I Dreamt It.

You have me. In the pool, I trace an O with my toe. Arms wrap my waist. This makes me feel good, feel safe, feel conscious. I could sit between your legs forever and never ask about time. But thinking about it now, makes me wonder whether I have become cold. Cold and passive. You don’t follow me? My back is always to you. Your arms are always reaching out. I could sit between your legs forever and forget I’m not alone. I should show concern for you, but some how it is hard to remember that this is not always about me.

 

Forgive me?

I’ve already forgotten about it. Come on, let’s go inside.

I want to stay.

Even when my words are meant for you, I’m speaking toward no one. 

But it’s almost dark.

What? Are you afraid?

The quantity of light began to fascinate me nine months ago. At first, I didn’t understand why. I didn’t question it either. But now, I think I’ve come closer to figuring it out, or maybe just myself. What does that mean? This is forever the query. My fascination has something to do with presence and absence. Necessity and deprivation. How it affects the quality of something other. Was I curious because I wanted to learn how to manipulate mood? 

I like to kiss with the lights on, but take a shower in the dark. You could overlook this—and I had, too—but it says a lot about me. It may even explain me a bit.

I would do anything to avoid seeing myself. But you—or who ever I was engaged with—I needed to see. I didn’t want the intimacy to disappear in the darkness. I didn’t want substance to be obscured in the night. I never wanted my memory to be, me having kissed a shadow. But, it’s true; I prefer to be blind to my body. It’s not ironic. It’s just how it is.

Fine we’ll stay.

You can do whatever you’d like.

Well, then, I’d like to be doing what you want to be doing.

Why does that always sound so complicated?

Always? Watch out now kids! Chelsea always has someone wanting to do it her way.

Oh, stop, teasing me. You know that isn’t what I meant. I just would rather you do what you want to do.

I told you, I want to be with you.

Fair enough.

You can tell me a story…and then we can go inside and pretend like we are sleeping.

Fuck you. You know I don’t have any stories.

You’re a writer. Stories are the only thing you ever want to have.

I want you, don’t I?

But we’re a story.

Well, I’m not using you.

You ask me about December 2nd and I tell you, I’ve forgotten it. You tell me to be spontaneous and I ask you what that has to do with anything.

You swore you’d tell me a story if I stayed.

I promised nothing of the sort.

You’re impossible.

What if I told you I’m in love with you?

I'd say you don’t act like it.

Well, that’s because it isn’t a performance.

If you love me, then you’d remember December 2nd.

What’s with men and dates?

There you go again. Bringing up other men.

Fuck you. I’m talking about my father. He recalls a date before he can remember what was so good about the moment. 

It’s called prioritizing and categorizing. It's what men are good at.

It’s called nonsense. What was so special about December 2nd?

It was the first time we slept together.

I don’t remember that.

That’s because you were all fucked up on sleeping pills and you didn’t tell me until you took me to the door.

I tell you I remember and you say of course I remember now. I say I can’t really remember much though and you tell me I should try not to forget everything. I tell you some things go in and some things go out and you say I shouldn’t be so controlling.

What is that supposed to mean?

Don’t try to control the situation as much as you do. It’ll be better for the both of us.

You’re asking me about my memory.

No, I asked you to tell me a story and you immediately said you can’t.

But.

No, buts. Let go for once. Every story doesn’t have to be the truth.

Well.

Well, tell me about December 2nd before I push you into the pool.

Would you push me?

Yes, but I’d jump in after and I would only do it to have us both laugh.

That’s why I love you.

You love hearing you can be saved. Tell me the story.

It’s December 2nd. I just got home from the airport. My parents say I look great. My dad claims this is my best look. “Please, no unnecessary compliments tonight. I had the worst delay and was hallucinating at the airport as a result. Then, I began drooling on the flight. I’m never flying out of JFK again.” They ask me whether I want them to start worrying about me. I go into my bedroom and look in the full-length mirror. I’m wearing all black. My eyelids match. This is my best look? I look like I shouldn’t be fucked with. I’ve become permanently delirious. Life has become unreal and dreams seem like life. People laugh. I tell them it’s the truth. They turn quiet. It’s all the same.

It’s strange. In Manhattan, I prefer spending time alone in my apartment. But in Miami, I become restless in the evening hours. Something to do with people being present and that making me want to be involved. I can’t sit in a silent house of four. I can’t turn on the television and feel content. The idea of being in bed by twelve makes me uncomfortable, even a little depressed. I am ravenous to be engaged with someone other.

You text message me.

I’m happy you’re here.

It’s good to be back.

What are you doing?

Tired.

How are you doing?

At home.

I have everything backwards.

Should I come?

I’ll give you a hug in exchange for pot.

I like hugs.

Then, we’ve got ourselves a deal.

Before your message, I already committed myself to being home for the night. But I still wanted things to be fun. I took an Ambien—not to go to sleep, remember that makes me depressed—but to indulge in an out of body experience. But then you messaged me and I couldn’t say no. Remember I am ravenous to be engaged. And plus, Ambien doesn’t effect me like it use to. I’ve acquired a tolerance. I assumed I’d be fine. You’ll be stoned anyway.

You’re on your way and I think it feels special. We are friends.

I’m just gonna throw it out there. First and foremost, You’re sexy. But at the bottom, you’re my friend. And if that’s all you’ll ever be, then I’m still happy.

It sounds like we’re fishing. 

Well, then, have you caught on?

But I hadn’t. Or I just overlooked it. We were attractive people. Was I supposed to assume that meant we were attracted to each other? I mailed you CDs. But it wasn’t my intention to have you think of me when it played. They were just songs I mixed together. In the mail. For you. No return address. I never expected to receive anything. I just figured you might hear a beat you like. Will you tell people later, that was an example of me being controlling?

I open the door. This time you’re clothed. Before, you’d arrive and still be dressing. It wasn’t that you weren’t ready, you just wanted to tease me, tempt me, oh I don’t know, but you had it planned. Did it work? I guess so. We’re together now, aren’t we? I introduce you to my sister. Let her give you the hug. You tell me that wasn’t the deal and I say the deal was ambiguous. I have you follow me to the kitchen and you grab me from behind.

Come on, be nice. I want a hug.

It’s not like I’m unaware. I’m shy. Sometimes. And act aloof to keep my vulnerability a secret. But now, you’ve done something that makes me feel more. You’ve pulled me towards you. You’re holding me back. And I like being in your arms, but that doesn’t mean I want to kiss you.

You’re sister is a lot to handle.

I’m nothing of the sort.

She’s a tease.

I hate when people talk like I’m not in the room.

People? Has everything been done to you before?

Why are you always so tough on me? You make me out to be the bad guy.

I’m sparing with you. Allison, tell your sister she should have sent me that CD like she promised.

I did send you music!

Two songs.

The two songs you wanted.

Please, you were teasing me.

And you hug me again. This time speaking, to me only, "Come on, you know I’m happy to be here."

I’ve missed you, too.

It’s true. I have.

I give you my end of the deal. But I don’t pull away, which isn’t what I anticipated. It feels nice. We feel special. You spark the joint. The three of us are beneath the umbrella table. The night is filled with ink. Our bodies can barely be seen. Our faces light up one by one, depending upon who is inhaling.

I’m stoned. I’m hungry. I say I have something special and you ask if it tastes good. I ask what you are implying and you say I better bring me a treat. I say you’re demanding and you ask if we can have some fun.

In the kitchen, I pour three mugs of milk. Half lactose, half 2%. I stir in two tablespoons of honey and microwave them for a minute and ten seconds. I open up the cabinet, take an Ambien, swallow it because I’m stoned and not thinking. I grab the container of chocolate chip cookies my aunt left for Thanksgiving. But there is only two left, so I go to the cookie jar and take an assortment of Milanos.

This is why I love…like…your sister.

I love your internal self-edit. Your welcome. I make sure Christmas comes early.

Delicious.

My sister has only said one thing this whole time. “Thanks for the smoke. I’m high and feel more like myself.” But I’m glad she is here, getting to know you. It sounds ironic. But it’s not. It’s just how it is.

I want you to try my favourite type of cookie.

I pass you the Chocolate Mint Milano bag. 

I don’t want those. I want your aunt’s.

But you should try these. Trust me. They’ll make you delirious.

Nah, chocolate chip is classic.

I don’t win. You devour the cookies you want. 

Somewhere between my third and forth cookie, I start seeing things. My sister says I look tired and I tell her it must have been the milk.

I love her because she’s silly and not self-conscious.

Stop talking about me like I’m not here.

Chelsea, you’re imagining things.

But I don’t feel that way. It actually feels like things are gaining clarity. I watch you, but can’t remember what you looked like. I see two girls trying to take you. I call attention to this. You laugh and say I’m high as fuck. But my sister knows what’s going on and tells me no one else is here. I say I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened though and you tell me you’re not going anywhere. This feels nice and I forget to worry. Supposedly, I keep talking but I don’t remember saying much. My sister says I should go to sleep and you lead me into my room.

I tell you I don’t want to make love and you ask me what love has to do with it. I say it must be on my mind because of the holidays and you tell me I was made to be a writer. I ask you if you want to make something and you say it would be fun to make cookies. I tell you I don’t think I have any chocolate chips and you say that isn’t any fun. I say we can hang lights around my bedroom and you say let’s do it.

We drape them across the mirror above my bed. They are flower lights. The box says the petals are real. You point out how crushed and tattered they look, so I dab water on them. We watch as they come back to life.

I know you don’t want to make love, but I’d really like to kiss you.

Can you wait? I’m tired.

I don’t want to.

You hug me and the hug becomes a kiss. I push you against my bed. 

Hey, I said I couldn’t. My sister said I should go to sleep.

Then let’s lie down.

I’m coming in and out of every moment. How can you not see this?

Okay, put me to bed. But first help me pull all the curtains closed. Lock the door, too.

You rush for the door. I guess I implied something I wasn’t conscious of. But I remember being ready for bed, so I carry out my demands. In my hand is a variation of pink satin. I move from one window to the next, making sure the outside is blind to the inside.

We are drenched in ink. Your hands write all over my body. I forget how it happened and I can’t remember when it started. My memory vanishes in the blackout. I wake in my skin and nothing else. I had been wearing a one piece and can’t fathom how we or you got me out of it. But I’m naked as a result. And you’re inside of me and I ask you what is going on and you tell me it is what I asked for and I say I always forget what I want.

The flowers frame me in light inside the mirror. I see my body and hate how it looks. I dry up immediately. I remember being bloated with hate. Hating how one minute two people can be clothed and than within a blink of the eye they are naked, exposed and inside each other. I hate feeling this experience. This experience where no one spends time touching anymore. I tell you I want to sleep alone. You say I am too sexy to be settling for that and I tell you what I see is disgusting and I need you to go.

You dress immediately. I stand outside in the hallway hallucinating this mess. I walk you to the door and you look confused, hurt and say you feel used. I tell you I can’t feel anything and I apologize. You tell me it’s okay, it happens sometimes when you’re high. I hate that you keep referring to drugs, when it’s really all about pills. Am I being ironic?

I'm not high. I’m just tired.

Understandable.

And I’m sorry for the way I look. It’s just, you know, Ambien changes the way your body appears.

What’s Ambien?

The sleeping pill.

You took sleeping pills while I was here?

Can we talk about this later. I told you I’m really tired.

Just tell me yes or no.

Yes, before you came I had one.

Before I came?

I didn’t know you were coming.

But why would you say I could, if you took something to fall asleep?

I don’t take it to fall asleep.

How many have you had?

When? Tonight?

Yes, tonight.

Two.

Chelsea, that isn’t good.

Listen, I’m tired of this double standard. You smoke pot. I swallow pills. Same difference.

I just wish you would tell me these things.

I’m sorry, I forgot.

Well, I wish you would try to remember.

Remember what?

In the future. Just remember to tell me.

You have me. In the pool, I trace an O with my toe. Arms wrap my waist. This makes me feel good, feel safe, feel conscious. I could sit between your legs forever and never ask about time. But thinking about it now, makes me wonder whether I have become cold. Cold and passive. You don’t follow me? My back is always to you. Your arms are always reaching out. I could sit between your legs forever and forget I’m not alone. I should show concern for you, but some how it is hard to remember that this is not always about me.

Forgive me?

I’ve already forgotten about it. Come on, let’s go inside.

I want to stay.

Even when my words are meant for you, I’m speaking toward no one.

But it’s almost dark.

What? Are you afraid?

No. I just know how you get.

Why do you always reference the past?

Because it helps explain you.

December 2nd was one night.

The night I fell in love while you were busy dreaming.

Fuck you. You don’t act like you’re in love with me.

That’s because I’m natural about it.

Well, no one should normalize love.

Will you tell me what you remember?

From when?

That night.

I told you, I've forgotten.

I think you are trying to forget.

Well I'm not accomplishing that if you always try to get me to remember.

I don’t know. I’m hopeful you’ll tell the story right.

There’s a right way?

There’s a better way. Come on, our story has to be something people want to hear. You’re a writer. You know more than anyone that love is mutable. So, remind me of December 2nd. I want to make sure I never forget. Tell me something I’d like to hear. Make it sound like it means something.
It?
Us. We.