angel sitting there right next to me on the side of my bed
while I’m sleeping
Yet even another dream sequence? Hey, if I could learn to like chick flicks, I could at least tolerate one more dream sequence. So can you! Here goes.
I woke up in the middle of the night and there she was, just sitting there next to me on the side of the bed. “Miss me?” said Fanny, taking my hand.
Only like I miss breathing.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
She was so sweet; but then again, aren’t romantic dreams always that way? Sugar-coated?
I asked her why she left?
“When you say to a girl the things you said to me, it’s bound to send her running.”
I told her I was sorry. It was the concussion talking.
“Now, come on Arlen. Don’t you think it’s time you start being honest with me?”
I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Your friend, Arlen?” she said, tapping my head. “You’re little friend?”
How did she know about my little friend? Who told?
“I always knew. You can’t hide anything from me.”
I asked her what it was I said that sent her running?
“Honestly?”
Honestly.
“You said, ‘I know who you are. I know all about you.’”
And?
“You told me you were going to crack my skull wide open so you could look and see what’s inside.”
I said that?
“I mean, that’s one way of getting close to a gal.”
I told her I didn’t remember saying that. Even so, I told her I didn’t mean it.
“I know,” she said. “You were just having one of your little spells.”
Then, she told me that wasn’t the real reason she left.
“No, Arlen. Poor, sweet Arlen. The reason I left was the same reason any girl would have.”
What was that? Because I wouldn’t kiss you?
“No, silly. It’s because you didn’t trust me. Without trust, we really have nothing at all.”
There it was. I knew she knew. So right then and there, I decided to tell her all about my messed-up life, and my big fat brain.
I apologized for not being open and honest with her before, and for threatening to spill her brains out all over the floor.
“You see?” she said. “Now, that wasn’t so hard?”
It really wasn’t. I felt much better.
After it was all over, I asked her if I could kiss her now.
“It wouldn’t count,” she said.
Wouldn’t count?
“First kiss,” she said.
Why not, I asked her?
“For one thing,” she said, “this is a dream.
Right.
“For another, what about HER?”
Her?
“You know who I’m talking about.”
I really didn’t.
She raised one eyebrow. I love it when women do that: raise one eyebrow. Like Gail Russel in Angel and the Badman.
You know what raising one eyebrow means? Mild disappointment. MILD disappointment. I could live with that.
“HER,’ she said again.
Oh. I got it. I apologized for all the pornography.
“No,” she said.
Oh. Then I really got it: Maybe. MAYBE.
I told her I was sorry about Maybe.
“Maybe?”
Yeah, May B. McGillicuddy. The prostitute.
“McGillicuddy?”
I know. I told her I didn’t get the whole Irish inference, either.
“You had to go and do it?” said Fanny. “You just couldn’t wait?”
I told her I was sorry. In my defense, I really did believe she was never coming back.
“That’s how lovers do,” said Fanny. “Sometimes they love; sometimes they fight. Always, they do it in the extreme.”
Like TNT!
Lovers? OMG. Before, she was just my girlfriend. Now, we were lovers? Sounded so mature.
I told her: If it helps, I didn’t enjoy it. The prostitute, I mean. I was lying.
“Truth is,” said Fanny, “it’s not all the fucking that even bothers me. You can fuck a dog or a goat, I don’t care.”
I do.
“The act of fucking is about as intimate as humping a hippopotamus. The thing that really bothers me is the kissing. You kissed her, didn’t you Arlen? That first kiss was supposed to be mine.”
I told her I was sorry, again, and that—Wait! Kissing? Hold on, I told her: There was no kissing. I never kissed her, not even once.
“Really?”
No, ma’am. Not even a peck on the cheek.
“Well, then” said Fanny, “that’s different. Never mind.”
See how important that first kiss is? Never mind, was right. Subject dropped. Wrath turned instantly to soft, mushy tenderness. Wow. What a rollercoaster. I love rollercoasters.
I told her how much I missed her, and asked her if she would come back to me.
“It’s not that simple,” she said.
Why not?
“Oh Arlen, you know I can’t come back, not with your little friend still calling the shots.” She ran her fingers through my hair.
I asked her what I could do. What could I do to get her back?
“You know what you have to do,” she said. “You have to take care of business.”
Take care of business?
“Your little friend?”
Ah, yes: my little friend. I knew exactly what she meant. The question now wasn’t IF, but HOW, and exactly HOW MUCH.
Next thing I knew, she was gone. I woke up in a pool of sweat. You know: the usual.
And I never did get that kiss. Didn’t matter. It was just a dream, anyway.
Contrary to popular belief, you can’t do whatever you want in your own dreams. You simply don’t have control. Nobody does, no matter what they tell you. And okay, Dr. Zaslow, I get the message: NO MORE DREAM SEQUENCES!!!
