No time for notes today. There's only time for writing. I'm at 10,104, and I've got a long, long way to go.
Being in the office all by myself is amazing, like having a really, really big space to sit in and concentrate with absolutely no distractions and all the soda or Snapple I want. No distractions except for Blogger, of course. Stupid Blogger.
Here's a (sigh) sample from last night:
I was having dreams about her. Dreams in black and white, high contrast ones, the two of us like charcoal sketches. I was having them so frequently that, before I closed my eyes in bed, the blankets tucked up under my arms, I would tell myself how I wanted them to unfold. This night, I wanted to be alone with her in my room. I wanted her at my left, her body very close to mine, our legs touching from hip to ankle, each absorbing the other’s warmth. I wanted to seduce her out of her t-shirt and underwear. I wanted her sleepy and resistant, to really make me work. I wanted to have to press my mouth against her ear and tell her how it would feel, how much I knew she wanted it, and that nothing would stop me, would stop this. I wanted her turning slowly in my arms and curling her legs around mine. I wanted her pushing her pelvis into me, her lips wet on my neck.
But dreams don’t take requests. In my dreams, in all of them but one, Kate ignores me. I could be standing only inches away, but she will not put her eyes on me, will look at everything around us before she turns her back and leaves me alone.
That one special dream was different. Still black and white, but very much us, in three dimensions. She had her hand over my heart, on my breast plate, and was rubbing me in small, slow circles. I found this soothing at first, her hands very close to my breasts, her gentle and rhythmic touches, and so I closed my eyes. But in time her rubbing became light and feathery, and then quickly turned to a coldness, the feel of a wet paintbrush slapping against my skin. When I opened my eyes, she was focused on my naked stomach, although all of me was uncovered now, right down to my bare feet. She was using wide, messy strokes, but from what I could see—my stomach, done up in gray and black, the lower half of my lungs, the muscles of my upper thighs—were executed with perfect science book accuracy and detail. When I asked Kate what she was painting, she kept her head low, still focused on my lungs, my rib cage, and said, “I’m showing everything you have inside so that there will be no more secrets.”