By Gale Dumont

Lush. That's the only word that burns in your mind now, hours later.

It all seems watery from the clear, cold solemnity of the waking world. Vague, insubstantial, dreamlike; makes sense when you remember that it was a dream. Just a dream.

Or was it?

You're not sure anymore. You haven't been sure of anything in quite some time.

In your dream, the two of you were lying down somewhere -- in a car, you think, though that makes no sense at all. (A limo? Maybe.) Side-by-side, howling at something you can't remember. You're sure, though, that it was very, very funny.

You were to her right. That seems terribly important.

Then, for no reason -- literally, you can't remember why -- you propped yourself up on one arm and looked over at her. She wore a v-neck black shirt and jeans. Her skin looked pale and creamy. Edible. You remember wanting to feel that pale skin beneath your mouth just once, if only to see how it felt beneath your tongue.

So you did.

And she stilled.

And you wanted to die, mistaking her lack of motion for shock and horror.

You were half-right.

But instead, she reared back and then forward again, meeting your mouth with her own, crushing you with her presence. It strikes you, suddenly, how beautiful she is, how utterly female. Not that you are not; she is somehow...more.

And then, before you can get to the good parts, you wake up, blinking and confused in the five a.m. blackness.

And you cannot think of a single thing to say.


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