Page 7 of Laced in Longing

Tonight is different somehow. The air between us is charged and expectant. As if the dream itself is waiting for something to change.

I take one step. He doesn’t move or give any indication that he notices my approach, but I feel his attention sharpen through the heat on my skin, focus narrowing until I’m the only thing in his field of vision.

“Who are you?” The tenor of my voice is breathy, a dreamy quality that carries undertones and inflections I do not use in reality. Another way I’m portrayed as better here.

No answer. Not even a gesture to acknowledge I’ve spoken. Just that steady, faceless regard.

Two steps closer. Now only ten feet separate us. Why is the prospect of speaking to my dream manifestation scarier than the idea that I’m having strange hallucinations? “Are you the one leaving the flowers?” I snatch my bottom lip between aching teeth, searching for any signs of life.

Perhaps he is marble, because still no word or nod.

Then something shifts in his posture—a subtle tensing of both shoulders.

“Why do you keep coming back?” I ask, moving closer still. “What do you want from me?”

This time he does react, and I almost jolt. His head tilts the slightest amount. The white fabric shifts with this movement, though reveals nothing beneath.

Emboldened by this small response, I continue. “Are you…are you even real? Or just something my mind made up?”

I almost scream when he doesn’t answer.

A last step and I’m close enough now that I could touch him with little effort. I don’t. Something warns me that crossing that final boundary would change things in ways I’m not prepared for.

“Why won’t you speak to me?” I whisper, a soft plea in the words.

He shifts, and for a moment I think he might actually answer. The pounding in my blood grows with endless anticipation.

Then—

I wake with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. My heart hammers as it was in the dream, like its begging to escape, and sweat dries in beads along my forehead despite the chill of my apartment.

“It’s not real. It’s not real,” I repeat, doing what I can to ground my trembling limbs in reality.

My body doesn’t believe me, however. Because as my neck cranks my eyes to the nightstand, I’m forced to acknowledge that it is, in fact, real.

There, resting against the base of my lamp, is today’s offering. A single red rose, its petals dried and curling in on themselves. This one had been pressed and preserved at the exact moment of its fullest bloom. It retains its deep ruby color, so dark it absorbs light rather than reflects it. Like all others, the stem is missing, leaving just the blossom itself, perfect in its state. It’s almost poetic.

If he is real—if he can cross the barrier of my dreams to leave these tokens—then why me? What does he want? And why the dead flowers?

These questions plague my mind until sleep tugs at me once more. But the only question left as I drift away is whether he would visit twice in one night.

CHAPTER FOUR

MAVEN

Itwist the paperclip between my fingers, bending it into a misshapen star as I watch the clock. The numbers on my monitor mock me with their glacial pace—4:57 PM. Three more minutes of corporate purgatory before I’m able to escape without being fired.

The spreadsheet on my screen blurs before my eyes, numbers swimming together into meaningless patterns. I’ve been staring at the same column for twenty minutes, my brain refusing to process anything beyond the simple fact that it’s payday and Friday and I just need to get the hell out of here.

My coworkers shuffle papers and shut down computers, the ambient noise of their preparations for freedom creating a low hum throughout the office. I add my own contribution by shoving files into my drawer with more force than necessary. The metal scrapes, earning a side-eye from Chris in the next cubicle. I don’t care.

Two more minutes.

When the clock finally displays 5:00 PM, I’m already standing, cramming papers into my bag. My fingers brush against the small plastic baggie of sour candies I keep for emergencies—the kind of where my blood sugar drops from lack of food and the world tips sideways. Or when I need something to focus on besides the screaming void in my head.

The baggie catches on something in my purse and slips from my grip, scattering neon-colored sweets across the ugly carpeting. Tiny sugar-dusted planets spin out in all directions, some sneaking under my desk, others traveling as far as the walkway.

“Shit,” I mutter, glaring at the mess. A deep sigh escapes me as I drop to my knees, the carpet rough against my palms as I collect the fallen candy. Each one I touch leaves tacky residue against my fingertips, along with lint and dust they collected, rendering them inedible. My stomach tightens—I’ll need to get more.