Conversations with the Moon

Conversations with the Moon

  A Short Story

  D. J. Mitchell

  Copyright 2011 D. J. Mitchell

  It was the kind of dream that changes you: the images sharp, the colors memorable, the smells so real that they linger in fragmented images in the awakening mind. I sat up and shook my head. I knew the place well, the place in the dream. I knew the smells and the colors, the musty, jungle green and the heavy moistness of the air. And it had been her-- I had spoken to her, touched her, smelled the coconut oil as I ran my fingers through her long, black hair.

  I breathed deep, but it was not her scent that filled my nostrils. There, on the edge of my bed, it was the scent of a home and two bodies, comfortable, settled, the smells of two people sleeping. And in the soft light I could see the woman I had chosen, her body tangled in a pile of sheets, a soft, familiar weight next to me. Her face was turned away from me, her hair and skin a colorless shade of gray in the shadowed light, yet my memory supplied the familiar colors, the yellow of her hair and the pale pinkness of her skin. I felt the warm the softness of her even without her touch. This was the woman I had planned to spend my life with. Yes, I had given the promise to her, the promise meant for someone else so long ago.

  And now that someone else had come to me again, as if in a dream—no, this time it had been a dream. But I’d felt the stirring, forgotten yet familiar, and I knew with all my heart… I shook my head as my eyes rested gently on the familiar form beside me in the shadows. I felt the sorrow rise in me, for I knew that I would leave her.

  There is a loneliness one feels in the night on the edge of a bed: an alienation, a solitude so much like death. I crawled into the bed and pulled the covers up, but the solitude followed me. And there, in my comfort of my home with that familiar, devoted woman beside me, I was alone with the ceiling. When sleep came, it was dreamless, comfortless, and short.

  A California sunrise broke over the palm trees, dusting the white stucco of my house with pinkness. There were birds, of course, as there always are at sunrise. And there was me, alone, a solitary figure in a bamboo chair on the patio, steaming mug in hand, alone with the dew to watch the early inklings of a summer sun.

  I heard her first, soft footfalls across the patio, then felt her hands brush across my shoulders and drift downward as her arms enveloped me, a wayward curl of her blonde hair glistening upon my skin.

  “Hi,” she said, expecting no answer. I gave none, but felt a solitary tear on my cheek. I tried to blink it away, a last remnant of sleep, or of a dream.

  The pink air faded to cream and then to soft blue; another sip of coffee, lukewarm now in its heavy mug, its sharpness reminding me of all the tasks awaiting me in another dull suburban day. A comfortable day, familiar. That was my life. Like the feel of those familiar arms around me; the chains that bound me fit too well, and I would wear them for another day.

  Later, I would wash the last bite of bagel with a final cold sip of coffee, brush my teeth, and don my tie, that symbol of my servitude. And later still, I sat at my desk gazing emptily at figures on a page, my mind lost in memories and dreams, no longer separating which was which.

  I fought to bring my mind to bear on questions, reports, phone calls, and the issues of the present moment. In vain I fought, for nothing seemed as present as the yearning inside me, a yearning I had not felt in years now, nor had I believed it could be real. Youthful immaturity, I told myself. And youth, like everything, must die.

  Now I had a taste of a passion I’d forgotten. I longed for passion, even if it was the foolishness of youth. Passion like poetry, that shocks the heart awake. Damn the passion! For I had left those days behind, and built my little world of comfort. I had grown up, damn it! The truth was, though, I’d never felt the passion since, and thought I never could again.

  Like a photo long forgotten, the memory came crisply to me of that first night when I’d kissed her in the moonlight under palm trees in the humid air. Something had awakened in me then, as if I’d felt alive for the first time. And every time I dared to kiss her kindled once again the flame that burned me, yet I prayed that it would never die.

  Other nights I’d left her at her house, frustrated, angry, walking on the unpaved road and screaming curses at the tropic moon-- the locals certain I was mad. And so I was, mad with desire unfulfilled. But other times, the moon was my companion as I fumbled for my patience with a love that hung always just out of reach. The moon, my friend, would give me wisdom and clear thinking, as I puzzled through the mysteries of the burning in my heart.

  It ended, as we’d known it would: she left one afternoon, after the rains had passed. A car and driver, a door that slammed, and it was over, final words spat back in anger, mine never dreaming we would never speak again. And then the moon was confidant, confessor, as I cried the tears I’d show to no one else.

  And later, when the tears had dried and I had nothing left to say, my lunar conversations stopped, my heart becoming dull and quiet. Sometimes I would stop and watch the moon when it was full, and wonder then if she could see it, too. But life moved on, to comfort, settled California suburbs, and adulthood.

  Now here it was, a memory of intensity, desire, of wanting someone more than I could stand. Of love! Or was it? I could not say I did not love that comfortable woman who now shared my life.

  For lunch I ate a sandwich on the Promenade, watching people absently. And unexpectedly, I saw her, like a ghost, a specter of my past. I couldn’t see her face, but from behind I had no doubt: the long, black hair, the shape, the way she moved. I thought of going to her, then, to touch her shoulder, and she’d turn. I’d see her lips, familiar after all these years; her nose, the nose I never would forget. Black eyes would widen with surprise and recognition. What would she say then? Would she throw her arms around me? Kiss me? Or smile and say hi, and then move on? I dared not take the chance, and watched in silent safety from my seat.

  It wasn’t her, of course, not when she turned—I realized I’d been staring at a longhaired teenage boy. Oh, the tricks a mind can play!

  In the evening, I sat on the patio, the dregs of one more suburban day upon my mind. I felt the warm familiarity behind me once again. My thoughts ignored “How was your day,” and hid in silence for a bit, until her fingers grazed my skin.

  “You’re thinking of her,” she said, softly.

  I nodded slightly, shamed, but not enough to lie.

  “Are you going to go?” she asked, gently. She knew, I thought. Somehow, she understood.

  “I don’t know,” I said, and that was true.

  She held me for a while, and I felt her warmth against my back. And then she said the words I dreaded, words I knew. Somehow she knew my thoughts, but we had passed this way before.

  “She’s dead, you know,” she whispered.

  A half sob escaped my throat, and then my body shuddered with the tears I would not cry.

  “I know,” I said. For I had seen her body, broken, empty, eyes unseeing, the doctors’ tubes pulled out and hung on cold and sterile stainless arms. There was no life left in her, and something deep had died in me as well.

  “I know,” I said again, quiet now as the truth washed over me.

  She held me, comforting and comfortable, that woman I had shared so much with.

  “Come back to me,” she said, “and be with me.”

  I turned and held her, knowing this was home. After a while we made love, or I made love to her: slowly, in moves of tenderness and familiarity. And when my body granted its release, our eyes locked and it was her I saw, my partner, my companion, truly.

  Lying next to her, I dared not sleep, for sleep means dr
eaming, and in dreams one is never safe. Hours, or maybe minutes, passed before the day slipped from my grasp. Then I slept, and felt the heavy air I knew so well, the smell of jackfruit, and the feel of tropic stickiness upon my skin. The moon hung, full and bright, above the trees—the moon, so often I forgot to notice. She came to me then, a memory, dark and beautiful in my arms. I felt the heat of her, the scent of her, the feel of her, and then the urgency I’d known so long ago.

  “You’ve been dreaming,” she said, and gently kissed my forehead.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Of her?” she asked.

  I hesitated, but I could not lie. “Yes,” I said, guiltily. “But I’m here now.”

  “It’s just a dream,” she said, and smiled. “I’ll always be here when you wake.”

  “I know,” I said, and ran my fingers through her long, black hair. “My heart belongs to you.”

  ###

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