The Dream

The row was lit with fluttering lanterns, paper, blowing dizzily in the wind that sent his hair into his eyes, obscuring his view. His view of her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he recognized her, not knowing from where. It felt like one of those déjà vu moments; maybe he knew her, maybe he'd never seen her before but she felt familiar because it felt like she should. She tipped her head back and brushed back her hair, squinting at him, and he felt certain he knew her from some time, some place. The street was dark, the time almost midnight, and people-few-strolled towards homes the next block over as they came together on the sidewalk.

"Do I know you?" he asked her. He noted her hair, tiny ringlets, curls, tight and brown, and seemed to remember stroking it.

"I don't think so," she answered, "but you look familiar. What's your name?"

"Jethro."

"Like in the Bible?"

"I've never read it," he said, blushing. She smiled, and he wondered if she perhaps couldn't see his blush in the lantern light.

"Do you have a last name?" she asked.

"Winestop."

She crinkled her nose in a way that seemed familiar and laughed. "I think I'd remember someone named Jethro Winestop. How do I know you?"

"I have no idea," he replied. "Do you have a name?"

"I do. Don't laugh."

"I wouldn't."

"You might."

"Probably not."

"Saffron."

"Pardon me?"

"My name is Saffron. Saffron Daimler, like Daimler-Chrysler, but no relation. Don't you think that's funny?"

"The Daimler-Chrysler thing, or that your first name is Saffron?"

She shrugged and laughed. "I don't know. I guess either or."

"No," he answered, returning the shrug. "I guess I've heard stranger names."

"Do you want to know how my parents named me?" she asked, leaning closer to him. He could smell her. Thankfully she smelled nothing like saffron, or he might have laughed. She smelled more like a combination of mint, sweat, and cat hair. It smelled familiar.

"Sure."

"I don't know," she said as she touched his arm. "I have no idea why two people would choose to name their only child after a spice. Or an herb, whatever. I think they just went with the first thing that came into their heads. Anyway, you look familiar to me."

"I know," he replied scratching his head. "I can't figure it out."

"Listen, give me your phone number," she said, reaching into her large shoulder bag for maybe a pencil and paper, he didn't know. She pulled out a piece of paper, no pen. "Shoot. Do you have a pen?"

"I'm afraid not," he answered. He went through the motions of looking for a pen, shrugging helplessly when he found, as predicted, none. She laughed again.

"Well . . . maybe I'll figure it out. Maybe I'll run into you again, yeah?"

It didn't sound like a question to him, so he just smiled helplessly. He felt helpless. She didn't appear to feel distressed about the awkward situation; maybe it only seemed awkward to him. They smiled at each other as they parted ways, and he walked off feeling discouraged. He turned back to see if she, like in some movies, would have turned back to look at him, too.

He saw her disappear around a corner, without looking back once, not even slightly.

***

i'm there in secrets shared
on frosted glass, in blood red
lipstick smears that weren't there yesterday.

***

He saw her again in three weeks, near Halloween. She studied a jack-o-lantern in an old storefront window with an artist's eye-of sorts-and pulled at her wool skirt. He noticed her naked legs; he found it strange to think so, but even her legs looked somehow familiar. He watched her as she watched a store attendant rearrange the jack-o-lanterns twice in the window before walking away. As the attendant walked off, she looked up and noticed him, and waved.

"Jethro Winestop, right?" she asked as he approached her. He smiled and noted her hair had streaks of orange.

"And you're Saffron Daimler, like the car company."

"But no relation," she reminded him. He laughed casually, feeling anything but casual.

"Right."

"So, listen, I know where I recognized you from," Saffron said with a soft smile. "But you're going to think I'm loony when I tell you."

"I won't."

"You might."

"Probably no-huh." Jethro laughed. "Was that a déjà vu, or have we had this conversation before?"

"Not the same," she said, "but similar." She shrugged and smiled. "So, should I tell you?"

"I guess so," he answered. "It'll drive me nuts otherwise."

"I had a dream about three and a half weeks ago, and you were in it."

"I was in . . .?"

"My dream, yes," Saffron said, her breath escaping in a tiny wisp of air that quickly vanished. Jethro almost laughed, but couldn't quite bring himself to that point. She dreamed him?

"But . . . that doesn't explain anything," he puzzled aloud. "I mean . . . you're familiar to me, too."

"I'm just saying," Saffron offered, "I know where I know you from."

"How could you have dreamed of me if we've never met before?"

"Maybe I saw you somewhere before."

"But you didn't know me?"

"I guess not."

"That makes no sense whatsoever." Jethro sulked.

Saffron paid no attention to his distress. Inside the store, a minor dispute had erupted between the window-arranging attendant and a customer who apparently wanted one of the window's jack-o-lanterns. The customer jutted a thumb angrily toward the glass as two new workers approached to intervene. The shouts were audible but incomprehensible through the glass window. Jethro turned to look just as the customer, having broken from the grip of one of the shop employees, grabbed one of the carved pumpkins and hurled it angrily into the tiled floor. The pair watched as the pumpkin's still wet innards spewed about, orange and yellow, over the floor and onto some nearby displays. Seeds and pumpkin meat splashed onto the window, running down slowly below Jethro and Saffron's knees.

"That made no sense whatsoever," Saffron said with an easy laugh. She dug in her pocket and eventually found a small slip of paper, which she stealthily placed in Jethro's half-balled fist. He felt his fingers tighten around the paper, feeling the gentle heat that came from it after having been in her pocket, rested against the warmth of her hip. Lifting it to his face, he read the scripty handwriting: Saffron- and a telephone number. With a crooked grin he carefully refolded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

"Call me if you figure something else out?"

To Jethro it sounded like a question, so he nodded. He caught her eye before she turned and headed off down the sidewalk, brown and orange hair flying in the air, arms wrapped around her body like a scarf. Turning back to the storefront window, he caught the eye of the angry worker assigned the messy job of cleaning up the murdered Jack.

***

find, in my shadow, evenings spent idling in banquet
halls with broken teacups and rusted silver,
falling asleep on constricted park benchesin wedding gowns, still dressed for the midnight masquerade.

***

Two days later, Jethro found Saffron's phone number stuck to his refrigerator with a magnet. Grabbing it and his cellphone he headed out the door of his small apartment, forgetting to lock it as he hurried to dial the number. After a few rings, her message began to play as he ran down the few flights of stairs to the ground floor of his building. The sign on the elevator doors read "Out of Order" for the fourth time that week, and he felt all the wiser for deciding never to use it anyway. He heard the mechanical beep on the other end of the telephone line and mentally kicked himself for not thinking of a message before that point.

"Uh, hey, Saffron. It's the guy with the unforgettable name, Bible-guy, you know. Ha-ha, well . . . uh, I just ran by the elevator, and I think you'd like to know, there's three people stuck in there and I think one of them is claustrophobic. Why would a claustrophobic ever take an elevator in the first place, though, right? Anyway, I'm headed out to that fresh market they have downtown, you know? I figured I'd cook in tonight and make some fish, and I found myself wondering if you eat fish, and I had to ask you this: Do you like pickles on your hamburgers? I know, that's weird, but it just came to me."

Another beep stung his ear, and he suddenly realized he'd wasted thirty-five seconds rambling into the answering machine of a woman he hardly knew. He didn't even know if she lived alone, though he knew-from previous observations of her hands-she was not married. With a sigh, he redialed the number and prayed maybe she'd pick up this time and save him the agony of another strange message.

"Hey, Saffron, me again. Listen, so I just thought I'd tell you . . . I think I had the same dream, last night. The dream where we met each other. Did yours happen to take place on a rooftop? So, give me a call sometime, maybe . . . if you want, I mean. Bye."

He hung up the phone and walked out into the crisp, cool air that nipped at his face like tiny pinpricks. Outside, the streets were calm and quiet, outside of a few cars that fled down the street almost soundlessly. Small groups of people, coming and going, ladies with baby carriages, men with big dogs: the image struck him as symbolic of something, though he couldn't put a finger on what. He watched as a boy rode down the street on a bike that looked like something straight out of the 1940's, and felt a strange rush of déjà vu. The sensation made him think, instantly, of Saffron, the strange knowing that ran between them. His phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Jethro?"

"Yes."

"This is Saffron, could you guess?"

Jethro laughed, stuffing his free hand into his pocket as he walked. "I probably should have, but no, I didn't. How's it going?"

"Okay. I don't like pickles, and I don't eat hamburgers."

"Oh. Okay."

"I got your messages, clearly."

"Right."

"Not feeling talkative?"

"I sort of feel like I've already said too much," he admitted. "I feel like an idiot for those messages."

"Don't. I thought they were sweet. How do you think the claustrophobic guy's doing?"

"Hyperventilating would be my guess."

"What?"

"Hyper-"

"Oh, about the dream," she said, interrupting. "Yes, we were on a rooftop. That's amazing. What else do you remember?"

He felt himself blush. "Uh, well . . . Listen, don't think I'm weird or anything."

"Did you kiss me?"

A pause fell between them. Jethro heard the leaves rustling, and Saffron breathing softly on the other end.

"Yes."

Another pause.

"Interesting . . ."

Jethro felt the blood rise to his face.

"Listen, I'm not trying to be a weirdo or anything, I was sort of hoping you wouldn't ask-"

"No," she interposed, somewhat to his relief. "I meant that's interesting because it's accurate. That's how you were in my dream, too. You, me . . . rooftop kiss."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Huh."

"Yeah . . . huh. It figures you'd be the spontaneous, passionate type," Saffron said, her voice buzzing in Jethro's ear.

"In your dreams," he joked. "What else do you remember?"

"I remember you holding me, and saying something," she replied. "But I don't remember what."

He laughed again. "It didn't have anything to do with déjà vu, did it?"

She laughed back. "Maybe. It's very possible. To be honest, it's getting kind of hazy now."

"Not for me. It's sort of stuck in my head now."

"You stroked my hair."

"I did. I remember something else, too, uh . . . Man, this is weird."

"Strange feeling, isn't it?"

"Definitely, strange. Hold on."

Jethro moved the cellphone from his ear and watched the boy ride by on his bicycle again. Something felt poetic about the moment. The leaves fell from some surrounding trees, blowing by the boy. He waved to some of the people walking by, an elderly woman and her husband maybe, and another couple that looked younger. It only took a few seconds for Jethro's mind to wander back to the dream, laying next to this strange woman he'd never met before-that he could remember-and having it feel so familiar, only to run into her in real life a few days later. Now he was talking to her on his cellphone on the way to the market.

"Hello?"

"Yeah?" Her voice breathed on the other end, softly. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"No, I was just thinking, this is all so strange."

"What, the dream, or the conversation?"

"A little bit of both, I guess."

"Do you think we're maybe soul mates?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "Soul mates? Maybe, though this would be a strange way for the cosmos to bring two people together. Don't you think?"

"I think it could be more strange," she answered. "We're like two pumpkins smashing in the night."

"Huh?"

"Remember . . . the other day . . ."

"Oh. Right."

"I think that's the second time you said that," Saffron mused on the other end of the line. He could picture her, leaning against her kitchen counter, or reclining on an orange sofa. He thought he could picture it, anyway.

"I don't think so," he said, though he knew he was no longer sure--

"Do you want to get married?"

He coughed a laugh into an open palm. "What? Don't you think it's a little . . . I don't know, uh-"

"I didn't mean, you know, today," she shot back with a laugh. "I just meant, someday, to somebody. Anybody."

"Oh, well . . . I suppose so. Someday." To you, he thought, but kept it to himself: the first of his own little secrets.

"Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" she asked suddenly.

"With you today, or with anybody someday?"

"Very funny," she replied. He pictured her rolling her eyes, but then decided she wouldn't. "With me, say, half an hour, at that little place on Third and Walbank."

"I'd love to." He thought for a moment. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

"Okay, another one, then."

"Shoot."

He paused, unsure of himself. "Am I dreaming now?"

"Maybe. Wake up." A pause. "Anything?"

"I don't think so."

"Well," she murmured, her voice vibrating in his ear across the line, "let's meet for coffee, and we'll see then."

***

and if you listen carefully,
my soul will whisper secrets,
in two-in-the-morning-silence,
and alley cat footfalls.