A Dream: Embers Cooling on a Wintery Dusk

This was actually a dream I had. Some of the details I chose to change to make it more pg-13, but this is among the many romantic dreams I've had that are lucid enough in my head to write about.

The air is stale, predictable, frosted, characteristic of the night school ambiance. The fluorescent lights illuminate the uniform, white tile that lines the entire floor, traces of blue and red perforating each tile, a dull attempt at variety. The teacher relaxes, surrendering her integrity to her desk, fearing facing the students, not knowing what thoughts will manifest themselves in their imaginative minds. Her hands cover her tired eyes, her feet, swollen and cherry red, carefully maneuver each high heel off. Her surrender is well-timed, however; the bell pierces the air like a stone agitates water when tossed with purpose.

The slugs worth of students pile themselves near the door as one by one they leave, all the knowledge seeming to stream out of the door with them. I stay, as is my habit. 11:15 P.M. and I rise out of my chair, my head inclining toward the teacher. Her eyes are lifted from her hands by her restless head, probably pounding with aching. After I shove my personal belongings and my tools for knowledge in my bag, I walk to her desk, using no words. She looks at me briefly, only then to return her eyes to her hands. I see a smile crease her cheeks and her head nod.

We have learned to communicate without speech. The less we speak, she would say, the more energy we can conserve. I instantly understood her command"put the chairs on the desks. Last year"she claimed the first day of night school"she was walking across the classroom in her “very valuable” high-heels and she tripped over a misplaced chair, which sent her to the hospital for months in critical condition. I have a natural sympathy for teachers, so the story was motivation enough to begin assisting her, if even in the most minimal areas. After a pause for planning, I quickly and effectively execute the task, each chair now decorously mounted on its corresponding desk. I fold my hands over my chest and exhale a sigh of exasperation, examining my work, scanning for errors. I turn around and see the teacher's face fall subtly into her arms.

I start walking out the thin door and look up at the wall to the black and white clock missing a second hand and late by an hour. 11:45 P.M.! That's much too late, the bus is scheduled to leave at 11:45. A rush of electric shock jump starts my body and as a result, I chase the stairway. I kick my feet all the way down the flight, discovering a desolate hallway. My mind travels through several potential situations--walking home miles away, calling my father only to wait another hour, being left stranded for the night. I keep running until I reach the exit of the school, faced with a choice of about 7 doors, all leading outside or into the cafeteria. I walk out through the first door, the closest to the bus ramp. I see all of the yellow cabooses of each bus as my eyes stray, which brings cheer. Even in the dead of night, the buses maintain their brilliance, attributed to their reflective tape and blinding lights. I slow to a walk, a fast-paced walk. Entering the newly tarred ramp, I immediately detect the malodorous chemicals, both the solutions excreted from the buses and the new tar.

Suddenly, approaching the buses only about 30 feet away, I hear the sound of a reeving engine. I fear it could be a bus creeping in from behind me; yet it is the synchronized sound of several engines leaving the ramp. The 30 feet soon are converted to 40 then 50 feet. So with renewed enthusiasm, I frantically search the moving buses for bus number 4646, trotting along and keeping their slow pace. 4646 arrives in my peripheral and a burst of movement combined with adept legs get me close enough to throw three small tar pebbles at the side of the bus. No reaction even after four of them. I come closer, finally reaching the door on the side of the bus. I knock like a maniac until the bus driver, Ms. Lisa, cedes. The bus is pulled over and the door opened--I avoided chaos.

Ms. Lisa looks at me with a nervous smile while I gasp for air, resting my body on the back of her chair as soon as I reach the last step, almost tripping in the process. She soon trails along behind the last bus on the ramp and we then reach a formidable 20 miles per hour, at least a speed formidable to a pupil that is standing. My eyes then search the bus for an available seat, having skipped the first two seats as feasible options. However, I see the fragile body of a girl--Janice--demanding my attention occupying the entire space of the first seat on the right, her gorgeous legs covered by blue skinny-jeans sprawled in either direction and her knees hanging on the front of the seat, her shoes falling off, exposing her bright purple socks, the light scent of her sweat, exciting and attractive, traveling to my receptive nose. Her tiny structure makes the seat appear so small and tempting. She stares thoroughly at me, looking up and down timidly, like a photo copier, scanning evenly my person, as if she detects the immediate relinquishing of my rectitude while I approach.

I ask her mindlessly if she could lend me the space next to her; she generously accepts my request, hiding her felicity. In the time frame of about two minutes, the area around me becomes silent. I observe her again. She is incredibly relaxed now"her chest falls and rises so slowly and silently, her shoes are now on the floor of the bus, her scent is now so subtle yet so impacting that my mind grows entranced by its power. I had never noticed her jet-black, silk-smooth hair the same way, her searching, dark-brown eyes, her tight, untouched lips, her sculpture of a body, her tiny, toy-like feet. She is obviously of Asian decent, Janice, pulchritudinous by nature.

Her fingers rest two inches from my legs; my eyes slowly drift toward them. They appear so smooth and touchable that fantasy compels me to touch them, to taste them, to smell them. Then I look away and her fingers are touching my thigh. Only briefly. She is asking for my attention. She wants to show me something on her phone, gesturing me to come closer enthusiastically. I dive in. Soon we are watching videos and playing games on her phone, laughing like elementary school children, only then to turn our attention to each other.

Our bodies have become tangled together now--my arms have found their way between her legs, her delicious scent, now a combination of flowery perfume, strawberry shampoo, and sweet, luscious sweat, has increased tenfold. Her head is resting on my shoulder, her fingers are lying aesthetically on my chest, coming further and further down, descending like soft rain on my skin, only to stop and repeat. I heedlessly move my hands about all of her body in return, from her warm, delicate feet to her begging lips. She relaxes even further, releasing an imploring moan. I grasp her hand, hold the tiny thing in mine, then bring it to my face. I touch, smell, and taste her tantalizing essence. I then lay her hand down like a priceless jewel, staring deep into her eyes in the process. They seem to beg, to plead, to desire so fully.

I shift in my seat to maximize comfort, getting closer and closer to her face, not losing her eyes. Our noses touch; our lips meet; we kiss. There is no one on the bus but us two. The bus driver is gone, the pupils are gone. Just us. After minutes following the same pattern, the phone falls on the dirt-riddled floor of the bus. We both reach for the phone like clockwork, bumping our heads in our fruitless attempt. She succeeds the second time and holds up her phone like a beacon of light in the excitement. Her smile fades away when the bus comes to a stop. She knows as a result of her daily observation of me that this is my stop, miles away from the school.

One might say that she was obsessed with me even before I started to fall for her. She would often follow me through the hallway at school, all the way to the entrance of the boys' room. Then she would pretend to be after the water from the fountain. I knew she had no intention of drinking, considering the fountain had been “out of order” since the beginning of the school year, but I was secretly elated by her adorable mission impossible to follow me. Once, I turned around abruptly, facing her, and she was so startled that she gasped in shock and dropped all of her books"chemistry, calculus, ap us government. I helped her pick them up, smiling the entire time while she glued her eyes to the floor. I left feeling peachy, like sunny Georgia. I had a stalker. Janice my stalker.

I stand up off the seat to leave. She quickly clasps my arm, desperate for me to stay. Her eyes speak more words than lips do; the way her glare pierces my heart"it wounds me, how her eyes shine like embers cooling on a wintery dusk. I could only wish I could satisfy the burning desire to stay. She gradually loses her grip, her hand finally falling to her side. She smiles, blinks twice, then blows two kisses. I receive them and walk away, down the steps at a pace that matches that of a crippled man. The door closes behind me.

I replay the kiss several times, feeding my growing void. Melancholy I walk in the night, watching the bus drip puddles of oil and leave behind a cloud of pollution the size of a small car as it takes off. Behind the cloud I see only the lights of the bus now, moving away, the sound of the engine only an echo. It begins to rain ever so lightly, as if the mournful sky is exhausting its tears. The last day of night school over.

Author's Note

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