Some of the following is true
I woke up the way people do in films. Sitting up suddenly, gasping and clutching at my heart. Next to me my man slept soundly, adrift in his own dreams. I pushed the duvet off and lay still. I dream often, but rarely so vividly, rarely about anyone I know. My dreams are peopled with characters from my past, or from the television. I am hardly ever in them at all myself. I lay in the dark and frowned.
I hadn’t seen you for a week or so. We hadn’t spoken on the phone or exchanged emails. I hadn’t even talked about you to anyone, apart from a little idle gossip that took in every one of our mutual friends. I wasn’t falling in love with you and I was almost certain you weren’t falling in love with me – we were both about as done with love as two people could be. Thoughts of you did not rise unbidden in my head. But still, I dreamed.
***
We’re in a bathroom, or rather, a toilet. A toilet in a pub somewhere. We’re not in a stall, but sat beside each other on the floor, near the sink. There’s a full length mirror, so I guess it must be the ladies. You’re giggling and I’m giggling and there’s a lot of blood.
I’m wearing my work clothes. I have my left sleeve pushed up. You’re in jeans and a t-shirt with a jacket slung over the top. You’ve pushed up your right sleeve as far as it will go, so that it’s gathered in the crease of your elbow.
You’re holding my wrist steady and slicing into my uncovered forearm with a knife. It looks ceremonial. An athame. You’ve got a smudge of blood by your eyebrow and the arm you’re holding me with is bleeding too. My blood is dripping onto your wrist, into yours.
“You’re not doing it right,” I say, through my giggles. This seems to be why we’re laughing. I try to tug the knife from you but you keep holding it a little out of reach. The mock struggle is getting blood everywhere; on your t-shirt, across the mirror, in my hair. My hand slips on the bloody tiles and pitches me into you. We’re helpless with laughter.
“Up and down, not side to side,” I say, when you give in and hand the knife to me. “Side to side takes too long.” I start pulling it roughly down my own arm, bumping over the cuts that are already there.
“No, no,” you say, taking the knife from me, “don’t do it quick. Slow. Do it slow.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Fun?”
We both start laughing again. You hold your arm out to me and I take it gently. Side to side. Your skin is a lot paler than mine and your blood is a lot darker. I kneel up to get a better purchase. My hair falls in front of my face as I concentrate. Side to side. Your blood is stickier than mine. Mine’s wet and slippery and all over the place. You lean your head back against the mirror. I hardly notice I’m so set on my task. I’m running out of clean skin to break and my arm is beginning to burn with the effort of holding yours steady.
I glance up at you, finally aware you’ve been quiet for a long time.
“Hey!” I say, “what happened to slowly? You’re going!”
“I’m not,” you smile, “I promise I’m not.”
But you’re closing your eyes and your breathing is slowing down, getting shallower.
“Don’t!” I wail, suddenly frightened. I drop the knife onto the tiles and turn to face you properly, panicked now. “Please don’t go yet, please don’t leave me, I don’t want to do it by myself, please, please…”
I start to cry hopelessly, helplessly, burying my face in your neck.
And then I wake up.
***
The dream stayed in my head for days. I didn’t tell anyone about it. It seemed too secret, somehow. It was a special thing between us, despite the fact you didn’t know about it and weren’t really involved. The next time I saw you I was suddenly embarrassed and shy.
I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t, in the end.
***
We met in the pub after work. You’d spent the afternoon there; finishing the book you were about to lend to me, enjoying a drink or four. I pushed the dream away and grinned at you as you shook your glass at me.
I got you another pint in. I got myself a double.
To catch up.
To keep you company.