Dream girl

I awake to the late afternoon rain – grey and chilly. In my dream, someone was calling me. Someone with no face. Faceless. Featureless. Yet, I know she's beautiful.
I was there, and I am here – realities shifting outside and inside of me.
She is calling. Yes, I hear her. The telephone is ringing in the background. Ringing. In the living room. I want to tell her it is not important. But she shakes her head.
“No,” she says, “pick it up. It's me. I’m calling you. Pick me up.”

I am awake. Or am I? The phone is ringing. My muscles and joints are aching. And my head is heavy and groggy. Fever. Feverish. And the ringing refuses to go away. Simply refuses.

***

I can hear her breathing through the receiver set of my telephone.
Calm. Unhurried. And sexy. But I would rather go back to bed and sleep my headache through.

“Are you the girl in my dream?” I ask.

“If only,” she replies, “if only I can be someone’s dream girl. It's nice to have men thinking of me. Even when they are having sex with someone else. Even when they are masturbating alone. I really don’t mind. Just as long as I'm their dream girl.”

I wonder what is so important that she can't tell me about in dream. For it seems so much easier to think there, than here, with a pounding headache. I try to hold my head intact with both my hands.

“It's going to be night soon,” she says.

It is true. The clock says 7.34pm. The sky is dark and stormy. Lightning flashes bright the world on and off, and the thunder rattles me.

“I am Sunday,” she goes on to say. “I was Joy this morning. I was bright and creamy. I was delicious. I was breakfast. Sunny side up. Rich and warm egg yolk, yellow and ready to be licked.”


*

She reaches my place at 10.48pm. In an oversize coat, holding a long and dripping wet umbrella. Coal black hair that flows down her neck, an egg-shaped face that is smooth blank and absolutely featureless. Without a nose or a mouth. Without eyes or ears. Just a plain vacant face. Staring at me.

“I can be anyone you want me to be,” she says. “Just think of me, think of her, and – I am her. Your dream girl.”

I take her coat, which she surrenders with a slight hesitation, I wonder. Yet she moves around my place with remarkable ease. Total confidence, perfectly calm.
She wears a soft blouse of light silk the colour of skin and a form-hugging skirt slit all the way to her hip. I am certain she has no undergarment inside. The shape of her stiff nipples can be easily seen.

"What do you want of me?" she asks.

What do I want of you, I wonder. What do I want of you?