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I don’t have the heart to tell him I was alone. I’m always alone. He’d worry if I told him how invisible and empty I am inside. Some things are better left unsaid.
It doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn to an all too familiar one. “Have you decided on a school?”
“No, but I’m headed upstairs to do some research now.” That pleases him enough to turn his attention back to the TV. I hate lying to him, but my focus and path don’t align with his.
“Do you want something to eat?” he asks.
“No thanks, I ate at the mall,” I reply then sprint up the stairs before he switches back to my life plans, or lack thereof.
From a freshly graduated teen’s perspective, my life is lame. Friday night and I’m sitting at home. Alone. Most everyone I know are likely sleeping off hangovers from last night’s graduation parties I didn’t get invited to. Not that I would have gone anyway. And though I hate to admit it, every once in a while it would still be nice to be acknowledged.
“Ugh, this is such a waste of time,” I mumble aloud as I fumble through numerous open tabs on my web browser. It’s like my brain thinks if I click really fast through them the magical career fairy will land on the lucky winner and the choice will be made for me and I’ll live happily ever after. The thought of devoting four years of my life and an endless life plagued by student debt only makes it worse. But I know I can’t continue working at the dry cleaner for much longer. It’s a dead-end, minimum-wage job that I could never live off of. Frustrated, I shut the computer down, run a hot bath, and call it a night after that. Basking in the bubbles, contemplating life and whatnot, dozing off and on, I’m thankful the tub is a perfect fit for me so I won’t drown. I’ve fallen asleep in here more times than I can count. Though I didn’t expect a simple nod to fall into such a deep dreamstate, drawing me back to where last night’s dream left off.
My face, still cradled in his hands. Our lips mere inches apart. I’m surprised at myself that I find solace in his embrace, given I’m one who cares to be touched.
Quivers of anticipation coarse through me as he tilts my head upward. I’m finally going to see who this mysterious man is and I’m happy to report I’m not disappointed. Michelangelo himself couldn’t have sculpted a more flawless piece of art.
His lips, a blushful shade of red and so close to mine. God, how badly I want to touch him. But he is in control, I’m but a puppet and he my puppet master. Expressive yet familiar espresso brown eyes and thick lashes, staring down at me in wonder. Is he as curious as I? Has he felt the spark, the magnetic pull pulsing between us? His thick, dark brown locks are so silky my fingers long to run through them.
I finally mustered the courage to ask his name when he speaks, “Jess, it’s me, David.”
The air is striken from my lungs, bursting forth as it swirls like a cyclone outside my body. His last words as I gasp for breath, startled awake replay like a broken record. It’s me, David. I want to go back to sleep but the adrenaline rocking through me won’t allow for it.
Fuck. My. Life.
I grab a towel and race across the room, nearly falling on my ass as I fumble to boot up the computer. Repeatedly pushing the power button isn’t going to make it go any faster. I rip the desk chair out, plopping my butt down. As soon as it’s loaded I open the internet browser and type in David Cordova then impatiently tap my foot in the puddle building beneath me while the results take their sweet ass time to load. I probably should’ve dried off first, you know safety and all that. But my brain is hyperfocused on figuring this shit out. If that really is David, my David, where’s he been? Why is my brain conjuring him up now after all these years? And the ultimate question —what the hell is going on?
Shit, two million, eight hundred, ninety thousand results were found. Okay, obviously I need to be more specific so I type in: David Cordova, Royal Oaks, MI. Well, that narrows the search down to a mere one hundred and fifty-five thousand. Damn good thing I’m wide ass awake now, looks like I’m in for a long night.
“Okay, Jess, you can do this.” I draw in a deep, cleansing breath to steady my nerves and click on the first one. Not him, next. One by one, I work my way through the massive list and after several wasted hours, I call it a night. On the bright side, it seems he hasn’t been to jail nor done anything bad. People love to put that shit on the internet. Nothing came up on YouTube, Facebook, or Instagram—there is literally nothing anywhere. It’s like he never existed. Was that really David, or was this just one giant mind fuck?
The Nightmare Before Christmas ringtone on my phone blares and I damn near fall off the chair. The caller ID shows an unknown number but I answer it anyway.
“Hello?” I ask, wondering who’d call me at this hour of the night, err, morning.
“Hello, Jess, it’s David,” he pauses. His voice has every hair on my body standing on end. “I need to see you. Are you available tonight?”
Apprehensively, I mutter, “How did you get my number?”
But that question boes unanswered as he continues on. “I’ll meet you after work. You get off at seven, right?”
“How do you know where I work? How do you know when I get off?” My voice elevates with each syllable as I freak the fuck out but he hangs up without answering any of my questions.
What the fuck just happened?
How can you dream about someone you haven’t seen in years and then get a phone call from a person claiming to be them? It’s like I’m living in an alternate universe.
Somehow, my shaky legs carry me safely downstairs and to the couch. I drop and snag the remote then mindlessly flip through the channels like it’s a competition. How quickly can they change? Let’s test that theory. This is not calming the heart threatening to beat out my chest. If anything, the faster I flip, the faster it beats and the infomercials are kinda pissing me off.
But god, the image of dream David has my heart racing for a totally different reason. Errant thoughts venturing into erotic fantasy mode. Without approval, my subconscious chooses to place virtual David and I into some very precarious positions. And damn, dream Jess is a hot seductress. My hand slides south, between the warmth of my thighs. How long has it been since I got myself off?
“Ahh,” I moan, beyond thankful my parents are in bed. One finger teases my clit as another slides inside. The wetter I get, the harder my breaths come. As I near release, my mother walks in, abruptly ending the seductive enslavement and spoiling a much-needed ending.
If men get blue balls when they don’t come, what do women get? Angry snatch syndrome? Blue bitch? Either way, I’m not a happy girl and the disgusted look on her face takes away whatever blue there was and replaces it with red-faced embarassment. To avoid further discussions I do not want to have on this subject, I run and hide in my room.
“Jess, what’s up with you? Do you realize you’re about to add bleach to a load of colored laundry?” Leah barks.
“Oh crap, sorry. I’m meeting a friend after work that I haven’t seen since grade school and I’m really nervous.” That seems to piss her off even more.
