Thirst
The dream always starts the same. She does the same thing each time.
She stands in the front room of the house. It’s so hot that the air doesn’t move, even with the fans turning overhead. Now and again a bit of breeze comes in through the window, but it feels like a breath of heat from the oven.
One day, I’m going to move into a house near the ocean, she thinks to herself. One day, I’ll buy a place with air conditioning that works past the winter.
The hands of the clock show three o’clock.
Because of the heat, the front door stands open. The screen door is so dark that at first she does not realize someone is standing there. She hears the knock, and sees the man through the dusty mesh of the door.
She squints her eyes.
He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He runs his hands through his hair.
She opens the door, blinking at him in the harsh sunlight.
“Yes?” she blurts. He smiles awkwardly, as if he needs to apologize for something he hasn’t said yet.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, ma’am.” She catches a trace of southern accent. His blonde hair is short and spiky. “Please, I was wondering if I could use your phone. My car broke down a ways down the road and I need a tow truck. This darned cell phone,” he takes it from his pocket. “I swear it’s not good for anything.”
She pauses. She is alone, and the next house isn’t for miles.
If his car is really down the road, she surmises, he will have to walk miles before getting help. In this heat, it could easily be the death of him.
“Please…?” he asks, sensing her hesitation. He widens his blue eyes. She finds herself staring at his impossibly long lashes.
“Come in,” she says, stepping aside.
He comes in, and she walks back to the kitchen with him. She shows him where the phone is.
And this is the part of the dream that becomes hazy.
Somehow, the kitchen seems dark. The blinds are shut. He says nothing.
Somehow, he is very close to her, and she can hear his breathing.
His hands are cold when he touches her. He touches her arm, and this is a delicious thrill, like having her hot skin stroked with ice.
Now she moves towards him, and his arms come around her. “Darling,” he whispers. He laughs, softly, intimately. They are old friends, aren’t they?
“Give me, darling,” he whispers. “Just a little drink. I won’t hurt you. But I need you to quench me.”
He touches her neck, sweeping back her hair.
His cold lips are sweet. She closes her eyes and thinks of cool things, like pools of water and the taste of ice cream on her tongue.
When she comes awake, she does the same thing each time.
She is lying on her couch. She is all right, except she is hot, and a little dizzy. She will sit up in a moment, and when the room stops spinning she will make her way into the kitchen for a glass of water.
She will stand at the sink and run some cool water into a cloth to put to the side of her neck, where she feels a strange, somehow pleasant tingle. She will close her eyes and feel a chill flow through her body. She will not notice the faint trace of blood on her neck.
