My dream –

We were cruising along a winding coastal road in my classic red 1957 Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider, heading towards a planned destination for our stolen weekend together. It was morning. The sun was shining, though it was breezy.

A day often is named fair, but never clouds lack, though soft to see, where tomorrow’s passions huddle, and of which tomorrow will make weather, either the natural temper of a day, or an unanticipated change.

Beside me, your hair blowing in the wind, I could see the smile in your eyes behind your dark glasses. Over your sleeveless cotton dress of powder pink, you wore a white loosely woven button-down cotton sweater.

Conversation was challenging over the sound of the engine, and the slipstream of the windscreen.

We drove along contently.

Having slowed upon entry into the small village where we would be staying, we could see the beach below, the cliffs above, ingress and egress, downwards or upwards, unclear. Eager to get to our hotel, to our room, to our fucking, nothing else came into focus.

Our hotel was small, quaint, fitting of the place and the scenery. Our suite, with a view, was spaciously adequate. Dropping our bags, we pulled our clothes off, fell onto the bed, and commenced the fulfilment of the purpose of our rendezvous – to fuck until we couldn’t fuck any more, then fuck some more. After several rounds, we fell asleep.

When we awakened, it was dark outside. We made love yet again, then, hungry, we dressed, and went out to look for a restaurant or café. Everything looked different outside. Of course, because it was dark, we thought nothing of it. We had been in somewhat of a daze when we arrived. Where had we parked the car? We couldn’t hear the beach below. What had seemed a busy little village earlier in the day, now seemed deserted.

Holding hands, blissful with love, we started walking along the major road leading into and out of the village. Surely we would come upon something, someone. From my bag, I removed and opened some Jacobina for us to share. From your bag, you got a thermos of water. Strangely, there was no traffic. Quickly, the street lamps grew fewer ’til there were none, and we found ourselves feeling our way in the natural darkness.

Before turning around, to return to the hotel, you wanted to find someplace to sit a while, to rest your feet. Your low heels of light green leather were inappropriate for such a walk on uneven pavement. The serenity seemed seductive, persuading us to sit down, to lie down, anywhere, there, then.

We did. Paused, unnoticed before, we saw fireflies, the Moon was waning, ten days from New. We sat on thick dry grass. The sound of crickets was distant, muffled. The road which brought us there seemed but a memory.

In the stillness, we embraced, kissed, one of my hands found a breast, the other, your pussy. Your hand found my hardening cock. Could we? How could we not? Beguiled by the seeming isolation, mesmerised by the approving winks of the fireflies, compelled by the singing consent of the crickets, we fucked in the grass in the dark.

The next thing we knew, a dog was nuzzling us. We had fallen asleep after making love. A young voice said, ‘Лайка, нетy, нетy!’ Then, to us, the young girl with dark brown hair and hazel eyes said, ‘Réveillez-vous, réveillez-vous. Il commence à pleuvoir.’ We could feel the rain on our faces, though we weren’t really sure where we were.

Across the road, and back amongst the trees, there was what appeared to be a church, or a meeting hall. People were gathering. They were all very colourfully dressed, many in pagnes, holding umbrellas above their heads. People were passing us, too, along the road. Every glance at us was friendly, as if we were an expected sight rather than a strange and unwelcome surprise. It was we who felt out of place, especially you. I know the languages, Russian and French, and being Welsh, the rain felt like home.

Apparently flustered for the first time this trip, you quickly rose, and started back down the road, seemingly towards the centre of the village, and to our hotel.  Without my customary cursory check to ensure nothing was being left behind, I immediately followed you. Your sense of urgency, even apprehension, urged me to soothe you, at least with my hand in yours. Of course, I noticed instantly, as soon as I had caught up with you, that you were barefoot, and that you didn’t have your bag. I offered to run back for them, but you preferred to push on, to get into the village, back to the hotel. I could come back for them with the car.

Much of the way, it seemed, I carried you on my back, piggyback. The rain was light. You whispered sweetnesses into my ear. When we entered the village, though, again, it was different. The shore-break below was silent. There was no hotel, but, instead, a park. Were we lost? Had we gone the wrong way? Was this another village in the opposite direction? Needless to convey, my car was also nowhere to be found.

You were exhausted; so was I. In the park, under cover, at a wooden table, sitting on a wooden bench, we had the last of my Jacobina. Which reminded me, I had to go back for your shoes and bag. Too tired of object, and not wishing to lose them, you kissed me, and I hurried off along the same road we had just walked.

I walked briskly. Again, there was no vehicular traffic, no pedestrians, either. Again, the rain now picking up, it felt as though I were heading into yet another state of quasi-oblivion. Then I saw the church, or the meeting hall. Departing, the service or the meeting concluded, I saw the young girl, this time without her dog, Лайка. She had the arm of a woman much older, who appeared to be her grandmother; her other arm holding an umbrella above their heads. On her grandmother’s feet were your shoes, your light green leather shoes with the low heels. The little girl smiled. Her grandmother smiled. I nodded a smile in return, and returned to the spot where we had lain to rest and to fuck.

The grass, even in the rain, still bore the impression of our bodies, but your bag was not there. Unapparent the night before in the dark, there were a number of covered market stalls across a ditch now deep with rushing rain water, and through a line of poplars. With some difficulty, the rain now in torrents, I leapt across the ditch, climbed to the other side, strode through the trees, and found the cover of the first stall. A woman was tending her wares, mostly hand-woven textiles. They were lovely, exciting, alluring in colour and texture. At the back of one shelf, I saw a bag that looked just like yours in every detail. It was not yours, though. This one had been well-loved. It was stained and scarred; still wholly functional, no doubt, but clearly, not yours.

I would not be retuning with either your shoes or your bag. Perhaps I could get you something to ease the burden of my failure. A hand-woven shawl had caught my eye. It was red, peach, and pink, in a blend so sublimely, rapturously brilliant, it took my breath away. I bought it for you. It would be wet when I got back to you, as my bag was already dripping, but at least you would have something, despite the disappointments of your losses, in expression of my love to you.

Soaked to the bone, but caring not in the least, I rushed back to the village. This time, even the park was gone. Where it had been, there stood only a roadside bus stand – a bench with cover from the weather. On the bench, still in your dress of powder pink, your white button-down cotton sweater, but with white sandals on your feet, you waited for me patiently.

I ran to you, tears rolling down my cheeks. You rose, tears, too, rolling down yours. We held each other, kissing. I told you that your shoes were now on the feet of a delightful grandmother, and that your bag had undoubtedly found an equally worthy home. From my bag, I pulled the shawl of red, peach, and pink. If there were the faintest regret in your face, it was at once transformed into ecstasy, ‘I love it. I love it. I love it.’

‘Where are we going now?’

‘First, wherever the bus takes us. Then, you have to get home, and I, too. I have writing to do.’

On the bus, with only the fewest of passengers, we sat all the way to the back. When underway, holding each other, looking into one another’s eyes, you asked, ‘What just happened? Did any of it happen? Was it just a dream? All we have now is ourselves, you and me. I’m confused. But I’m happy. I’m very happy.’

‘We have your shawl. We have this motion through time and space on this bus, right now. What was all that? It was the assurance that all we need is each other. Did it really happen? Only if we believe it did. I can still feel and hear and taste the rain. I can feel and smell Лайка’s nose in my ear. I can still feel the textures of those sumptuous textiles of cotton and wool. I can feel the stones under my feet. I can still feel my missing you, yearning for you, every moment we were apart. That was all real. And if it were a dream, it would still be real to me.’

‘This has always been just about you and me. This is our world. Our destinies, like this bus, have brought us together. I am happy, too. I love you madly, even in those intervals between seconds, I love you madly.’

‘You know, when I was waiting at the bus stop, waiting and waiting, there was not an instant that I thought or felt that you wouldn’t come back for me. I knew you would. This is our story, and it can’t go on without both of us.’

‘And I never had any doubt, either, that you would be there. The Moon and the stars will always have the night, and rainbows always come with the sun.’

You unfolded your shawl, and laid it on our laps. ‘You think we can fuck back here?’

‘I do.’

Kissing, I unbuttoned your dress; you unfastened my belt.

The bus headed wherever it was going.