I was with her in a dream. We were lying together in bed, naked. I knew she was leaving me, I was aware of it, and she knew she was leaving me, too. And yet, we were engaged with one another, happy. There was joy and sorrow, but joy was winning. She was a lawyer, as she had been in life, and that gave me a timeframe within the dream. She handed me a pamphlet to read. It was some sort of conservative treatise about the ills of homelessness, but subtle, something that William F. Buckley might have put forth rather than more contemporary nut jobs like Limbaugh or Trump. I had thoughts related to how to respond and so I turned to her and, as I did, it occurred to me that this was a reading that she would be addressing in a public and professional manner.
She was amused by the writing. She didn’t say that outright, but I could tell. I had been giving the pamphlet the wrong sort of read. She wanted an honest critique, and I remembered, almost consciously—as if I was becoming aware that I was dreaming—that we occasionally did this sort of thing while lying naked in bed. So I told her my views, views which I couldn’t remember well after waking, but views that were earnest yet playful while weaving complexity into and out of the argument. She was more aware than I and could understand, even anticipate, everything my blossoming ideas became all while realizing that I knew this this was happening. It brought us closer and I felt myself expanding in awareness as a being through her and her lapping from me what was overflowing from my thought. It was a sort of intellectual sexuality that was drenched in a paradoxically generous desire.
I had to make notes knowing I would forget while we made love and suddenly I was writing on her, the letters following the contours of her lower abs, pelvic bone, and hip then around and across the top of her buttocks. I didn’t even realize I was writing on her at first or that she was awake and aware. But by the time I curved around her hip I could feel her purring. Her skin was as I remembered it, like butter, smooth but milky, taut yet forgiving. The curves were shallow but supple. Her body, particularly through the waist, so perfectly fit my definition of “woman” that I had become convinced that no other woman needed to exist. To be allowed this sensory delicacy? It wasn’t just the touch, either; there was her scent as well as the potency of her awareness. Being with her in such ways, those were the only times in my life when I experienced oneness. All of my interactions with others were as with objects, myself an incomplete being and the objects not the right size, shape, or consciousness to make me whole. With her, though, in those moments, subject/object relations ceased. Something about being aware of her awareness while so intimately connected physically broke down the barrier of self/other. It should have lasted forever.
When I awoke she was gone. I felt the pain of separation all over again. I didn’t sob or weep, but tears steadily and continually flowed. It seemed to me that I was overflowing with love, a love that had to become tears in order to relieve the tension and weight of sorrow. I didn’t think of anything while it happened. I couldn’t. The tears came to a stop after some time, maybe ten minutes, maybe more. When they ceased my consciousness seemed piqued. I was able to feel what had been latent and had clearly wanted to be felt. It wasn’t the first time. This time, like all the others, seemed to have no discernible message. Interpreting it necessarily distorted it. The experience was a natural occurrence, no different than leaves turning in the fall, part of a cycle of experiences that had to be had. If I had been a different sort of being then maybe I would have experienced my skin shedding.
I wasted time processing, remembering, and aching, all to the point of becoming dulled to what had happened. Interpretations and analyses made the real abstract and, thus, compartmentalized, explainable, and, thus, distorted. In other words, attempts to understand were really attempts to deceive. I hated doing that to myself, but it had become a habit over a lifetime of trying to wash away losses and sorrows. I was getting better at identifying what was occurring, though, and cutting such analytical wallowing shorter. I wondered what would happen if I eventually could cease entirely. Perhaps it would make me completely dysfunctional or maybe it would liberate me from self-slavery. Doubtful I would ever find out.
I had done tried to engage with others in a way that heightened awareness between myself and others to eliminate the possibility of "others." No matter how I tried, though, no one never offered themselves in totality in the way that she had. I wasn’t sure how we had gelled. Was she more unique than any other being? Did others not have the ability? Was I unworthy of a second chance? Had I just gotten lucky and met her at just the right time? I feared it was the latter.
The allowance of voluntary reciprocity hadn’t worked, that much was sure. I had shifted to different means of creating connections. I tried to wipe away facades, remove masks, and touch what otherwise seemed untouchable. Were human beings just insects or were they capable of more? I doubt I would have even considered the possibility of consciousness in others had it not been for her. Why would only she and I have such capabilities? That's what drove me.
Of course, I never would have considered others at all had she not put up a wall between us. How she could have done anything so cruel ... I still didn't know. Nothing else she or anyone else could have done would have hurt as much. My attempts to connect with others was a desperate quest to find a reason to live. But nothing worked with anyone else. I tried. Hell knows, I tried. Countless attempts led to nothing. Some experiences were better than others, but only better in the sense of biting into a moist piece of cake instead of stale bread. Cake isn't love.
That was why I had to bring her to the basement. There was no doubt of her capability. I had experimented and practiced long enough with others, more recently specifically preparing for her. There was no point in continuing to try with creatures with questionable potential. So, it was her. I found her, chloroformed her, bound and gagged her then tied her up in my basement. Merely having her in the same space had produced the most vivid experience of life since I had actually been with her. And now? There she was, right in front of me. How long until I removed my mask so that we could reunite? I had to be careful; I couldn't force her, not outright. She had to choose freely. That was going to be the challenge.
