Don't Ever Let Off Dreaming About Her...

            We got to Sharona’s club at around eight last night. We grabbed a drink and took a seat at one of the tables below the stage. There was a three piece jazz outfit on stage, a singer, pianist and bassist. I felt like a man in a film, waiting for something important to happen. And it did. Sharona came on stage next and blew us all away. She sang with one guy on the piano as accompaniment. Her voice was serene and the moments during which I watched her were sublime, echoing forward into ever extending memories of my future self.

            In the middle of one song she suddenly fixed her eyes directly on mine and sang two lines straight at me. It was all I could do to resist the temptation to look behind me for the man she must’ve been singing at.

            After the show she disappeared backstage and I bought another drink.

            “She’s not bad then, eh?” Ed said.

            “You’re joking! Not bad?”

            “Haha, I’m pulling your leg mate. You should’ve seen your face, jaw dropped and all.”

At this point Sharona came out to see us. She appeared behind me unexpectedly and hugged me to her. She was still wearing her performance dress. It was so different to anything I’d seen her in so far. It was emerald green, long and sleek, bringing out the green in her eyes and set in attractive contrast with her black hair and dark skin.

            “I’m so glad you came!” she said. She was vivid and vivacious, full of the nervous energy of performance.

            “You were amazing,” I said, barely audible for my own awkward nerves.

            “Thank you,” she said, with genuine humility, casting her eyes downward momentarily. “I want you both to meet my friend Miranda.”

            The four of us talked about this and that for a short while and then Sharona broke the conversation by suggesting we move elsewhere.

            “But first I have to go change. Tom, would you come backstage with me?”

            “Er… I’m not sure,” I replied. “I should really stay here with Ed. Surely I’m not really allowed backstage?”

            Ed kicked me hard in the shin.

            “Ow!” I said. Sharona laughed. “On second thoughts then…” I glared at Ed.

            Backstage turned out to be an extremely messy small room. Sharona went behind a screen to change. She was asking me about the show and I was answering mechanically. I was too occupied by the flickering shadows projecting against the wall. The rest of the time I was fighting the urge to ask ‘Why?’

            She came back around the screen, wearing ripped jeans and an open black short sleeved shirt.

            “Let’s go down to the river,” she suggested.

            “What about the others?”

            “They’ll be fine.” She smiled and took my hand. “Come on!”

            We walked down to the river and enjoyed the still warm evening. There was just enough alcohol in my blood to heighten night-time romantic reflection and I breathed the air with contentment, my troubles briefly lost like the facts of life in a cinema. Sharona sang lightly to herself, the soundtrack to my madness.

            On the bank of the river I asked her about her singing and she played shy. She told me she was tired of being treated one way or another for what she did. I pointed out that she’d invited me to watch her, but I dropped it.

            A warm breeze floated in from the swamps, bringing an intoxicating air. I looked across at Sharona and saw the air brush her face with drifting curls and slow currents. I longed to follow it with the lightest touch of the back of my hand. I knew I could fall in love right there and then. I’d only known her for what? 48 hours maybe? It was all too pre-destined, doomed. I didn’t want to start it.

            Sharona started telling me a vampire story, oblivious. It was about the docks, and she told it masterfully. I listened intently, my grip on reality sliding minute by minute.

            “You almost seem to sympathise with the vampire,” I said, when she was done.

            She smiled wanly and looked out into the river. I looked away.

            “What’s the matter?” she asked.

            “Nothing. It’s just…”

            “Yes?”

            “I… don’t want to have a mere taste of you knowing I can never have it all. You’re sweet poison, the apple of temptation. Pain follows these things.”

            She leant across and kissed me before I could think of stopping her. She ran her hands through my hair, then about my neck and over my chest, forcing me back onto the ground where we sat. I was utterly dominated, destroyed, submitting to her passion willingly blinded and finally, released into spectacular and euphoric oblivion.

            “Screw the Garden of Eden, Tom,” she said, letting me go for a moment. “God didn’t make man for paradise. Follow the lust in your blood, the vampire in your veins. Come, Tom.”

            And she took me by the hand and led me back to her house. We went straight to her bed and fell on top of one another. We lay there kissing and gazing into one another’s eyes. All my awkwardness was gone. We were acting as one. We didn’t make love, but expressed our passion with caress and serpentine embrace until, after hours, we drifted away.

 

*

 

            I woke this morning filled with immediate, if uncertain, joy. By the light of day I saw Sharona’s room: a bizarre con-fusion of gothic and vintage, decadent in either case. Sharona herself continued to sleep by my side, black hair trailing back across the pillow and onto my cheek, one arm across my chest. I felt I could die right there, without one regret.

            Part of me still thought it all ridiculous, but the other part was filled with sense of strange and sure confidence. The Rules of Life say this kind of thing couldn’t happen, but there I was. I’ve never felt more thoroughly distant from reality in the stark light of morning. I looked across at her again and couldn’t make it fit. I got up quietly and left her there.

            Outside the sun shone warmly on my skin and I could barely move for running or speak for shouting. Strangers turned their heads to watch my grin walk past them. I wanted to stop them right there and tell them all about it. My head was spinning. I broke into a run and sprinted straight through a park without slowing down. It seemed as though I had no more physical limitation, I could run forever.

            I flashed past a café on the other side and suddenly stopped. I returned to it and bought a continental breakfast to take away.

            A short while later I walked back through Sharona’s door as though it were the most natural thing. She took the brown paper bag out of my hands and looked me up and down.

            “Thanks for this,” she said, and smiled, apparently unconcerned over my disappearance. “You’re sweating,” she said, and pressed a finger into neck. She ran it down to my chest pressing hard into my flesh. I couldn’t breathe for the tension. “Why don’t you go have a shower?”

            So I did, but I was barely in there thirty seconds before she joined me. She came from behind and ran her hands over my chest again. It was too much. I wanted to wait but this was too much. I turned and lifted her right off her feet, putting her against the wall of the shower. I fucked her right there, releasing every bit of tension and restraint within me. It was the best fuck of my life. Water ran down her black hair and over her breasts as she wrapped her legs around my waist, drawing me further into her. She was divine.

 

*

 

            “So, you looked like you were packing to leave yesterday Tom,” she said to me later, over breakfast.

            “Yes, I was.”

            She looked across at me and paused, hesitantly.

            “Is that why you’re doing all this Sharona, safe in the knowledge that I was leaving?”

            “I never said ‘don’t go.’” she replied, looking away.

            “So, in a minute, you’re gone, I get nothing, and you’re off with barely a sigh.”

            “Don’t go.”

            They were lines. But more than lines, they were lyrics. It’s from a song called This Ruined Puzzle, by Dashboard Confessional. It was contemporary Shakespeare and it connected us on another level. It was beautiful and we needed nothing more. We simply smiled at one another.

            Eventually I put down my cup and walked around to her. I leant down to where she sat and kissed her, ever so gently, full on the mouth. I made to leave but she stopped me. She handed me a book.

            “I’ve hidden a note, it’s pressed between pages that I’ve marked to find my way back. It says, ‘does he ever get the girl?’”

            “But what if the pages stay pressed, the story too dull to unfold?”

            “Don’t go.”

            “I won’t.” I said, smiled, and left. She knew what I meant.

 

*

 

            Back at the hostel this afternoon I met up with Ed.

            “I’ve changed my mind about everything, Ed,” I said, “we’re not going anywhere. I’m in love.”

            “Me too, mate.”

            I started, then remembered the other girl from last night and laughed. I doubt very much he meant it as I did, but mostly I was just glad he didn’t want to go.

            This evening I opened Sharona’s book, Labyrinths by Borges. The note she’d hidden was on the first page of a story called The Circular Ruins. The story started with a quote from Alice Through the Looking Glass:

 

            “And if he ever let off dreaming about you…”

           

            Sharona’s note read ‘Don’t ever let off dreaming Tom.’

            At the bottom of the note she’d scribbled a phone number.

Unrequited

          For a barrister I really dislike personal conflict.

            Don’t you sometimes just wish everyone could get along? I was forced to do a divorce case today. I hate these. I’ve actually told my clerks to refuse them for me but after recent behaviour I think they’ve decided to punish me.

            My client is a man in his late forties. His wife had been unfaithful to him in the final throes of a malingering vacuous twenty year marriage. He had been devastated but had begged her to stay with him anyway.

            He is a businessman and she is a housewife. They have a son, now just 20. It seems plain that she hates him, though it is unclear why. He, on the other hand, still loves her.

            She had instructed lawyers to file for divorce and was claiming a spectacularly large amount of money from him as well as a yearly ‘pension’ for her ‘services’. Her claims were outrageous, especially given her conduct.

            “I can’t believe it’s come to this,” he said to me, outside court. “I know she’s fallen out of love with me but do we have to keep twisting the knife?”

            “It’s important for you to stand up for yourself,” I replied, “she can’t be allowed to take advantage of you.”

            “But who cares? I loved her and slept by her side for twenty years. That’s as deeply ingrained in my heart as ever it was. None of this matters. What’s mine… is hers.”

            “But what’s hers is not yours,” I said.

            “Is this the way it has to be?”

            “I’m afraid so.”

            “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. Here’s how it’s going to be: you will agree to her every demand. She may never love me again, but I will always love her. There’s no future for me without her, so I may as well continue only for her, and provide for her though she looks not to me.”

            I understood him perfectly at that moment, but I couldn’t in all conscience obey him. I spoke in private with my opponent and negotiated a deal, favourable to her client but not such as to obliterate my own.

Sarila

          This morning I awoke early and went downstairs to check the internet and look for something to do. In truth I suppose I hoped to see the girl. She wasn’t about, but I did discover an interesting day out in the vicinity: Heaven and Hell. They are two giant holes in the ground and at the bottom of each runs a river. When Ed finally rose we agreed to visit them.

            First we descended into Heaven. It was several hundred feet deep and at the bottom we entered a dusky glade, a holy netherworld. Dark damp trees grew in cracks between rocks brightened by nothing but a single shard of light, visible in of itself by its illumination of the many particles hanging in the motionless air. Down amongst these murky impressions had been constructed a church. It must have been many hundreds of years old, but it was well preserved. The stone used to build it was thick and the outside was painted in shades of green: life growing from water. It was beautiful.

            Eventually we ascended from Heaven into the bright midmorning sunshine. Reality returned and the magic of half light receded. We decided immediately to descend back into Hell. Hell was smaller than Heaven and darker yet. Little grew in those depths. There was nonetheless a river at the bottom and Ed noted that it must be the river Styx. I was inclined to agree and to wonder if this might not be the very source of the legend. Ed joked of immortality but I felt it as I touched my fingers to the surface of the invisible darkened waters, briefly exposed to light before returning to the depths.

 

*

 

            This evening we waited, at Ed’s request, for the company of the Americans. Sure enough they came down into the lobby in the early evening and invited us to dinner at the hotel restaurant. I was glad to remain here.

            The five of us sat to eat and talked about all sorts. Ed used his blunt and sardonic style to great effect on the American’s wife, who laughed raucously at everything he said. I spoke more quietly and straightforwardly with the man himself. I watched the body language of those at the table and realised within no time at all that Ed had chosen Stephanie as his target. She was certainly the prettier of the two. She, however, was curiously disinterested in him and kept attempting to divert me from my conversation with her father. Meanwhile Bethany appeared to be attempting the execution of some footsy type game with Ed who barely noticed for his wine-fuelled gazing at Stephanie. Truly it was a mess.

            Late on I noticed that the dark eyed girl had returned to her spot in the corner. She saw me look at her and stood. With a glance over her shoulder, directly at me, she swayed out of the door into the hotel’s coast-side terraced garden. I watched her and then excused myself. The American nodded slightly, as though he understood my actions and somehow approved.

            As I walked to the door my heart was thumping, though I knew not why. I stepped out into the night air and breathed deeply, trying to control my emotions. Though it was only a couple of hours ago it already seems like a timeless dream. I turned to my right and saw her sitting patiently on a rock, her features outlined by the white light of the moon on one side and the warm yellow light of civilisation on the other. She smiled at me once again with her full, inviting lips.

            I tried to say hello to her again but my voice half failed me. She laughed lightly and patted her hand against her chest.

            “Sarila,” she said.

            “Tom,” I replied. We looked at one another for a moment, satisfied with our exchange of understanding. I felt intoxicated by the thought that our feelings could be the same and yet the words within our minds to explain them could be so different. What would ‘love’ sound like in her mind?

            “What does your name mean?” I asked, in English. I had no idea how to say it in Turkish. She looked confused. I thought for a moment and then knelt down in the sandy dust on the terracotta tiles. I traced my finger about and wrote ‘Sarila = ?’.

            She looked at it for a moment and then clapped her hands gently, looking at me with a sparkle in her eye. She spoke quickly with fluid foreign sounds and I felt fated to be right there, though I understood nothing. She signed to me, diving one hand over the other. I still could not understand. Suddenly she took my hand in hers and I nearly snatched it away from psychic static shock. She smiled at me reassuringly and held my hand firmer. She guided me to my feet and held me, at arms length, for just a moment, before turning and pulling me along, away from the hotel.

            We walked only a little way, still well within sight and sound of the hotel, but the resounding sound of running rushing water grew as we walked and suddenly we pushed through some willow trees and before us was a waterfall. It wasn’t very high and there was only so much water creating it, but it was perfectly proportioned and beautifully set like a jewel in amongst slender wavering trees. The light of the hotel was blocked now and I saw Sarila’s smooth skin by moonlight only. It was cold, away from the world, and she moved a little closer into me.

            She turned to face me and simply looked into my eyes for what seemed an eternity. Then she pointed across at the waterfall and said simply, “Sarila”. I smiled at her and she took my hand and brought it to her mouth. Without taking her eyes from me she touched her moist, soft lips to the back of my hand. I held my breath, as though to breathe could shatter the fragile beauty of the moment.

            Shattered and sundered it was, nonetheless. At that moment a powerful, deep, man’s voice called out her name from the direction of the hotel. Sarila glanced over her shoulder in its direction and looked back at me. There was no concern on her face, only delight within her eyes. I felt it belonged to me, somehow. Before I could react she kissed me glancingly on the cheek, touching me with the delicacy of a summer’s breeze on the petals of a flower, and then she was gone, vanished into the trees like the fading memory of a dream in the confused misty moments of early morning.

Love's Labours Achieve Nothing

          I spent my day today reading Essays and Counsels, Moral and Civil by Sir Francis Bacon. That guy knew a hell of a lot of stuff, I’ve got to admit. Some of his writing is quite insightful and profound, but I have to disagree with his view of love. He seems to think that for a man to be truly successful in life he must keep his mind clear and not befuddled with the curse of love:

 

“You may observe, that amongst all the great and worthy persons (whereof the memory remaineth, either ancient or recent), there is not one that hath been transported to the mad degree of love.”

 

But most remarkably said (though I may disagree):

 

“Nuptial love maketh mankind; friendly love perfecteth it; but wanton love corrupteth and embaseth it.”

 

            I want to believe in wanton love. I just wish it wanted to believe in me.

Love is Limited

          Today I had to go to Liverpool for a case. I was instructed to obtain an order for the sale of someone’s house. A debt was unpaid and so somebody was going to lose their house. Do I feel bad? No. It’s a necessity for any functional society. Besides, it’s not like they’ll be homeless.

            I was sitting in the waiting room in Liverpool County Court, waiting for my case to start when all of a sudden I saw Laura Roberts walk in. She took my breath quite away, such was my surprise to see her.

            Many are the moments I’ve thought of Laura. We met over dinner at Lincoln’s Inn (one of the four Inns that all barristers belong to) about two and a half years ago. I was with Annabell at the time but for just that evening I forgot all about her. As soon as I set eyes on Laura I was somehow drawn to her. I sat beside her and we connected instantly. The evening passed very fast and eventually we found ourselves alone in a nearby bar. I remember that we were discussing the subjects we’d studied. She’d done music, English and mathematics. I told her that her pursuit of Truth was admirable and she denied it. She claimed instead to be a realist, interested in only that which was tangible. I considered her choice of study was esoteric, romantic, but she could only tell me that love is limited. I fought her on the point immediately. She encouraged my romance yet denied its truth. I told her there was no room for realism in love, only in life, and the she should never find happiness if she could not abandon herself to someone, dream. For what is life without dreams? And this led to a discussion of utopian impossibilities.

            Suddenly she said she had to go. She said we’d meet again one day.

            Now here she was.

            “Laura!”

            She glanced at me absently for a moment until she placed me, then visibly blushed and pushed her hair back from her face. She had thick black hair and deep brown eyes. She wore a black skirt suit with a simple white blouse. She was gorgeous.

            “Tom, isn’t it?” She sat down beside me.

            We spoke for a few minutes about our respective cases and then paused, awkwardly looking at one another and smiling.

            “You did say we’d meet again.”

            “Yes. I remember that.” She looked down shyly.

            Suddenly the court usher called on my case. I quickly said goodbye and went into court.

            After the case, when I emerged, she had gone. I asked the usher if she was in court somewhere. He smiled benevolently at me and chuckled slightly. Over familiar, I know, but I let it go. He told me that she’d been in and out of a different court room since my case started. I’d missed her. Disappointed, I checked my watch and realised I could catch the next train back home if I hurried.

            On my way home I thought a lot about Laura. Maybe I could survive on my own. A girl like Laura only comes around once every few years, but there she was, apparently living up in Liverpool. Perhaps I could get in touch with her somehow, on facebook or something, and then meet up. Eventually I suppose she might even agree to move down to London… At any rate, the point is: there are other girls out there. All over the place. Laura is even a more than respectable type of girl. Trained as a barrister. Quite the right sort.

 

*

 

            When Annabell arrived home today I told her I was prepared to move out. Last night we’d ignored each other completely and I didn’t feel like the angst anymore. It was time to deal with the situation. She took the news very neutrally. I wanted more from her, as always.

            “Did you hear me? I’m going.” I said. She didn’t react. “I still don’t think it’s the right thing to do. It’s still not too late.” I added. Whatever the confidence I’d gained I was still under no illusion, I was unlikely to do better than Annabell, and we were already set up together. She was the best option.

            “I’m glad, Tom. It’s for the best.”

            Then she started talking about her day again. She told me all about the crimes she’d prosecuted and even described in minute detail a random law she’d found to help win the day. Ordinarily I tolerate this kind of thing. After all, she was my girlfriend and I was happy that she was successful. But now? If she thought I’d be happy for her to stand there bragging to me about her job, when I couldn’t have her, couldn’t lay claim to her successes and be proud of them as though they were my own, well, she had another think coming. At this point in time, more than ever, it would’ve done no harm to actually have a meaningful conversation, show a little emotion. I snapped.

            “God. You know what Annabell? I can’t take this anymore. I’m leaving right now.”

            “Well that’s fine Tom, but there’s no rush.”

            “Fucking hell. You don’t get it do you? You’re like some kind of machine. Don’t you ever feel anything?”

            “Of course.” Her unaffected gaze betrayed her words.

            I grabbed the bags of things I’d packed earlier in the week and practically ran out of the house. I called Ed and he was only too happy to take me in again. In fact, he saw it as my duty, my destiny, even.

The Witching Hour

            Annabell’s gone home to her parents for the weekend. I arrived back from work this afternoon to find a note she’d left. So now she’ll talk to them, and her brothers. Luckily they approve of me. They know I’ll provide for her.

            But they’ll know. They’ll know we’re not fine and that I’m apparently not perfect. It’s embarrassing. How will I face them when I next see them? I know she’ll talk to them and if they bring her round then so be it, but relationships should be private. This discussion of our business with others is so coarse and disrespectful.

           

*

 

            I’ve started drinking. Just a few ales from the fridge but it’s only six and I never drink until later in the evening. And I never drink alone.

           

*

 

            It’s the middle of the night now, the witching hour of early Saturday morning.

            I’m not drunk, just corybantic.

            Around midnight I decided to go for a walk. I used to go to school here in Oxford, years ago now. I walked to my old school and found a spot in one of the school parks that is far from the road and far from any houses. It’s private property but there’s no difficulty climbing over the fences to get there. I used to go there with a friend of mine, Robin, to discuss things late at night. It was a minor rebellion – as borders at the school we were not supposed to be out at those times – though we never got caught. The rule breaking lent an edge of life to the time we spent out there and inspired us to discuss what really mattered. I recall that most of our old conversations used to be about love. I’d never have dreamt in those days that I’d end up with such a thoroughly well admired girl…

            I sat there, in that spot, drinking more and remembering all my dreams. I haven’t been back there since I left. For a while tonight it was as though I could reach my hand back through time and touch history. Nothing had changed. I still dream of future happiness, when everything will have been resolved.

            Eventually I began to walk home. The journey goes through some very pretty areas of Oxford: down little cobbled moonlit alleys and past magnificent old buildings. A few people were still around, mostly a bit drunk and on their way home.

            Suddenly, before I knew it, I found myself following a girl, alone and on her way home. I was hidden in the shadows, wearing mostly black. Strips of light cut across me and exposed areas of flesh. I stood motionless whenever she paused. I began to develop such a feeling! She had no idea I was there but I watched her every move. Somehow I seemed to have total power over her and everything around me. I could do anything, and no one would ever know. After all… who would ever question a barrister? We’re so… stable and responsible.

I’m a veritable pillar of society.

Yeah. Let’s not forget that.

Out there, on the street, I remembered it and came home. I’ve no business wandering about the streets like a vagabond.