We weave down a twisting road beset with autumn trees, scorched orange leaves dangling, brown crispy ones that have fallen lining the barely paved road. A quick turn down a dirt road leads us to a cabin at the top of a small hill, a wide open lake lies just beyond it.
Drifting through the walls we come across a group of people all talking, drinking, dancing as the record player spins on. I'm holding a wine glass and sporting a mild beard as I sit upon the battered couch. The fireplace is blazing and everyone is smiling, toasty warm in good company.
"So I started this new painting series, all from images that I gathered from my dreams.", she says as she leans in towards me, a smile wriggling across her face.
"Really? My dreams always seem to be just memories I haven't, or perhaps never will, experience." I take a sip of the white wine and cross my legs.
"That's interesting. You never lucid dream?" She furrows her brow as if to say she feels sorry for me.
"Never. I hardly even remember my dreams, let alone fly or truly embrace them." My eyes wander across the room.
Friends are laughing so hard they can barely maintain their balance. A guy dips his girl and they stumble back, nearly falling atop me. Someone I know very well is in the kitchen, preparing a meal for us all. We make eye contact and look away embarrassed, unable to control our grins. In my peripheral vision I take in her smile.
"I can't help but lucid dream.", she continues. "It's like being god within your own mind."
"Mine are more like skinny dipping in the collective unconscious." I down the rest of my wine, and excuse myself.
I stand, defying my wobbly legs, and take a few steps forward. I can see an old friend on the back deck strumming an acoustic guitar as his wife sits upon the railing, her head thrown back, soaking in the sun as the Fall wind tosses her hair about. They look at each other and she blows him a kiss. I envy their love.
An older man I don't know, who's had what was left of the brandy, rests his hand upon my shoulder as he passes me in the doorway to the kitchen. He tries to tell me something about destiny and my great fortune, but all I pick up is the booze on his breath. He smiles, knowing he's sloshed and incoherent, and neither one of us minds at all.
In the kitchen the girl with the smile is listening as an older woman passes on some worldly advice. She continues chopping up potatoes and the woman pauses only to sip her cocktail. I find the bottle of wine and refill my glass. I pop the cork back in and take a moment to reflect upon the cabinet of knick knacks, collectible spoons and porcelain statuettes of children and cherubs.
I slowly turn and lean back against the counter. I watch the knife in her hand as it chops and slices, the delicate flick of her wrist. I feel as if I had something to say to her, a nagging compulsion to continue a conversation I had with her once, a long time ago. I can't see her face from here, yet I recognize something about her.
"So, you really should come take my pottery class down at the college. It's not just for students looking for an easy A or flaky old folks." The older woman stubs out a cigarette and blows smoke out of the corner of her mouth.
"Maybe I will.", my girl replies. "I have always wanted to do something...organic like that. I love photography but all that lab work...it's just so sterile sometimes."
Her voice, like a stream churning rocks in its path, a car tire turning on loose gravel. The accent was from another world, her own universe, where every sentence sounded like jazz. It rang with hot tenacity and smoothed out with a country twang. Every word was for me, her vocal chords strumming my song.
"Okay", she dumps the chopped potatoes from the cutting board, guiding them with the edge of the blade, splashing down into the pot of boiling water. "Can you keep an eye on things for me here?"
"Of course, dear. You get yourself another drink, I'll be here." With that the old woman gives me a wink, followed by a nod.
I reach behind me absently and took hold of the bottle of wine. I walk it over as the girl wipes her hands off on the apron. I follow the checkered pattern of it up along the rolled up sleeves of her billowy cream colored blouse, to the vanilla skin of her neckline. Her thick, brown hair falls off her shoulder as if embarrassed, covering the nape of her neck from my view.
She slow motion twirls towards me, a smile leading the charge, eyes hung low, before rising to meet my own. She reaches up for her glasses, which sit at the front of her hair, and lowers them down upon the bridge of her nose, pushing them back with her forefinger.
"Thanks.", she sang to me, as an empty wine glass rose between us, hovering within her gentle grip.
I pulled out the cork, and carefully watch over the wine as it fills her glass halfway. I could feel her watching me, pressing that warm smile down upon me as I diligently poured. I shove the cork back in and rest the bottle on the counter.
"Of course." She took my hand and led me out the back door.
The wind whips up as we step outside, the breeze carrying with it a blast of apples from her hair, a whiff of incense, and the loveliest tinge of photography chemicals. I knew this smell, overloaded with sense memory as I passed through it, as it washed over me. It smelled honest.
She leans over the railing taking in the fresh air, gazing out over the still lake, while I run my eyes down her body. The blouse, partially untucked from her tight jeans, the ones she's had since she was sixteen, bought especially for that Aerosmith concert. She was barefoot, and on her tippytoes as she leans even further, taking in a huge breath.
"Hey lovebirds." My friend, arms rested on his guitar, smiles slyly at me. His wife dangles her feet back and forth beside him.
I look over at him and her, as she runs her fingers through his hair absently, as if loving him was so natural to her that of course she would express it subconsciously, letting her touch say all it needed to. Their relationship was crystal clear and invulnerable, a flowing charge of pure, tender mutual affection between them.
Suddenly, it dawned on me. I knew this girl with apple hair, a photographer who listened to classic rock, cooked despite not being all that good at it. She lived in San Francisco, spent time in Iceland, and moved up here to teach. I knew the curve of her back, the feel of her breasts, the pulse of her kiss, those lips, small and simple, pressed against mine.
As I look back at her, she's turning towards me, I reach out and take hold of her. My right hand slid behind her the small of her back, pulling her closer, the other, glides up her arm, over her shoulder, up her neck, cradling the back of her head. My fingers tuck themselves up into the thickness of her hair. I brought her into me.
Our foreheads pressed together lightly, our faces so close that we breathed each others breath, so close our vision blurs, and so, close our eyes. My mind melts into hers, absorbing my thoughts and emotions as I embrace hers. Her hands came up my back and she pulls me in even closer.
"God, this feels like a dream."
We kiss.
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