“Is it Duprixol?” I ask. “That works pretty good.”
She springs back. “Hell no. You don’t want any of
that.
”
“Why not?”
“It’s a memory suppressant.”
“You mean . . .”
“Yeah. It does a lot more than kill a headache.”
A headache of my captors’ design. So they butchered my memory with excruciating pain, then graciously provided a remedy that only butchered it more. Easy to see whose best interests were at heart.
“I took that stuff every day.”
“That’s the idea, along with putting it in your food. Ever notice that everything tasted burnt?”
So it wasn’t a dream. And better than any dream, reality delivers actual answers that add up—those nasty burnt eggs Sandy forced on me every visit. To realize this is somehow thrilling, or it could be a relief, difficult to say which. A relief to know I won’t be eating that crap anymore. At any rate, the slice of sharpened awareness is one step closer to all there is to know. But what about the girls, playing with each other, and me? That’s what I really want to know.
“What happened last night?”
Madison leans into the fridge, looking for something. “Don’t tell me you forgot already.”
“Forgot what? What happened?”
She pulls out eggs and gets busy at the stove. “We went out dancing and had some drinks.”
“Yeah, I remember that part. What I mean is, after we came home.”
“Remember the taxi?”
“What about it?”
She glances over her shoulder. “You passed out in it, you ’tard.”
“Oh, right. But what about after that? What happened?”
“Nothing that involved you,” she says, facing the stove. “You snore like a freight train, by the way. We didn’t care much for that racket.”
We? As in her and Emerald, or whatever her name is. This I have got to know. Just hearing about what they did, the details could be exciting. Possibly as much as the real thing, maybe.
“Yeah, but what about you and Emerald? What happened? Tell me.”
Working over the sizzling skillet, she says, “Tina. What do you think, silly. We had sex. She’s a great lover.”
“Really? Like how? What happened? Tell me everything.”
She twists around. “What a typical male. We kissed, I played with her tits, then some grinding, you know, like all women do. After that we ate each other. Is that better?”
Somehow it helps, but it’s just not the same as seeing it for yourself. She’s right about the self-control. I need to watch my drinking so I don’t miss the next time.
She comes to the table and sets down a plate of egg-fried toast, topped with loads of butter and drowning in syrup.
“Here you go, honey. I bet you missed this.”
The aroma is magnificent. Maple syrup and real butter, battered eggs smothering the bread, grilled to golden brown and steaming hot, fresh off the stove. Now this is living. And made by a beautiful woman. The best dream come true can’t compete with reality this good.
Madison sits across the table from me, picking at a plate of scrambled eggs. After truckloads of the runny slop, I’m not sure if I could tolerate any ever again, but I am curious.
“Could I try a taste?”
“Sure.” She lifts her fork and guides a small helping into my mouth.
Being fed by a woman is good too, very good. Arousing even. The fluffy morsel is something to chew, not all runny and loose. I search for the familiar burnt flavor, but the unsavory spice is absent. Actually, scrambled eggs aren’t bad when they don’t taste burnt.
However, egg-fried toast is the king of all breakfasts. I dive into the tall stack and feast on the meal. Madison finishes her eggs and remains at the table, just sitting there, silently watching me eat. She seems to enjoy watching as much as I enjoy the food she has prepared. Everybody wins.
More of the past begins to make sense. Why I asked for the dish every visit to Sandy’s diner. I’ve had this meal before, many times, as now the memory is fully restored. Egg-fried toast is my favorite breakfast.
But part of the memory is skewed. Madison sitting there, happy to see me fed as I gorge on her delicious meal. It was someone else across the table.
* * *
After breakfast, Madison stands before the sink, rinsing dishes. I stay at the table and flip through a newspaper while my food digests. That second helping may not have been such a great idea, but it sure tasted good. If I was only a mouth, or could ditch this stomach about to burst, I’d have thirds.
The newspaper seems foreign. I don’t recognize any of the people or places mentioned. Most of the news is boring anyway. Military plans, which is ridiculous to broadcast, but likely just a fabrication to throw off the enemy, along with the public. Some domestic disputes, results of a horseracing contest, and predictions for more good weather. The pleasing forecast helps restore one memory, how I like it here, at least, this particular region of the planet. Abundant sunny weather. Not only in dreams, it happens in reality, too, when the place you call home isn’t one of the poles.
The real reason the paper is boring—my mind won’t let go of last night. I wanted it so bad, I still want it. Especially now, like a junkie needing a fix. I’m afraid to admit it, but I might fuck anything.
“I don’t understand the whole sex thing.”
Madison wipes her hands with a dishtowel. “I must not, either. What are you talking about?”
“You know, the way we are. We’re both horny. Don’t deny it, I know you are. But it doesn’t make sense. We’re not bodies.”
“Sure,” she says, coming to the table, “but we each have one, and sex is important to our bodies.”
“Why should it matter?”
She sits across from me. “Adam, to play a game, you need a playing piece.”
“Okay, so I have a playing piece. Now the game is sex?”
“Not necessarily. Think of your body like a car. If it breaks down, you can’t get around, right? So you have to take care of it, give it fuel and clean it, fix things now and then.”
“So we eat, sleep, and take a bath.”
“And have sex. That’s just as important.”
“I don’t see how. I won’t die without sex. But then again, sometimes I wonder.”
“Think of your body,” she says. “Sex gives it hope that life continues through offspring, and that makes it happy. In some way, it survives.”
“Okay, but wanting sex and having children are two different things. Sure, they’re related, but one doesn’t always equal the other. I’m talking about sex, not raising a family.”
“They may be different to you and me, but they’re not to your body. From its perspective, sex means it’s succeeding at making more bodies, regardless of whether or not it actually is.”
“But it only succeeds if it actually does.”
“True, but consider this—when you want to accomplish something, you don’t know if you’ll succeed, do you?”
“No one knows the future.”
“Does that stop you from trying?”
Tricked again, by my own words.
“Okay, point taken. But still, why so strong an urge? I get so horny sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“That’s the body talking the only way it knows how—instinct. That continual drive to accomplish something without knowing whether it’s even possible.”
“I know it’s possible.”
“Maybe, but that’s you. Your body has no idea, only to keep trying.”
“Something feels wrong about it. Like my body is calling the shots, and I’m stuck along for the ride.”
She smiles. “It’s not so bad. You get things too, you know.”
“Sex? Seems I’ve been tricked by my body. This horny thing is all its idea. All I get out of the deal is blue balls.”
She giggles. “You’re silly. When you’re intimate with someone, you get more than just sex.”
“Oh? Like what? What else is there to get?”
She reaches out to rest her hand on mine. “Attention.”
I pull my hand from under hers. “I don’t need attention. I’m not some needy child.”
“All beings crave attention, and you’re no different. To exist alone is dreadful. There’s no one to look at you, so really, you’re nothing. When others show up, and you capture their attention, then you get to be something.”
“What’s that got to do with sex?”
“Everything. In relationships, couples take turns being interested and being interesting, and that exchange of attention develops into a powerful force—attraction. Combined with the body’s urge to procreate, then comes sex, and the partners satisfy their need for attention, and at the same time, satisfy their bodies’ need for sex. Everybody wins.”
“It still feels wrong. Sex has its time and place, and I have other things to do. I should be in charge. I should be able to tell my body when, and when not. But it seems I can’t. And don’t get me wrong, but you don’t help much, if you know what I mean.”
She gets a sly grin. “You forgot how.”
“How to what?”
She springs up, pushes in her chair, and starts out of the kitchen. “Get dressed. There’s something I want to show you.”
* * *
After roaming the house in my underwear, searching for her, I find Madison in the bedroom, rummaging through a dresser, then the closet. She must stay here often, given she has an entire wardrobe on hand. Somewhat amusing, she roots through all that stuff and ends up choosing jeans and a tee-shirt. She doesn’t seem to realize me watching as she gets dressed, beginning with frail underwear, then wiggling into the tight denim, a delight to watch as her titties jiggle. She pulls her shirt down and notices me in the doorway. She smiles. Giving attention is good too, when you know it’s received.
While gathering her hair into pigtails, her stare shifts lower. “Put some clothes on, you pervert.”
I look down. When did that happen? I hurry to the closet in search of something to wear. Jeans, pullover, and another black vest. Seems I have a few. So I’m in a rut, everyone is entitled to favorites. Getting into the jeans is a challenge, with Trigger Happy and his load of fun playing stick ’em up. He doesn’t care to fold in half, either, and ends up pasted sideways, pointing to my pocket.
Madison tosses me a sturdy leather jacket, then sits on the bed’s edge and laces her boots. In a pocket of the jacket, I find a pair of riding gloves and try them on. They fit snug, yet offer exceptional freedom of movement, allowing my fingers to flex easily. More of my favorite things.
Madison dons a matching jacket and starts for the living room.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Her voice drifts back along the hallway. “Come on, let’s get on the road. It’s a long ride.”
* * *
In the alley behind the house, Madison reaches into her jacket and pulls out a small remote. She points it at the garage, and the door begins to rise.
She asks, “Would you like to ride, or drive?”
Inside the garage is dark, but when the door reaches the top, a light comes on. The garage could hold two cars, but it’s mostly empty, other than workbenches and tool chests along one wall, and parked in the center, a lone motorcycle leaning on its kickstand.
My
motorcycle.
I hurry into the garage. My awesome bike is not mangled beyond repair, trash at the bottom of a ravine. But is it the same bike? It is the very same, exactly like the dream. I check my body and make sure everything is in place. My body is fine, not mangled beyond repair, trash at the bottom of a ravine. Weird, it was a dream, but . . .
“Well?” Madison asks. “Ride or drive?”
The dream lingers. It seemed so real, enough to generate real emotions that also linger.
“We’re not going to the mountains, are we?”
“No, silly, what gave you that idea?” She circles the bike. “So what’s it gonna be? Ride or drive? Come on, it’s not that tough to decide.”
She stands there staring at me, the bike between us, while I stand here staring back at her. I want to drive, I want that feeling again, that awesome power between my thighs, but . . .
“Adam! Make a choice.”
“Okay, I’ll drive.”
“Good.” She tosses me a helmet. “I hope you don’t have that much trouble deciding when to turn. I don’t feel like flying off the road today.”
Now that just wasn’t fair.
Carefully, I lift one leg over the seat, and Madison hops on back, excited and ready to go. Not me, better we just sit here, make sure everything will be okay, though I couldn’t say how. That was just a dream, right?
A twist of the key and the engine roars to life. Such immense power, growling between my thighs. And so immense is the potential for death. How can a dream affect me so deeply?
Like many times before, I twist the throttle and roll out of the garage, into the alley. Madison gives directions as I guide the motorcycle through town, indulging in the pleasant thought that my bike and I are intact. Let’s keep it that way.
“Take a left at the next light,” she says. “Then go straight until you see highway eighty-one.”
As long as we stay out of the mountains. I’m brave enough to ride this thing, but I can’t shake the dream. I don’t want to see too much in common, and I’ve already seen enough.
The clouds break as the day progresses, and the sun begins to leak through. The weatherman nailed the forecast, but even so, I should have remembered. Most any day around here starts with overcast that burns off by afternoon. I knew that. The gray mist is a seaside morning thing, all that moisture rolling in from the ocean. Back to sunny skies, like my dreams. Like the last dream. It was sunny and clear in the mountains, too.
For a time we travel at a lazy speed, something safe. I’m still timid, but the ride is wonderful, and soon my worry eases. The lack of mountainous terrain helps. I gradually increase speed, becoming comfortable with my old friend.
Highway eighty-one approaches. “Take a right,” she says, “and keep going.”
Having gained some confidence, I lean into the turn and twist the throttle, pushing the bike with all its might. The exhaust resonates a sweetly tame thunder, roaring deeply, very masculine. The bike handles flawlessly, clinging to the road like glue. Ahead is a long stretch of highway with two lanes in each direction, separated by a grassy median. The route looks safe, no mountain curves, and little chance of a head-on collision.