Dreams and realities

I dream that I am putting flowers on my father’s grave. They are deep purple, his favourite colour, and I somehow know that it is nearly Christmas. I walk along tight rows of burials, lying head to toe and only inches apart. Some of the earth covering the bodies has fallen away so I can see their faces. I see my father’s face, beginning to decompose. It is not the first time I have dreamt of him this way.

 

I pull my mind back to consciousness and into the cold, grey light of dawn. I do not want to go back to that dream, so instead I embark on a daydream of walking through the woods with Owen. The sun filters through the leaves and the only sounds are birdsong, and our feet snapping dried twigs as he leads me to a secluded spot away from the path. I feel the softness of his lips on mine, and the harshness of the tree bark, rasping against my back.

 

Turning to look at the slumbering face beside me, I wonder why its owner is not the focus of such dreams. It is such a beautiful face, with its well-defined cheekbones, straight nose and generous mouth. And inside is a generous heart that beats so closely with the rhythm of my own. But I know, from years of experience, my fantasy is inappropriate to his appetites and skills.

 

As I think about it some more, I smile to myself. From what I’ve seen so far, Owen is hardly the obvious candidate for a little outside entertainment either; he is neat, and tidy, and formal – his emotions as buttoned up as the cuffs on his shirtsleeves, even on the hottest day. Perhaps that is the challenge… unwrapping the layers of the onion, to find out what lies beneath.