Mr.Sandman

(1) Like Roses and Clover

I reached out and felt nothing; the emptiness in space disarming me and walls of darkness toppling. As if just noticing I was there by the sounds that the darkness made, crashing into me, He looks over his shoulder and smiles in happiness.

The world begins to fade away, and the darkness overrules.

When I opened my eyes, the sun streaked through the window with afternoon gold. I glanced at the wall clock and sighed, brushing away my hair from my face and feeling for my blanket that had disappeared under me throughout the unsteady night.

The once lime green stripes were faded to a tea green and the hem was soft and frayed. I brought it to my nose, wishing it were cool, the bodily warmth emitting from it, though my own, gave me flashbacks I didn’t want back..

My cat slept at the edge of the bed, sprawled atop a blue patch with a fluorescent star. Her hair parting in wool like waves and her face tucked under her two front paws.

My beautiful kitty, Twilight.

I murmured my morning hello to her and rolled out of bed.

Feeling my way down the hall, my fingers slipped over the spines of books from bookshelf to bookshelf. I was squinting in the grayness and wavered uneasily.

Disappearing into the bathroom, I flick on the lights and two of the three beautician bulbs above the mirror twitch with anticipation and light up the smelly bathroom. The porcelain sink has superficial cracks and hair dye stains, the counter around it woven with stray hairs.

From the mirror cabinet, I drew a small purse brush and fixed my bangs, ignoring the tangle that was the rest of my hair. It was too much work and if lifted, unnoticeable.

“Bye, bye, Ms. American pie. Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry…” I hummed washing my face away from drool stains and cat hair that could start my sneezing at any moment.

The electricity wavered and I dried my face with a hand towel and turned the water off, glancing around.

“The day the music died.” I finished softly and closed my eyes, leaning against the door.

The moment my lashes curved like a Venus fly trap, I saw it.

I saw the film play slowly, the edges tattered by age and the screen yellowed, the sun most Floridian, growing nature from the blurry scenery. A garden full of flowers and hedges adorned the view and from behind a bush of wild ivy, a head emerged, nude shoulders following there after and then the gleam of a warm arm, beckoning me to come near.

I do, but from the view of the audience, and the face that greets me is tanned with shine, the smile inviting and open. The eyes somewhat lost in the tousled dark hair but their gleam captured with the soft breeze that grazed the flowers.

And like the fall of a rollercoaster, I feel a rush in my chest as I come into view, taking hold of his hand.

His casual pull to draw me near and my casual laughter breaks my trance and I open my eyes, searching the dirty ceiling with despair, the loud air conditioning shaking me awake and giving my hand mobility.

I grab the door handle and come out gasping.

It had not been as intense as other times I’ve dreamt of him, but the notion of how far it would go and how deep the roots would settle was too much while awake.

A blink was not sufficient to form his face, but the regulatory day dreaming sizzled during the summer daylight with disregard.

The sound of his laughter took over my head when I wanted to smile, the quake of his chest causing a tremble to my palm when touching my mere forearm.


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I ate, chewing on lightly buttered toast and flipped through the channels of the flat screen TV downstairs. CNN News went over dieting tips and Comedy Central was showing a crappy movie. Due to my mother’s lack of English, I couldn’t watch Nickelodeon because of the SAP. Cartoon Network was showing Scooby Doo and the Disney Channel was still on Playhouse Disney, making me roam through each and every channel in hopes of finding something distracting and equally entertaining. The History Channel had a documentary on WW2 I had seen 2 billion times and The Discovery Channel had a documentary on sharks. Otherwise, nothing.

Cozened, I made a finally attempt throughout the programmed favorites and skimmed through Starz, Encore and finally HBO, submitting happily to 2 brand new episodes of Crashbox.

There were 6 phone calls by the time my mom and dad returned from their grocery shopping.

I recited the list of people ‘dying’ to know how she was faring, and served her a tall cup of peach tea. Coming back to the TV, she had already changed the channel to a dubbed in Spanish movie with Gwenyth Paltrow. I sighed and curled next to her, hearing my dad’s footsteps going up the stairs.

I didn’t want to go back to sleep.

So I focused on the plot of the movie.

The idea didn’t seem to be working.


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At two in the morning I was running out of choices and wasting too much time.

I either fell asleep in front of the computer and dreamt of him, waking up in agony and back problems.

Or I went to bed, waking up in agony and in heat.

I sneezed loudly and grimaced at my conundrum. I chose the second option, for at least the side affects wouldn’t last throughout the entire day.

I slid under the covers and curled into basic fetal position, clutching unto the blanket and forcing my face to sink into the pillow. I breathed. I closed my eyes and shortly after, the film began again.

This time, the film began at a house by the sea. The tall white building of the 1930’s standing proud. The summer was more natural and cool, enough to shift the branches of the acres of trees but not the waves of the sea.

On the second floor wrap around balcony, I see myself look up to the sky, leaning against the railing.

I already know how this dream is going to be.

I cringe, whether from excitement or fear, it’s muddled and I watch myself turn around to the sliding of a glass door. Stepping out from the inside appears he. I find his presence unfair, overpowering and weakening my posture.

He does not smile, doesn’t say anything but strolls to me with long strides and clasps my hands in his own with a strong hold. His eyes are hard and searching.

My response is not too startling as this isn’t the first dream of the kind, and though I don’t accept it, I watch without protest.

I lean forward and with the most sincere of smiles, I pull my hands out of his and cradle his stiff face, stroking his jaw affectionately, love glowing brightly, blinding my negativity.

He snorts, a smirk pulsing his lips and my eyes lower on them. His empty hands fill with the soft translucent cloth of my gown and he draws me to him.

My heart itself shudders.

I feel the jeans brush against my softer cloth, his polo sleeve caressing the inside of my elbow.

My mouth is water and I want to take a bite. Of what, I’m still unsure, but my pliant body pressed against him is more than willing to find out.

And right now is where I want the dream to stop and a new reel to begin. I don’t want to see it to the end and wake up with empty space by my side.

But it isn’t an option.

I have to watch.

I have to endure his breath tickling the hairs of my neck, the calloused fingers lightly rubbing on me and the thick curved lips capturing me into a gentle osculate.

We slow dance to the other side of the glass doors, the inside of the house, and the empty space is calming and white, fresh and cool as he removes his shirt and my fingers ache arthritically while feeling his skin, muscle, bones and pumping blood.

My gown flutters over my head and unto a whicker chair alongside a king sized bed; white like the room and the pillows the only accessory to it.

He’s freed from his pants, but his movements aren’t jerky and rushed. He’s slow and savoring our touches as if he were worried it might be over too soon.

His kisses travel to my collar bone and reappear on my lips, searing them as he discarded unto the chair our underwear with, disgracefully, my help.

I am the one that pulls him to the bed, but his fast comply leaves no room for thought.

He lifts my hips and while stroking my teeth with his tongue, he parts my legs with a knee and positions himself.

I want to turn it off.

I want to cover my ears, eyes and mouth.

But…I don’t have a sour taste in my mouth, I have his tongue and slowly, he pushes into me. My lips breaks away, brief enough to cry out and be smothered into another passionate kiss while his hands trail down my sides, cupping my bosom and rubbing my navel.

I feel the wetness and the heat.

Arching, the vision gets streaks of hues of red, blue and yellow, like lightning that fades away slowly.

Scars of pleasure.

My hands are unsteady, clutching at him and his fair skin, his dark locks and the white sheets as he plunders into my soul.

I feel the invasion, but I have no alternative and I open myself to it.

I fracture in his arms with the orgasm and lay limp, watching as his eyes open and his face twists with pain. His furrowed brows give way to tear filled eyes and with a final thrust, he climaxes, his eyes looking at me through the film before fracturing and lying over me like a discarded puppet.

I am not yet freed from the torment as the film is filtered by a new scene almost in fast-forward. It slows and then steadies in a regular pace.

We are fully clothed, snuggled against each other on the vast space of a flowerless meadow. The horizon held the curves of mountains and the fog of clouds in early morning light.

Our legs are tangled, my hair sprawled under us and he rubs a spade of grass over my nose playfully. I giggle wrapping my arms around him and taking in the scent of St. Ives soap and a deodorant. He chuckles soundlessly and kisses me, pulling away to only search my face with wonder. I rub my toes against his foot and he dives at me with a cheerful growl.

“Stop!” I laugh and try to push him away.

He ignores it and runs his hands under my shirt, caressing my ribs, and breathing harshly, we look at each other.

“I want you.” He says, frustration befalling him. “I need you.”

I take my time answering and stroke his arms, looking at him through my lashes. “I’m right here.”

He wants to say something. It’s what he’s been trying to say every night but the wind carries his thoughts away or his fear holds it back.

And like in every dream, he clamps his mouth and turns away, upset.

I crawl to him and touch his back. When he doesn’t respond, I weave my arms from the insides of his sleeves and touch his skin.

He shivers but says nothing.

I lean against his back and kiss the cord that runs up his neck. “I love you.”

He turns his head, and his insecurity is strong, lashing out at my heart.

I know he sees the emotion run through my eyes, for he spins on me and pins me to the ground, taking my mouth in a rough kiss, and I open myself to him again, like a flower in bloom.

His muscles under the skin still tremble even when he ravishes me.

He does it with his face turned away.

I open my eyes and find myself pressed against the cotton candy pink wall. My nightgown is twisted and ironed by my body around my waist.

My inner thighs are damp and my breasts are sensitive and tight. I groan and rub my eyes trying to distract myself from thought of him, at least now that the opportunity is there.

“Bye, Bye, Ms. American pie. Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry and good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye, singing this will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die.” I sang woefully to myself.


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