The Ticket

I’m younger. I can feel that immediately. It’s not that I have fewer aches and pains, or even that I’m thin with perky breasts. It’s more that my spirit feels lighter, less burdened by time. I breathe easier; again, not in a physical sense, but in the sense that I have yet to fill my lungs with air taken in gasps of fear or gulps of rage. My lungs are still breathing with whimpers of surprise, sighs of joy, moans of pleasure.

He’s here in front of me. I can see him clearly with my youthful eyes. His hair is a bit redder, his face glowing white, and I know when I taste him, my mouth will fill with the spicy tingle of ginger his appearance suggests. His face isn’t new to me. I’m overjoyed to find we’re together again. Finally.

I know it is a dream.

He’s younger in this dream. Well, maybe not younger, but not as jaded, not as faded. He’s sitting in front of me in living color, so bright. Kodachrome. So there. Maybe in this dream, he hasn’t had to deal with the things that have erased his being, leaving room only for hiding behind a bottle or collapsing in fear. In this dream world, he’s not been hurt as much, isn’t hiding, has no need for the things he thinks define him, but which just betray his loneliness.

I wake up, the weight of years settling on me as I stir from sleep. I struggle - battle - to get back to him. I can’t leave him there without me. I don’t want to lose him again. I drift in and out of sleep but always find myself with him again. He’s so beautiful with his demons not having yet taken a hold of his heart. He was beautiful in the waking world before he died, only it was a biting beauty tinged with sadness. Reality is the place I try so hard to avoid. Reality is where I’m filled with insane quantities of love and no place to put it. Reality is where I could be content just having known him, and still that contentment would not be enough.

I think back to when I first met him in the waking world. This was back when I measured time by check marks on the calendar every 28 days, instead of filling pill trays every two weeks. His beauty was obvious, even to someone whose preferences were almost the polar opposite, like me. You could see it - his beauty, I mean - best when he didn’t know you were watching, when he wasn’t alone. Sometimes, however, the sadness demanded to be noticed, and he couldn’t hide it for long. The sadness sat in the corners of his eyes, pulling them down ever so softly with its weight. It slipped behind his smile, so just as he’d start to shine, the light would dull as if he had suddenly remembered he didn’t deserve to be happy. It clung to his shoulders, weighed him down, made him constantly move, almost dance from person to person, talking fast and making people laugh almost desperately. There was a sadness there so old he thought it was a part of him. It made me want to hold him and fix the past, fix the things that made his quiet beauty frantic, but never fix him. He was perfect just the way he was, despite the sadness. I like it best, though, in my dreams where our happiness outshines the sun, and colors are brighter, voices more melodic, and touch much more intense.

I wake briefly. My lips are dry. I try to lick them, but there’s no moisture to spare. I reach up to move aside the wisps of hair from my face, stuck to my cheeks with tears. I see the gnarled, bony protuberances that were once my hands, now more claw-like with age. I don’t have the strength to turn over. I sleep and dream.

This long night of dreaming is stirring a part of me that has long been asleep. In my dream, I’m how I remember being, how I still see myself (which explains why I’m so startled whenever I look in the mirror; who is that old woman?) In the reality I’m living now I don’t know how to make love in this body, but in my dreams, I can still move like I always did. Lovemaking is second nature, powerful, intense.

My sleeping body now, as I dream this, is on fire like it hasn’t been in a long while. My nipples want to harden, and slowly comply as they figuratively dust themselves off, remembering the feel of a tongue gently licking, lips softly sucking, fingers playfully flicking. They grow bold with the memory and rub against the fabric of the bedding as they remember what to do.

How cruel are the gods? I’m given the blessing of dreams so beautiful, I never want to leave, then get thrust back into reality. Do they laugh at me? Is this amusing for them, to torment an old woman? Dreams are where anything is possible, where even our worst moments can change and be erased.

I dream that together we hear the news again, only this time it’s different. This time we have the money we need for his treatment. This time he doesn’t joke that he’s not sick, he’s just white, brushing aside the knowledge that there will be no help for him. This time we get years of selfish togetherness, laughing and playing, because some miracle takes place, and we win the lottery or get gifted the treatment money. If only that day could have taken place now in the age of crowdfunding and lottery tickets.

I awaken with an audible pop, like bursting through a bubble into reality. For the first time in a long while I come fully awake, taking on the burden of age only long enough to open my small black notebook, now worn to gray in places, cover curling from years of use. Inside is a ticket, one of those “scratch-it” lottery tickets you can impulse buy at any market or corner store. I dig in the nightstand next to my bed and find a quarter. I meticulously scratch off the gray parts of the ticket, careful not to go past the edges. One at a time, I reveal what lies beneath the covering. Six slots need scraping. I’m already at four, with two windows remaining, and I’ve matched two of the slots. The last window reveals the needed third.

I won.

After all these years, I’ve won. Right there in front of me, it says I’ve won $20,000. Too little, too late. I put the ticket back into my small black notebook; the book filled with sketches of the face I long to see. In the time it takes to close the page, I glimpse him looking off in the distance here, asleep on the couch there, grinning unabashedly as he watches me watch him. So many of him, and none within reach. I close my eyes again.

“They won’t let you die.” He’s holding me, nuzzling my neck and whispering in my ear. I can feel his breath vibrate the little hairs in my ears, and I scrunch my shoulder up to as it tickles.

“Why not?” I’m bewildered. I have nothing to contribute to society. Why must I be here? I have no knowledge to share, no wisdom to impart, and no one to impart it to if I did have a hidden nugget or two, so why are they wasting resources on me? Why am I taking up this bed in this place? All I ever needed was him. And then he was gone. There’s nothing more. “What should I do?”

“Live.”

I open my eyes. Someone, maybe a nurse, is sitting by my bed, thumbing through my little black notebook. I must have made a noise, perhaps a huff of anger, because he closes the book and puts it back on my lap. Why did he have it? Who told him he could look at it? Hot tears form in my eyes and spill over. They burn as they roll down my face.

“No need for that, now.” His voice is smooth and silky. There’s a slight accent I can’t place, Boston, maybe. He reaches over and dries my tears tenderly, making me want to cry even more. The man I visit in my dreams was the last person to dry my tears in life, and now this man by my bed has taken that from me, as well. He took my tears, the only thing I have left to give. The newcomer leans over me and sits me up, putting more pillows behind me.

I see the notebook on my lap and reach for it. It’s a small notebook, but all the memories it holds makes its weight almost unbearable. I crack it open and tip it to the side. The winning lottery ticket slides out. I pick up the ticket and hand it to the nurse still by my bed.

“Here. Take it. It’s no use to me.” Perhaps he has someone sketched in a little black book, someone he can’t bear to lose.

I turn my head and look out the window. It’s raining. I wish the window was open a crack. I’ve always loved the smell of petrichor.