Last nights dream:
A couple have moved to the countryside. The man commutes to work. The woman, isolated and without distractions, becomes immersed in the rhythm of every day living. She occupies her time, her body, her life. She becomes solid. She ages gracefully. When he returns, they only have time to make love and sleep. No time for words. Without the luxurious languor of sentences to envelop and bind them, they drift apart. Watery outlines of their old selves.
Everyday. She yearns for him, aches at his absence. She leaves him love poems on his answering machine while he commutes, so that they are there to greet him like the freshly baked bread she makes for herself.
Everyday. His secretary listens to these poems and erases them before the man arrives, but over time she comes to respect the wife, her sensibilities and her devotion.
One day, on the day the wife leaves her final message, the secretary leaves it untouched and prepares to leave the man. “You have a message”, she announces, and smiles a deep sadness and regret as she closes the door behind her.
He barely looks up.
After a neck release and a shower, I remember the troubling time-travel component that I couldn’t / wouldn’t recall when I wrote this dream down in the middle of the night:
The wife so wanted to be with her husband that she time-traveled into her past so that she could be near him as his young secretary, not remembering how willful she used to be.
It is understood that there is a limit as to how much time travel a person is allowed.
We are not immortal.