Conversations with the Moon
A Short Story
D. J. Mitchell
Copyright 2011 D. J. Mitchell
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It was the kind of dream that changes you: the images sharp, the colors memorable, the smells so real that they linger in fragmented images in the awakening mind. I sat up and shook my head. I knew the place well, the place in the dream. I knew the smells and the colors, the musty, jungle green and the heavy moistness of the air. And it had been her-- I had spoken to her, touched her, smelled the coconut oil as I ran my fingers through her long, black hair.
I breathed deep, but it was not her scent that filled my nostrils. There, on the edge of my bed, it was the scent of a home and two bodies, comfortable, settled, the smells of two people sleeping. And in the soft light I could see the woman I had chosen, her body tangled in a pile of sheets, a soft, familiar weight next to me. Her face was turned away from me, her hair and skin a colorless shade of gray in the shadowed light, yet my memory supplied the familiar colors, the yellow of her hair and the pale pinkness of her skin. I felt the warm the softness of her even without her touch. This was the woman I had planned to spend my life with. Yes, I had given the promise to her, the promise meant for someone else so long ago.