The Shine Journal

Bring Me A Dream

by

Fionnuala Kearney

My eyes pretend to sleep. They feel gritty, like the Sandman’s been and gone. If I open them, I’ll only see the crack in the curtains. Neither side meets, the left hand side of the rail pointing permanently downwards. It’s been like that since you put it up. Seems like forever.

I’m lying on my back. My hand rests on my stomach and I’m ambushed by a memory. On this very bed, your white collar hands rubbed scented oil all over my body - gentle yet urgent. We made love. My eyes fly open, expecting to see yours staring down at me.

I stare at the crack. The moon throws a shaft of light the width of the room towards the chair on your side. I follow its length, glancing at his body en route. I resist touching him, his dark young skin, his hard taut body.  I feel aroused yet dead.

He is not you. That’s not his fault. Most times I see you in everything that is good; a sunray, a petal, an unexpected smile – but tonight I imagine you as a fast moving tumbleweed spanning lonely dusty roads, alone, without me. I clench my eyes shut. Mr Sandman, come back, bring me a dream?

We used to dream you and I. Wide awake dreams. My left hand travels automatically to my left eye. I’m leaking again, like a faulty tap. Drip. Drip. Drip. We dreamt of the children we would have. Hannah, our daughter with my blonde corkscrew curls and Sean, our son with your amber eyes.

I will my own eyes to close, to succumb to sleep but I’m restless. The man in my bed turns on his front. His left hand seeks me. He rests it on my stomach, where my own has just been.

‘Can’t sleep?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I whisper.

‘Why not?’

‘Dreams,’ I say not wanting to explain.

His finger traces slow feathery circles. I am aroused. I am not dead. You are dead. He is not you. That’s not his fault. I close my eyes again. I don’t want him to see they’re still pretending.

Bio:FIONNULA KEARNEY writes full time, has just completed her second novel. "... while it 'rests' before the titan edit, I'm trying to crack the nut that is 'the short story'. Its a tough nut. A bit like myself really.

Motivation: I love the song...'Mr Sandman' and one day as I was humming it, this story almost wrote itself!