Two Women Dream

Last night I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:

I am walking hand in hand with an attractive, athletic, young, brunette woman who is wearing a black, form-fitted leotard. She has her hair pulled back into a bun. Her face is perky, expressive, almost childlike in how she takes in everything around her. Her walk and her posture suggest a more adult confidence. She is a head turner, and she knows it. We are walking together through the lobby of a swank hotel. There are a lot of men and women in leotards or athletic shorts, so apparently we are participants in a convention dedicated to athletic training equipment. We walk into a brightly lit showroom where we see a lot of stationary bicycles with video screens. On each of the screens is a computer animated version of the woman beside me. The computer animated woman is riding her bicycle on various picturesque trails: sometimes, she is riding alongside a tranquil lake that is reflecting a mountain up ahead; sometimes, she is riding up and down steep hills in a nature reserve in the Swiss Alps; other times, she is swerving around bamboo trees in a jungle setting. Regardless of the challenge the computer animated woman is forever on the go and perky. She never sweats. The bun in her hair is never displaced. She looks over her shoulder at the person riding the stationary bike and winks at them to keep up. The wink is a little too sexy for the occasion. I imagine that she is urging the riders to get it up more than to keep up. Regardless, she is a hit, especially with the male crowd, as a lot of men in the showroom turn and smile at her when we walk inside.

To her credit the woman beside me does not encourage the men to keep smiling at her. She is polite to everyone, but she clutches my hand a little harder as if to say that I alone am her man. At one point, as if to make it abundantly clear to everyone else that we two are an item, she laugh, jumps onto my upper back, and wraps her arms and legs around my torso. While riding on my upper back, she whispers that she wants a Peloton. At first, I am not sure that she is serious, but then she points to one of the machines and says in all earnest that that is the one she wants. Her voice is more childlike than sexy, like she is a girl riding on her father’s back in a toy store. I suddenly feel too old to be with her. I am also not rich enough. The price tag on this machine is $300.00, and I know that I do not have that much expendable cash or credit on me. I try joking with her so that she will get her mind off of that machine, but she is steadfast. I am going to have to figure out in the next few minutes how to buy this Peloton, or I am going to have to leave her behind.

I am staying in a bungalow on the grounds of a tropical resort. The Zenith television, the yellow gold shag carpet, the avocado green rotary phone, and the Nehru jackets hanging from the wall as colorful art pieces indicate that this is the early 1970s. My wife is asleep in our bed down the hall. I am on the sofa close to the front door. I intend to open up the door as soon as I hear footsteps on the path outside so that I intercept the visitor before she rings the doorbell. I hear the footsteps, run over to the front door, and open it just as the visitor walks up to the doorway. The visitor is a pretty, young, brunette woman with a kind face and demeanor that calls to mind an elementary school teacher. She has curvy, shoulder length hair tied with a faded blue kerchief, oversized owl glasses, a faded blue, Pendleton, wool overcoat, and a pair of black boots scuffed by walking her share of anti-war demonstrations. I close the door, take her hand, and walk with her on bright, yellow paths that meander around various tree covered bungalows. It is a lazy, cool morning. I can hear Richard Nixon speaking on the television sets in several of the bungalows that we pass. Otherwise, apart from our whispered conversation, it is quiet.

We step off the path and into an alcove shrouded by palm trees. There is a bench, and we start to kiss as soon as we sit down. She moves her face away from mine, and looks at me through her oversized glasses. The look on her face says that she is in love. She is ready to hang up the black boots for a pair of slippers. I cannot provide that for her, and she knows that. We kiss each other again. Perhaps, if we just let this moment linger, we can avoid the uncomfortable realities of life. It is surely worth a try, as she lifts her chin up and to the side so that I am able to plant kisses on her neck.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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