
Except she was so tired, and the world was still turning on its head. And he was there, in the bed, curled up like a child. His hair was still curly and his eyes unworn. She slipped by his side, embracing the edge. Darkness swarmed around her and the last thing she could remember was the dull chill that still hugged her feet.
“Now, if you’ll just repeat after: me one step forward, two steps back, three steps forward, one step back…”
They repeated the lines carefully and as they did, a soft wind picked them out, swirling through their hair, and slowly they glided forward.
There wasn’t much to see. The sky stayed blue as the hills rolled forward. After awhile, they began to look at each other. It was there the change was wrought. No sooner had they started gazing at each other than the man’s hair did seem dry and grey while her hand in his became dry and leathery.
She woke up with a fright. The bed she lay in was hard and there were more pillows than she could remember. She turned her head to the right and saw two men, slumbering beside her. She felt around her and saw her feet, still covered with shoes. The emerald dress she wore was crumpled and damp. She had a feverish memory of people standing around her, in the dark, asking about, not knowing their faces. A vaguely acidic chemical smell still curled around her nose, making the whites seem more sterile.
There was a sound from the adjacent room. She peeled herself quickly off the bed, found her jacket, opened the door quietly and slipped out into the cool morning air.
She was a young married woman, in her early thirties, still filled with the bloom of teenage youth. It was an early Sunday morning and the normally bustling streets were empty and rose coloured. The infrequent cars passed by like dark random sheets of paper. Every other second she saw herself reflected in the glass, unchanged.
Climbing up the final block, her anxiety mounted. Her husband would be at home, having slept alone there the whole night. Soon her key would pass in the lock, the lavender orange smell of the kitchen would be the same, and she would be able to shed her clothes and take a shower.
Except she was so tired, and the world was still turning on its head. And he was there, in the bed, curled up like a child. His hair was still curly and his eyes unworn. She slipped by his side, embracing the edge. Darkness swarmed around her and the last thing she could remember was the dull chill that still hugged her feet.
