DREAMY

One morning, quite early and without the aid of an alarm clock, I will rise up cleanly from the dreary, dirty sheets of my unmade bed. Slipping my feet into warm soft slippers, drawing a crisp pressed robe around my smooth, rounded shoulders, I will enter my orderly kitchen and brew a cup of strong aromatic coffee, which I will sip as I read the morning newspaper, each section and the ads. I will do the crossword puzzle straight through with the exception of two unknown letters. I will dress, washing my face in sparkling water, combing my shiny lustrous hair, doing each task calmly, quietly, precisely. I will pack a small neat suitcase, mostly sweet-smelling, evenly-folded underwear and safely- packaged toilet essentials. Dressed and ready to depart, I will pause before my large, spotless mirror and I will be content with the self-contained image reflected there. Then, silently slipping my key in the lock, I will softly close the door behind me, listening as metal meets metal, joining absolutely, and I will take pleasure in this, knowing that such perfect union must be esteemed. I will go to my car, a little blue roadster, and I will place the suitcase securely on the rear seat. I will slip another well-made key in its one perfect opposite, and when the smoothly tuned engine springs into life, I will drive off and disappear forever.

     I will drive until nightfall, the only car on miles of unblemished concrete stretching rhythmically through silent green valleys and across rolling molded hills. I will come to a medium-sized city, discrete in its boundaries, in a region I have never been. I will drive through the heart of this city, permanently noting the location of various places of interest, but I will stop a bit removed from the center, somewhere on its perimeter, distanced from the clutter and noise of the heart. 

     I will find and rent, at a reasonable sum, a furnished room with kitchen in a boardinghouse once grand but now declined genteel. I will sleep that night between clean sheets, although not of the best quality. My head will rest comfortably on the supporting pillow beneath it and the covers will be pulled neatly and evenly across my chest, my arms on top of them at my sides. Imprecise sounds will filter through the heavy, old but newly laundered curtains,. and I will hear each one separately and trace its source and understand it. I will listen to those sounds and know them.

     In the morning, I will dress quickly and go out into the street. Around the corner from my new home, I will find a diner, painted gray with green plastic on the seats and counter. As I eat bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, I will search through the job ads listed in the local newspaper. By lunchtime, I will be employed as ticket-taker at the local movie house, or saleswoman at the five-and-ten. My employer will show me what exactly my job consists of, and at each step I will nod my head and firmly fix it in my brain, so that I need only do it once or twice for it to be automatic. I will begin that very day and at its end my employer and I will express our mutual satisfaction.

     I will stop on my return to my new home at a small neighborhood grocery to purchase the few things I will want - the usual staples, a flavorful tea, imported biscuits, a particularly thin slice of veal. As I enter the boardinghouse, its proprietor and I will nod to each other, smiling circumspectly, respecting the other's privacy. In my room, I will slip off my coat and hang it on a wide wooden hanger made especially for coats like mine. I will arrange the kitchen in the manner most convenient for me and then I will prepare my dinner. The cooking odors will permeate the room, adding to its warmth.

     I will eat this meal on a mahogany table set before the window and, as I slice and swallow precise bite after precise bite, I will view the street below. Two or three old men are quietly talking and enjoying the evening air. Occasionally, they look off down the street at a group of children playing with a ball. By the men's posture and the movements of their hands as they talk, I can tell they are good men who have lived good lives, and I can see that they watch the children with pleasure and not regret. A young man and woman, their arms around each other, come out of a house opposite and amble slowly out of sight, leaving behind the sound of a laugh. A woman appears in a doorway and calls to one of the children, a boy of eight, and when he runs to her she offers him a slice of freshly baked chocolate cake.

     As I finish my meal and the evening shadows lengthen and seep out into the night, I will smoke a cigarette and I will watch the delicate smoke trail up and out my windows, joining the fresh night air which cools my face. I will wash my few dishes, clean the sink and wipe the counter space. I will neatly fold the dishcloth with which I have dried the dishes, and drape it over a rack suitably placed over the sink.

     Drawing from my purse a new purchased book, the characters of which are old familiar friends, I will draw my feet up under me on my easy chair, so comfortable it seems made for the curve of my back and the line of my bottom. For an hour or two, while the night spends itself in comings and going, I will read this book, turning each page silently and watching it fall flat against its companions. Then, I will stretch luxuriously, close the book and place it on a small polished table. I will undress. Again between clean sheets, I will lie on my back in the darkness, although not for so long this night as the last, and I will hear the imprecise sounds and I will understand them.

     Each day and each night will be like this. My life will have shape and form. My needs and expectations and desires will coincide perfectly with what my life provides. I will have everything.