The Pure Life of Dreams

August 15, 2025August 15, 2025

I Met Alice at the Theater

I sat, Alice to my right and another woman to my left, and watched the stage. Tori Amos was giving a three night performance. The first night was her traditional songs, the second and third would be her new more avant garde material.

I put my arm around Alice’s shoulders though it was not clear I would get back with her after all this time.

The stage was in front of us in a small hall but with mirrors on either side of the stage which reflected the deep red of the curtains on stage as well as that of Tori Amos’ set up. Because of the reflection in the left hand mirror, I thought that the stage was to my left instead of directly in front. I looked for clues that I was looking at a mirror image instead of the real thing. Then I joked to Alice that the right hand mirror view was really the stage.

Alice mumbled something to the fact that I could be right. For a moment I too was confused that the right side had been the stage all along, and not after all, a mirror.

I wondered whether Alice would attend the following nights.

When the performance wound up it was already late. We stepped out of the theater into the street and I asked Alice if she would like a lift home.

We got in my car. The car was old and white but small and I asked for her address.

I pulled away from the front of the theater and turned onto Main Road.

‘It’s off the P road,’ she replied.

Then I pulled the car over against a wall on Main so that I could search up her address.

The wall was wet, shiny brown brick and there was ivy that spilled over the top of the wall that gave it a dark feeling despite the street lamps.

As I flicked through the pages of the A2Z I saw that there was no just such a road on the west side of London.

‘I’m on the east side,’ she explained.

It meant that I would have to drive her over to the east side of London, then drive back over to the west.

It would be very late by the time I got home. The fact made me irritated.

Perhaps I could stay with her tonight, though it was not clear whether she would attend the second performance.

‘Can you give me a postcode?’ I asked.

‘It’s a small road of only eleven houses off the P,’ she answered.

I looked at the P on the A2Z map and it spanned several pages.

‘But what’s the name of the road?’ I asked her.

‘Pembrokeshire,’ she finally said. I looked again on the map then threw the book onto the back seat.

‘Hang it!’ I retorted and I started to type on my phone.

‘What’s the number of your house?’ But she didn’t reply so I guessed a number and I typed it into my phone.

The font of the text in the search box was stricken through which I found odd. Nevertheless the search worked. I held up the phone for her to see the ground view of her street. The picture was of a white washed pub on the corner.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ she replied.

I put the phone on the little tray of the dashboard, so that I could begin the navigation.

In front of the car stood a young black woman who wore a formal black dress as if she were going to a funeral. She asked for a lift. She came over to the left side of the car and I nodded my agreement but then I saw that she had an old woman with her, also dressed in black. The old woman had a brown wooden cane, and could have been the younger woman’s mother. She stepped off the curb and hobbled round to the right side of the car.

How were they both going to fit in? I wondered.

Photo of Tori Amos on her Sinful Attraction tour by Tybo via Flickr.

August 6, 2025August 6, 2025

French Trilogy: Hors D’Oeuvres in Amsterdam

The wind struck in an instant, just as the forecast said it would. Rain lashed the white washed walls of the houses by the sides of the canals and the water from the canals splashed over the barriers, splashed across the paving, and flowed under the doors of any canal-side cottages not already protected by sandbags.

The bicycles that were chained to the iron railings grumbled and groaned against their chain linked locks as the wind pulled their frames.

I could have been in Camden on the Regent’s waterways, but this was Amsterdam. Already wet I pushed open the door to an antique shop by the lock side bridge. I jammed the door shut against the wind.

‘That came faster than I thought,’ I said to no one in particular.

I walked up to the shop counter. A French woman wearing a black and white hooped roll necked sweater stood next to me. She was cute, flat nosed, with her short mousey hair arranged in a very Frenchy bob. As I took off my red oilskin hat my elbow accidentally grazed her sweater. Her breast yielded to the slightest touch. I was a little embarrassed. But my touch was not enough to notice, I hoped, given the extremes of the rain and wind outside.

‘They were right about how fast that came,’ I repeated, then I dusted myself down as if drying off like a dog.

‘I saw what you did there,’ hinted the French woman.

A man stood next to her. He looked at me with an irritated and jealous eye.

’You touched my breast,’ she added bluntly, ‘But that’s okay. Now we might as well hug.’

I hadn’t meant anything by grazing her breast but now it occurred to me that we were destined to meet up.

The French woman gave me a warm hug with her head angled briefly against my shoulder, and her breasts felt gentle and warm against my chest. Instantly I felt better about my actions, but also nervous because I had never chatted up a French woman before.

Then the shopkeeper led us into the back of her shop to a large dining room where all of us would be served.

There were three tables in the room. One large traditional dark wood claw foot dining table to the left where most of the people had been seated, another empty table in the middle of the room, and one more blue table on the far side of the room which seated another group but which lacked the formality of the others given its lack of white table cloth.

I walked up to the claw foot table. Diners were already seated on the side closest to the wall. Another man sat at the far end. And I could have sat opposite the diners against the wall but I wanted to leave space for the French woman to join me, so I opted for the seat at the head of the table nearest me. I waved her over to come join us.

The French woman sat down but she took the seat over one so that another guest might sit between us. I smoothed down the table cloth in front of me and looked at the array of cutlery in front of me.

The hors d’oeuvres came first. A simple asparagus salad on a small glass plate. I was conscious of using the outside fork and knife first.

I chatted to the table. When the waiter delivered my salad I realized he was the man who had been irritated with me at the front of the shop. I was afraid he’d give me a smaller portion but when he plonked the plate down between the cutlery, I could see no discernible difference between mine and the other diners’ servings.

I was the chatty Cathy at the table.

The diners talked about a French man I did not know, and the French woman gave me a knowing smile. I was nervous. How could I get close to her once more? How could I feel and sense the smell and warmth of her hug again.

There was a lull in the conversation. I did not want to dominate the table with speeches. Silence bloated the guests. The French woman gave me an encouraging smile.

‘And then there was the story about Paris,’ I began.

‘No, no. Paris was a man,’ I added. I grew concerned that the story about Paris would be inappropriate. I wondered whether the French woman would appreciate my funny story about Paris.

But it was too late.

Because I had begun.

Photo by Jorge Láscar via Flickr.

July 30, 2025July 30, 2025

Pirates at the Limits of Our Imagination

It was a corporate wide event. And I had arrived by smuggling myself on board one of the pirate boats. My old department was small, so there were few people on the boat and how I got off, I don’t recall, but I remember that we were attacked before we docked. A pile of children came at us with bows and arrows because the island was occupied mostly by children with only a few adults to tame them.

July 21, 2025July 31, 2025

Taking Bribes after the Car Accident on the Switchback

Elaine and David were further along the road, on the parallel, hundred of yards below me where the switchback bent round. The road was filled with traffic. They were at a stop waiting for the lights to turn.

From my car above (I was in the Mazda) I watched them set off only for the BMW in front to slam on the brakes. Elaine had to brake hard, so that their black Highlander was only inches from the BMW. The car behind them was a monster truck. It also slammed on the brakes. The monster truck was raised high because of its monster wheels, and its bonnet covered the back of the Highlander when it came to a halt.

The BMW in front set off once more. And before Elaine could start the car up, the monster truck set off. At first it tried to round them on the inside but when that was not possible it drove over the Highlander, climbed the roof and came down on the other side, rolling over the Highlander’s bonnet before it pulled away.

I looked down with horror, but the Highlander did not crumple under the weight of the truck.

At the loss adjusters I tried to explain what happened but really I needed more evidence.

‘I got the number of the truck,’ said David. He held out the paper plate that he had used to write the license number on. I guessed the insurance company had tracked the address of the truck’s owners after they had driven off without stopping. But he hadn’t taken pictures so he could only explain the damage.

‘The frame of the car was cracked.’ I’d seen how the frame had split under the weight of the monster truck, but it would difficult to associate the damage with the action of the truck.

The loss adjuster stood behind a clean light brown counter in his office as I tried to pitch in that we did not have a photograph. The owners of the truck were with us. I thought they were rednecks. They stood behind us awaiting their turn to explain.

‘I was not there, but I could see from my car which was higher on the series of switchbacks,’ I said.

I tried to describe where the accident had happened. It was on Chain Bridge Road, but I couldn’t be sure. After I spoke, the rednecks approached the counter.

‘Do you have the green blanket,’ the loss adjuster asked the younger man.

He must have been around twenty-five. The man handed the loss adjuster a smaller green placemat the color of olive. I assumed it belonged to a dining set.

The loss adjuster was taking bribes.

Photo by Jose Rodriguez Ortega via Pexels.

July 15, 2025August 29, 2025

The Great Kissers

I half closed my eyes and a beautiful blonde woman who sat next to me on a rock wall by the beach reached over and gave me a delicate kiss. She had long wavy hair. Her lips parted slightly and I felt her tongue protrude to find mine.

I thought of her as a great kisser although she was slightly drunk from the event earlier.