Dearest Rachel –
If it really was you last night, and not just the product of my hyperactive imagination, I want to let you know how much I appreciate your persistence. At the same time, I probably also need to apologize profusely for constantly breaking the spell, whatever it might have been. It had to have been at least half a dozen times that you approached me last night, only for each encounter to fall apart at some point for some reason.
And there were occasions when it felt absolutely real; I could feel the curves of your skin (or, at other times and places, your nightgown – you rarely came to bed that ready for action, after all), and I could hear your voice. I couldn’t tell you anything that you said; considering how often I woke up, I’m amazed that I can remember anything at all. Then again, given the unusual nature of the fact that you were offering yourself to me – and kept doing so, time and time again – how could I not remember? Even in life you weren’t much for nighttime encounters; mornings were more your thing (which, given your night owl tendencies, seems contradictory, but things were what they were). So yes, this was different enough for me to take note, even after the bubble popped… again and again and again.
It was always something different that would break the moment, too. Once or twice, you had to retrieve something from the floor or the corner, and I might look away, only for you to disappear. At least once, we got tangled up together such that I was completely turned around, with my head near the foot of the bed – only for me to wake up and find myself still lying flat on my back in my usual sleeping position.
That was one of the weirdest things about our encounters; no matter what we did, or how much we moved around, when everything dissolved, I was still where I was when I drifted off in the first place. I don’t have these experiences of dreaming of falling, only to wake up when I roll off the bed onto the floor. I haven’t moved. The internet makes jokes about how everyone has a sleep paralysis demon (because who on the internet would be worthy of a guardian angel?), but this has to be the first night I’ve had to personally deal with the concept. I know, too, that there were a couple of times when I tried to speak, or sit up, and I couldn’t do either; trying to do so in the dream reality when you’re fading into real reality is next to impossible, it would seem.
Oh; and the reasons I wanted to sit up and speak up were just as strange – and annoying, considering that they would ruin the mood, and ultimately destroy the tableau you had carefully set. At least three times, we were walked in on. Once by Logan opening the door on my side of the bedroom, another time he was entering the room on your side via the laundry room, as if he were looking for something (what would he have left in our room, honey? This was the time when I tried to sit up and ask him what he thought he was doing, only to discover myself utterly incapable of doing anything), and the third…? Well, would you believe a couple of Hispanic ladies in their thirties were using the room as a shortcut? To where, I couldn’t tell you, and they were pushing a baby in a stroller on top of everything else. As you can tell, there were some really odd moments in last night’s series of scenes.
At least the interruptions by others only wrecked half the encounters, if that. Which means I spoiled all the rest myself, I suppose; again, I apologize to you for that, and I wish I could take it all back. On the other hand, there was one instance where nothing managed to interfere. And I mean that literally, honey; nothing. You were lying there, presenting yourself to me, and displaying all the anatomy of a Barbie doll. It was the weirdest thing, especially given the circumstances (as well as the fact that it wasn’t the first attempt we made at hooking up last night; it was clear what each of us wanted to do, and now it was pretty obvious that we couldn’t, despite wanting to).
As dreams go, I would imagine it wouldn’t take Sigmund Freud himself to analyze this collection (although interpreting the various different interruptions, and whether each of them meant something different in themselves, might have been interesting to hear from a professional). I’m pretty sure even I can guess what was on my mind. But I so rarely see and hear from you these days, and the fact that I could actually touch you as well – indeed, at least one time, I tried to maintain contact with you in order to prevent the tableau from dissolving, to no avail – made this visitation particularly special and memorable.
So I want to thank you for making such a concerted and persistent effort to come by, and again, I’m sorry that more couldn’t been made of it. But you know how dreams can be. I wouldn’t mind seeing you again like this (although you probably don’t need me to tell you that), and while I’m on the subject of things you know but I don’t say often enough… I love you, honey.
For now, though, I’m wide awake, so I’ll have to get on with the day. Keep an eye on me, and wish me luck; I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 