Those Lips

A dream. A most beautiful dream.

Memories of the dream have it start without premise. The sudden instance of setting and scene without labourious background as is usual with dreams.

A girl, dark haired and wearing an apron above her dress has her back to me. We are in the corridor on the 1st or 2nd floor. She straigtens a picture frame.
"I love her" she exclaims to me and moves on down the corridor to the left. She moves on having dispensed that barbed comment.
Possibly the walls are brown as is the floor but more likely my mind simply has them as surplus to this.
I enter the room to the right, an attic with a low ceiling that is just a head span above our heads. An large bed with cream sheets and an iron rail at its foot is all there is apart from her.
"So she can love you but I can't?" I ask her. A feeling of sulk permeates from me and a shadow is across my brow yet there is still a hint of sarcasm in the words. We both know she does not love the maid and that the maid's love is infatuation and not as deep as mine. We both know how beguiling and beautiful she is.
She stand there in a dress, colour unknown, with brown hair and pale skin.
She smiles flirtingly and opens her arms towards me invitingly as she says "You want my love", the sparkle of her eyes exists in her words.
I shrug her off. "I don't want your pity" and turn my head sideways.

An Uncle is suddenly in the room, the attic bedroom now part library. She and I conciously move apart from each other as such intimacy is forbidden. She turns right towards where the bed is. I turn left and look down a row of bookshelves that form an inverted 'U' shape. The shape is straight mind you.
The Uncle says a word 'Dorf' encouragingly. Through dream logic I understand that I am looking at the poetry section of the books and 'Dorf' is a reasonably known poet, as Keats or Byron is in waking life. The poetry section with its brown and red leather books is next to the History section. Far to the right, where you would see directly forwards if you stood in the room's doorway the Uncle is slowly sitting down, book in hand, to a dark round table with two chairs.
Whereas the word 'Dorf' was spoken normally but deeply poignant, the process of sitting is infinitely stretched out but lacks any real importance.

The dream jumps to the next scene, as usual with dreams I am more aware of my eyes do not see normally but have a third person view so as to see myself. most likely a dream reminder of my real self conciousness.

She and I storm off from somewhere towards another room. The premise is that we have both argued together and are walking away from the argument, or at least that is what we would have the others think. The others being barely formed ideas of people in some wispy absent phantom room as the dream goes. She strides onwards and I follow behind.
We enter the room and I slam the door.
She turns and moves towards me with open arms. Wild passion takes over and I frenziedly unbutton my trousers and let them drop to the floor. Her arms are around my neck and she straddles me, her legs wrapping around my grey boxers.
I lean forwards and kiss her neck, dream-logic turning the kiss into a long puckering suck.
Part of my mind wonders how long this motion will continue before I create a 'wheal', a raised mark on her skin. While another part wonders if I am giving her enough pleasure.
A close up of her red lips opening and closing silently over my shoulder explains that my latter worry is unwarranted.

The scene repeats, this time starting from where I am kissing her neck. Her fiance knocks on the door but we continue. He is upper class as she is and I am only a guest in the house, possibly just a servant or common labourer, but still we two continue.
As the door is locked the fiance climbs round the building and walks round the balcony. The white curtains blow in the breeze and their silken thinness does not hide his movement. He enters through the large floor to ceiling open window and sees us both. She does not look at him and I rush towards him. I punch him once then twice, the movement slow as though through syrup, as running is in nightmares.
I punch him in his pale face making his blond hair sway back and forth, corn in wind. He grins a bit in his perfect suit.

A third punch and he transforms into a dark haired and bearded young man.
He is still the fiance but now he is some indie trendy person who takes everything niche and obscure and makes it popular. Now I want to punch him even more but don't.
He says something about going to go to a paper folding competition. My mind fills in the blanks: a competition in a park where surrounded by green tress and on verdant grass beneath the Sun, competitors try to invent a tool made entirely out of paper.
I half mumble with some embarrassment the idea of making a working pistol. To cover my embarrassment at such a stupid idea I half joke that it would work... once.
She smiles, touches my face and disappears leaving me with the knowledge she is gone to me.

Once more the passionate scene repeats. Not so as to act as a contrast to the scene before, but as an overriding scene. The sense of kissing her neck while her luscious ruby lips work silently continues as I wake.

Rather than being a building that cumbles as I wake the dream remains almost intact with only a few bricks and details out of alignment.

And still those lips move, I hope I can think of them for a long time.