Distance As Measure Of Time

As Far Apart As We’re Ever Going To Be

Enjoy the thoughts, they are a sweet drug that crosses time, but alas, not distance.
(He smiled.) We’re as far apart as we’re ever going to be. Though we will meet again at the Stardust Lounge.

Clicking on the light, she wrote it down quickly—as she did whenever particularly unusual dream stuff came up. A pad was always near the bed just in case. She knew it didn’t take long for these things to start becoming transparent and often completely fade as she came up to the surface.
It was a clear and direct message and so she was confident that she got it right. And there was no doubt that it was her old friend Bob talking to her.

She wasn’t one to roll with anything supernatural. Bob was most likely dead by now and he wouldn’t be taking his lunch hour in heaven to come and whisper messages to her while she was in her sleep state.
She didn’t have any friends with Freudian credentials to help her chart how perhaps some memory fragment was nudged into an emotional response because the pillow brushed her face in such a way that reminded her of how Bob would kiss her cheek. Or something like that.
As to visitations from some sort of Collective Unconscious—well, this was just too personal to pull ancestral memory into.

In broad daylight, over coffee, these snippets of reverie that she’d note down were rarely coherent enough to even consider utilizing in her short story writing—but when she did, she credited the Muses of the Bed.

Today, as with all the weirdest dreams, there was this sense that there was no way that she could have come up with that—that her imagination was just not up for such dazzling antics, such clever turns of phrase, such truths.

She had in fact been thinking of Bob quite a lot lately.
While looking for a book on her shelf a couple weeks ago she had stopped and took his novel off the shelf and decided to re-read it. Then, a couple days later she remembered some Don McLean music that the two of them had shared. She’s played it a number of times since.

Whoever had fashioned the dream last night had access to much more information than she. She didn’t even have any photographs of him — only the one on the book jacket. The many decades since they had been in touch were a moat most thoughts couldn’t cross.
Fragments of memories did pass over—long conversations about books and music, a trip to the zoo, sex—but they were all badly faded, dreamlike. Meanwhile her visitation from Bob last night had spared no expense in detail—set design, the lighting, and the animation!

Sipping coffee in the morning she looked at the note, smiled, and thanked the Muses of the Bed.

© AleXander Hirka 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Read RemingtonWrite’s version here:

In August 2020, I set myself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image was that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to my Mom and the concept was Time.
In September 2020, the
Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write a short piece of fiction for each collage — the Our Hours project.

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe. https://alexanderhirka.nyc

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