He told his wife over a morning coffee that he dreamed about this girl last night.
“Was it about me?”, his daughter interrupted cheerfully.
“No, my dear”. He told her with a warm smile.
His wife seems to be busy playing a tea party with his dear little girl. She does not pay him much attention, so he took up his cup and walked out to feel the morning sun.
The warm light is gradually making its way through the shade of the big tree where he is standing. He knows time is advancing. The cup in his hand is getting cold. Strangely, however, his feeling is still lingering in the dream he was deprived of in the earlier hour.
This girl was probably in her late twenties, not so much younger than himself who has just turned thirty-four. Shamefully he did not know much about her. He did not know where she came from, or what were those stories behind her sad eyes. He could not even remember where he met her for the first time, and how their secret was developed against the world.
But he does remember, almost visually, her day-dreamy dark-brown eyes and the faint fragrance of some wild flowers from her long dark hair. Almost painfully, he also remembers her soft touch and that sweet kiss he can still taste on his lips.
This evening he met her again, just like every evening in the past few months. The abandoned warehouse by the river at the edge of the city was dusky in the twilight of autumn. He speeded up his motorbike. It had passed the usual time they met for two hours already.
She was staring absent-mindedly at the vast river when he ran to her. The obscure sadness in those eyes was suddenly replaced by joy when she turned to him.
“I am sorry, the reporters stormed at me again after the session. I tried to –“. He tried to explain, but she kissed his cheek softly to tell him that she completely understood -whatever the reason was. He had been sitting in the parliament for more than seven hours, arguing against the government about the economic issues. He was mad and stressed out, but all of that did not seem to matter anymore at this moment.
“Let’s go”, she whispered and danced away to his motorbike. They would meet here at the sunset time, and the rest of the night was often spent on the road. She would hold him gently from behind and told him funny stories from her world where he did not have any idea of. They would laugh out louder than the wind that was crashing their face as he accelerated the engine. She would point at his photo among other members on a large advertising billboard of his party’s campaign along the road every time they passed, and whispered to his ear how gorgeous he looked. They had so much fun, so much that he never remembered how the night ended.
But more to that is the intense feeling. He still feels the warmth and the peculiar attachment between the girl and himself after he woke up. He is wondering if, maybe, she also shared this dream with him last night. Perhaps a dream is really the other reality. Perhaps when we sleep, we just emerge into the other world and live our other life there for as long as the moon allows.
In that life he is still a renowned member of parliament. He is still married to his cherished wife and has a little daughter. But he also has a secret relationship with this delightful girl. They are attached to each other deeply that the feeling travels through the two realities.
Wherever she is now in this enormous city, he feels her very close. And in the stupid world where he lives in, nothing matters anymore.
He knows she can feel him too.
Suggested soundtrack: A Sparrow Alighted Upon Our Shoulder by Jóhann Jóhannsson