The Dream Canvas

by Unknown

  “I’ve got it. Don’t worry. Thanks,” I said and grabbed the dirty napkin from her hands. She backed away, stumbling on pink stiletto heels in the process. Her tiny shorts riding up her thighs so high you could almost see her hot pink thong.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” she said and looked over at Isaiah whose hand covered his mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Is this funny to you?” I asked him. I turned to the sloppy drunk girl, “Really, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it. But can I get you some water maybe? Or a cup of coffee?” Judging from the tight white tank top, barely-there shorts and the state of her consciousness, she might have been a target for someone to slip a roofie into her drink. She was a cute girl who needed to sober up quickly. I wasn’t going to feed her another drink and add to her chances for winding up on the morning news.

  “I’ll take another cranberry and vodka!” she yelled in my ear.

  “Okay coming right up,” I sneakily ordered her a virgin cranberry on ice. She’d never know the difference. Isaiah smiled at me knowingly. He mouthed, “You’re a good person.”

  The drink-spiller grabbed her virgin cocktail and stumbled off with an even younger-looking friend. Isaiah and I slammed a few more drinks and bantered over artsy things. Isaiah paid our tab, and we left the Irish Pub holding hands. Typically I’d have been disgusted at the thought of holding hands with any man, but it just felt right with Isaiah. I actually felt a sense of pride holding his hand in public. Like yeah bitches, he’s with me.

  We reached my apartment, and I glanced down at my watch. One AM. One of R. Kelly’s songs was running through my head. You know the one where your mind’s telling you no but your body’s telling you yes? I mustered up the nerve to invite him inside. What was there to lose? This wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, so why shouldn’t we engage in a little skin-to-skin friction?

  “Want to come in?” I could feel the blood rush to my thighs again. It wasn’t the norm for me to partake in one-night stands. My grandmother always said not to give so freely of yourself to random men. She said whenever we’re intimate with someone we are giving away some of our energy, our life-force. You don’t want to give your life-force away to just anyone. Was this guy worth the energy expense? Hell yes.

  He stopped suddenly on the concrete step and seemed to be struggling in an internal debate of his own. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

  “It wouldn’t be right for me to. I’m supposed to be a gentleman, and you’ve been drinking,” he said as one of his feet backed off the step and onto the sidewalk.

  “Seriously? After that whole big talk about a weekend of fun, you’re just going to leave me hanging?” Ah, good old alcohol. It really loosens up your mouth just enough to allow the word diarrhea to seep out. I cringed thinking of how he might respond to my presumptuousness. I figured I’d better play this off a bit, so I didn’t look like a complete whore. “Just for a cup of coffee?”

  After he nodded an approval, I led him inside the dark apartment building by his hand. That calloused, beautiful tan hand. I could feel his fingers pulsating. I imagined what they would feel like running up and down my body. Our pulses synced up. The human body is so effing weird.

  We ascended the flight of stairs to my second floor studio apartment. Neither of us spoke a word, but our breathing could be heard loud and clear. We sounded like two elephants standing at a watering hole. I fished around my bag for the keys, located them, and then dropped them on the floor. It sent an echo down the hallway. “Shit. Hope my neighbor didn’t hear that. She’s got ears like a hawk. Crazy old bat.”

  “Nice move, Graceful. Here you go.” He handed them back to me.

  I slid the key into the lock and clicked as it turned. The door creaked open to reveal the fairly clean interior of my apartment. Thank God I tidied it on a regular basis, how embarrassing would it be to bring a hot guy home to a dump of an apartment?

  “Wow, nice place,” he remarked. The Brain meowed and rubs against his leg. “Nice cat, too.”

  “Yeah, sorry. He likes new people. Especially men. He could be gay, we’re looking into it.” I flicked on the kitchen light and got to work on the coffee, spilling some grounds on the kitchen counter.

  Isaiah pulled up a seat at the island.

  “So what are we going to do about this dreaming situation?” I blushed even as the words escaped my mouth. As I poured the water into the coffee maker, Isaiah crossed the kitchen floor and grabbed me by my waist. Here we go again.

  “Just dream together,” he said in a futile attempt to be romantic.

  “Seriously? That’s the cheesiest fucking line I’ve ever heard!” I laughed so hard the tears streamed down my face.

  “Okay, okay. I know that was lame. Just shut up and come here,” he bit his bottom lip then motioned to me. I walked over to him with no hesitation, and he kissed me passionately. The small of my back pressed against the kitchen counter, as his hipbones met mine. The urge to push him away welled up inside of me, battling the yearning for him to be close to me. My emotions and my common sense were always bumping heads. This time my emotions won out, backed by the heat of my desire for him.

  We stood in the kitchen making out for what seemed like hours. And the funniest part about it was I didn’t mind one bit. Before Isaiah, I had never been a kisser. In fact, I always avoided kissing. Something about swapping saliva with someone else disgusted me. Each kiss would flash me back to my horribly awkward first kiss. I was twelve and my next door neighbor Tommy kissed me on the tire swing outside my house. All I can remember is his fat tongue pushing into my mouth. Saliva dripping from his chin. His breath smelled like old bologna. My mom walked out and caught us in action. Thank God. Since that first experience with kissing, it just never seemed appealing. The less kissing involved the better. But with Isaiah kissing was exciting. It was soft and sexy. His breath minty-fresh and saliva at a minimum.

  “I should get going,” he said and pulled away from me. This was totally unexpected and sent me into a tailspin.

  “You don’t want to stay for coffee?” I couldn’t believe he was doing this to me. Playing games with my head.

  “Who needs coffee when I have you to give me a jolt?” he walked towards the door. “Look, I really like you and it’s our first date. I don’t want to ruin things by taking advantage of the situation.” He lifted his hand to my face and stroked my cheek.

  “But I thought this was just a one-time type of thing,” I answered and regretted saying it almost immediately. This guy was giving me blue balls. If I had balls, that is.

  “Is that what you want it to be?” he asked.

  “No, I mean I don’t know…I just…” I just wanted him to keep kissing me. I didn’t want him to leave. But I couldn’t tell him any of these feelings I was having. Then he’d have the upper hand. No man must ever have the upper hand. Ever again.

  Before he left my apartment he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m still in town until Sunday, so what do you say we meet up again?” I nodded yes and squeezed his hand.

  I was left, breathless and alone. This man had literally sucked the air right out of my lungs. Completely bewitched, I turned the coffee pot on and collapsed onto my bed. How incredibly perfect can one man be? Was he really serious about not wanting to take advantage of me? I’d never heard those words leave a man’s mouth before. Most guys had no problem ripping off a girl’s panties the first night, especially when booze was involved. My thoughts were racing. What did I want with him? Did I just want sex or did I want more? I wanted him. All of him.

  My defensive side insisted he was playing mind-games with me. He wanted to see me beg, ravage me and fly back to New York leaving me high and dry. This was what happened when I let myself feel things. My head would get all mixed up, and I wouldn’t know which way was up or down. I had to play this one safe. I wanted to have control over the situation. If I didn’t have control, he’d be just another Rory. Taking me for all I’m worth and leaving when I was all used up.


  Chapter 11

  Isaiah

  I laid on the fluffy hotel bed, staring blankly at the orange peel pattern on the ceiling. A baby’s shrill cry reverberated off the bare walls in the hallway. Who had a baby out so late at night? A pair of feet above me thump thump thumped loudly. Or was that a bed? Being on the first floor at a hotel was not my idea of the best place to stay, but I’d stay anywhere to be close to her.

  My mind traveled back to the events of that night. Why had I walked away from her? She looked so sexy in that tight little dress. That smooth skin. And smile. I couldn’t get enough. I never would have thought my new favorite artist, the woman who’d been painting my dreams, would be so sexy. And the funniest part of this whole trip was that I’d seen her earlier that day at the bookstore. That had to have been a sign. That was the reason why I didn’t stay and sleep with her. I didn’t want to blow a genuine opportunity. Especially if it was going to be the start of something amazing. I had had sex with Cynthia the first night I met her and look how that relationship turned out. She got knocked up, we got married and now we’re not together. Sometimes I wondered if I hadn’t slept with her on the first date if things would have been different. Like if I’d even have stayed with her. There was no reason to dredge up the past, though. No reason to beat myself up.

  Time to squash the idiotic thoughts dancing around my head. I sat up and peeled the damp clothes off of me, sweaty from taking the humid walk back from Dottie’s apartment eight blocks away. Florida is a beautiful state, but it can be downright ass-drenching at times.

  My eyes grew heavy, and I felt myself drifting into a haze between wake and sleep. I had one of those dreams where I was walking and then my foot fell into a pothole causing my leg to jolt and wake me up. Then I fell into a refreshingly dreamless sleep.

  ****

  Dottie

  Everything was dark. Dark as pitch. I stumbled on something hollow and hit the floor hard. As I hit it my finger snapped at the knuckle. Shit. This couldn’t have been a dream. Did the electricity go out again? When’s the last time I paid the bill? I searched my mind to remember the last check I’d sent to the electric company but my memory was hazy at best.

  I picked myself up and cautiously felt my way to the light switch in the kitchen like a blind woman reading braille. My finger found the switch and flicked it on. Nothing. No light. Where was Pinky and The Brain? I called out for the cats and heard no response. No meow, no shuffle of paws, silence. Then I realized, this was a dream.

  There was a quiet rapping on the door. Who was looking to come in? My mind mashed together images of faceless demons and green monsters. Haggard witches with claws as sharp as knives and eyes made of fire. The kind of creatures I used to see hiding in my closet or under my bed when I was a little girl. Who knew what this dream had in store for me. I shuffled over to the door and opened it slowly. Very slowly. It wasn’t a monster. It was the man of my dreams. Literally. It was Isaiah, wearing nothing but a smile. He was a pile of bulging pectoral muscles and sinewy biceps. The other lower parts were much larger than I could’ve imagined. His smile was bordered by a pair of dimples. A mess of wavy brown hair fell over his ears and his neatly-groomed beard had not a whisker out of place. But I wasn’t focused on his beard or hair at that point. I was about to have one of those moments you see on the cover of romance novels. And hey it was my dream, so I’d do whatever the hell I wanted to and no one could judge me.

  Before I said a word, he closed the distance between us and wrapped his arms around me. He pulled me in tight to his body, just like he had earlier that night. In a moment of intense anticipation, he kissed me. But this time I felt no need to resist. None from my conscience and none from him. You know that feeling when your feet are first lifted off the sandy floor of the ocean and the current pulls you in? That’s how I felt in this dream…I was terrified and exhilarated all at once. I was genuinely falling for this man. There was no denying it. This dream just solidified it.

  As long as this was a dream, I figured I could give into his advances without reluctance. This was what I wanted deep down. To be wrapped up in him. To be under him. To have him all around me. The invigorating scents of juniper and mint filled the air in the room, and I knew something magical was about to happen. He eased me backward on the bed. There was a sliver of moonlight peeking through the window, bathing his body in pure gold light. The muse was rearing its proverbial head once again, and my mind grabbed at an invisible Polaroid in a futile attempt to preserve this moment. Then I thought who gives a shit about your artwork. Just let go. My body was screaming for him to take me…to climb on top of me and fill me with passion.

  Then as quickly as it started, it ended. You know how the best dreams always end too swiftly? You wake up and try your hardest to go back to sleep so you can fall back into the same blissful dream. But it never works. The best dreams are like fireworks dissipating in the night sky.

  Chapter 12

  Dottie

  I spent my Saturday morning cross-legged in front of a canvas, drenched in a colorful array of acrylic paints. The muse granted me my wish of inspiration in the form of a delicious dream. Isaiah McNally. A man equivalent to Dionysus, the Greek God of wine and fertility, had materialized in front of my very eyes. I could have eaten the grape leaves right off his body, drank scarlet wine from his velvety mouth. And just like the victims of Dionysus, to be intoxicated by his beauty would end in the inevitable: to be torn apart by sheer madness. Was I ready to be destroyed?

  I debated on whether to post the painting online or give it to him as a gift. In the end I realized it was best for me to keep it to myself. To put this painting on display to the world would mean for me to wear my heart on my sleeve…to expose my vulnerability. My Achilles heel. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d been an idiot in the past with Rory. He had proposed to me and left me, and I hadn’t hid the news from anyone. Everyone and their mothers were all up in my business. They acted like they were trying to comfort me, but they were all just being nosy. Two of my Mother’s friends brought casseroles to my apartment door, with concerned looks on their faces they asked how I was doing. They didn’t really care. Their inner drama monsters longed to feast on my misery. Never again, I had promised myself. And I intended on keeping that promise. I hate casseroles.

  I pulled myself up off the floor and threw a sheet over the dream canvas. If I planned on keeping it, I at least had to conceal it. Protect its sacredness from the world’s defilement. Nor did I want Isaiah to see it. Then my secret would be out in the open.

  The phone rang. It was him. He wanted to meet at a coffee shop down the street. I debated whether to go or politely turn him down. I had no clue what this man truly wanted from me. Was he really interested in me? One thing was clear - my subconscious was struggling to keep him at arm’s length. Then again, I had controlled my emotions in the past. I could keep them in check again. I agreed to a coffee date and strolled over to my closet. A short, white peasant top with bell sleeves and floral trim coupled with a pair of my favorite jean shorts were the perfect choice for a coffee date. It was going to be another hot, muggy day in Tampa, so at least I would be comfortable.

  After getting dressed and throwing my dreads up into a twisted bun, I locked up my apartment and headed to the coffee shop on 7th Avenue. To say I was hesitant was putting it lightly.

  I spotted him standing in front of a fogged window, his arms folded over his chest and a smile on his face. He was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans and a gray t-shirt that said “Urban Boot Microbrewery”. The t-shirt hugged his muscles in all the right places. Screw the espresso. Could I get a double shot of that, please?

  “You look refreshed,” he said and opened the door like a gentleman. I’d thought chivalry was dead until I met Isaiah.

  “Ha! I’m not feeling very refreshed,” The memory of last night’s drunken escapades reminded me of the faint nagging ache sitting directly behind my eyes.

  “Maybe we should
forgo the coffee and grab a Bloody Mary. Hair of the dog?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Give you another chance to get me into a vulnerable position…or any position for that matter.”

  “Come on now. You know I’m a gentleman. I’m only interested in a good time with a new-found friend,” he casted a sly sideways glance at me. “Now, are you a latte or cappuccino kind of girl?”

  “I’d prefer a double-shot of espresso, please. I have a Chinese hang-over. Dragon-ass.”

  We ordered our espressos and sat outside on the open patio deck to watch the sites. The air in Ybor City that day felt heavier than normal. There was a middle-aged woman and a little girl sitting at the table next to ours. The sophisticated woman sipped at her iced coffee while her pigtailed, bright-eyed daughter licked the whipped cream off a strawberry milkshake. She looked like me when I was that age. Innocent and completely engrossed in the world around me. Not knowing what tragedy I would face before I’d even get braces. Not knowing that abandonment would become the key theme to my existence. Relishing in the ignorant bliss of having two parents that gave me the world. Not knowing that my father would die and leave me heart-broken before I’d even hit puberty. Sometimes knowing nothing is better than knowing at all.

  “Umm, Dottie? You with me?” Isaiah set his mug down and waved his hand in front of my face.

  I realized I’d been totally checked out while this gorgeous man was sitting across from me in complete silence. This wasn’t the first time either. He must’ve thought I was a total nutcase.