Hotel Photographer Pt. 22 - Dreambook A14

Dreambook A14

hi Eric

I think you are busy. You don't have to read my strange dream. In this one I was a lesbian.

I'm reading "The Diary of Anne Frank" to improve my English, and it has affected me. I dreamed last night that I met someone like her, not a girl, though, but a young European woman, and fell in love. We were not in Holland but Scandinavia, where I have been before.

I'd gone in the dream to study at a school and on my first day in the new setting struggled a little to find my bearings. Meeting her helped. We got along. I felt great.

At lunch later some pangs of loneliness struck again. Among the strangers in the dining room, I noted how far from home I was. My spirits rose again when I saw her enter!

I was surprised and a little embarrassed by how much my outlook had changed for the better just from talking to her before. Of course I wanted to again! As our conversation started, I began to feel that if she was at that small college in Northern Europe I might find not mind my three months there after all. My ambitions were modest. I would have been content to have a pleasant stay at the school. But somewhere in the middle of our half-hour conversation in the lobby where people were socializing on the first day, I found myself entertaining far exceeding those I'd come with. I saw the possibility of discovery beyond anything I'd expected, a paradise of love opening for her and me.

But I didn't want her to know the wild dreams she'd sparked in me, just by being as friendly and beautiful as she was. So different from anyone I'd known- at least I'd never spoken at length to a Scandinavian, so open, frank, encouraging. And that long, straight blond hair, that intelligent honest, good face! I worried that my strong emotion would put her off. She might feel pressured. At least I should wait. She might like me too, even see a potential for love. It was clear we'd both felt something! But she'd need to see that I was adult, able to control myself. No one wants a love-sick puppy trailing after them, no matter how cute the pet might be!

I told myself not to come on too strong. I had no right to monopolize her time. More to the point, she wouldn't let me. I saw that she had an independent character, that she liked her independence. That was something I liked about her.

I understood I shouldn't push my luck. I wasn't entitled to her exclusive company just because we'd had a nice chat earlier. To her it might not mean what it had to me. She might not need me as I felt I did her.

If she felt I expected too much, she might pull away and I'd lose my chance to know her better, as I badly wanted to.

I tried to control myself. I bit my lip, stood in place moving from one foot to the other. Controlling my energy, welling up in equal parts from loneliness, estrangement my first day in the new place and the opposite: excitement, infatuation, longing for the superlative thrill the contact we'd established.

I shouldn't go to her. There she is, I told myself, talking to others. Give her time. Don't go.

But I went to her anyway.

Making conversation, fighting to keep my tone casual, I asked about her activities in the hours since we'd parted company, gone our own ways at the school.

"Did you finish that book?" She'd shown me one she was reading.

"No," she said.

Then we were talking again as before, just as easily, enjoyably.

"If I read the word ___ again, I think I'll scream," she said. She pointed to a word she said the author used too often. I didn't understand, of course, since I didn't know Danish. It was short, just one syllable. The vowel was "a" with a circle on top (å), which she explained had the pronunciation of long "o."

"What does it mean?" I asked. She told me but I don't remember. It wasn't important- though all elements of dreams seem to matter, as in stories.

She mentioned one she'd had. Sometime between morning and lunch, she'd taken a short nap. To my great surprise, my name came up. She mentioned it in passing (she was speaking casually without effort).

"You dreamed about me?" I couldn't keep my excitement under wraps, and there seemed no need to now.

"Yes. 'Let's stay at Akemi's place.'" She was quoting someone- or herself. Apparently in the dream she'd been with a group, as we were at the school.

"That touches me," I said.

She didn't know me yet. I wanted to prove worthy of her affection, trust.

It was clear that we could get close, start a love affair, and that it could become serious. Our feelings were that good and strong. But I still felt love for Mitchell. Would I remain with him for the rest of my life or start a new life with her?

We lay down together (in one of our rooms, it had to be) and I massaged her back. I wasn't sure if she welcomed my touch. Maybe sensing my hesitancy, she said, "Don't worry. I'm just relaxing."

"Does this feel okay?" I asked.

"Yes."

She was face down. I ran my hand up her body, smoothly bumping over each vertebra all the way to her shoulder- "you have a long back," I thought- then down again to the firm pliant flesh of her bottom, gently pulling one side outward, felt how readily it parted from the center.

Last night Mitchell talked about us breaking up, separating. He was joking, said he'd met another woman (like I had in my recent dream!)

I played along, asked when he had in mind for our separation. He said before Thanksgiving.

"That's soon," I said, though it was still months away. "I have to start getting ready to go back to Japan now."

My response scared him a little, and he said, "Hey, not so fast. Let's talk this over."

And he reached for my chest and rolled my breasts in my teeshirt, bra-less because we were home. It was a smooth feeling. His fingers worked strongly.

I let Mitchell know that while I have a sense of humor he really shouldn't toy with my feelings that way. I was half joking too, not angry, just reminding him two could play the game of brinksmanship he'd started.

Sometimes I wonder if he's ever somehow seen my emails to you (impossible!) because he says and does things that seem straight out of them.

I asked him about the meaning of a word you used in your last message, "pinoy" (or "ninoy"), but he just shook his head. Maybe he knew it but didn't answer because his mouth was on my breasts, wetting them all over. His hands had come around to my back, where I could feel then moving like mine did in the dream I wrote you about the Danish woman I liked so much.

Later Mitchell talked about a different nationality, races, black and white in his own country, the U.S. He described walking down a mostly empty street that afternoon and suddenly hearing rap music from a car parked beside him. He'd sort of jumped and hurried off. While walking away, he heard the driver of the car call to him. "What's up, man?" He was wondering why Mitchell had reacted as he had, startled, then almost running off.

Mitchell took the time to return and talk. He wanted to soothe any bad feelings, honestly explain himself. He spoke through the partially open car window.

"I heard loud music and the lyric 'fuck you' or whatever, and then I saw you."

The driver was a young light-skinned black man who

looked at Mitchell steadily and said, "Hey, black lives matter," pointing out that the response of the white stranger could be taken as racist.

"I know they do!" Mitchell said. He was friendly but the man in the car didn't reciprocate his peace overture.

Pulling away from the car again, Mitchell got into a talk with a passerby who might have seen, overheard, the exchange between him and the driver. He too black man, taller, more mature than the other, in his thirties, darker as well. Mitchell wanted to justify his behavior to an objective witness and to himself.

"My reaction was natural. I think. Not bigoted, I mean. I grew up in this city, have lived here all my life." He explained to me as he had to the bystander that New York used to have a high crime rate.

"I got mugged my share," he told the man that afternoon. "I'm on guard instinctively. Even now, I check up and down a street I'm walking on." He recalled his words.

u2028"And each time the mugger was black," the stranger said to him, nodding in sympathy, understanding yet remaining distant as the man in the car had, because, Mitchell thought, reasoned, as a white person he was deemed someone not to be trusted readily.

"Yeah," he said to me and to the witness. "Most of the muggers were black". I asked him if they all were and he wasn't sure. "It was a while ago."

I could imagine Mitchell's body language then, as he talked with the man on the street about his past experience in the city. He might have shrugged, I thought. Picturing him being mugged, held up at gun or knife-point was something else again. I couldn't do it.

The bystander showed some sympathy, offered understanding but kept a cool distance.

"It's tough living with other people," he said. And walked away. If Mitchell wanted a hand-holding, assurance he wasn't racist but a good person, he wasn't going to get it from him.

Then late last night we heard a sound from the living room. Mitchell got up to go look. No one was there. No criminal had broken in. When Mitchell didn't come back to bed immediately, Some time passed and I went out too and saw in the dim darkness that he was closing the windows around the living room.

"It's hot," I reminded him.

He said he wasn't closing them all the way, just didn't want to leave an open space large enough someone could see a chance to get through.

We live on the fourth floor, "but people can climb," he said, adding that someone once burgled his father's apartment, which was also on a high floor. The robber had entered through the kitchen window.

"Maybe they came down from the roof. But then how'd they get up there?"

I had no ideas. This is his hometown. Questions like that aren't usual in mine.

I like the windows open wide and asked Mitchell not to sacrifice too much of our lives to his childhood fears.

"No one's going to take me away and ravage me," I said, though it was possible that later on, in my dreams, you would."

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