Time yet for a hundred indecisions

[This morning’s waking fantasy.]

John Porter (Richard Armitage) sleeping in Strike Back 1.3. Sorry to keep posting this, there aren’t a lot of images of Porter sleeping. Source: RichardArmitageNet.com

“Aaaach!” I sit up straight in bed. Porter is there. I fall back down on my back, breathing heavily.

“That dream was heavy,” he comments.

“What, now you’re observing the dreams I have that have nothing to do with Richard Armitage?”

“Well, it was kind of hard to miss that one — it filled up the whole room.” He sees the expression on my face and says, “come here,” and pulls my head over toward his shoulder. I twist slightly and nuzzle my cheek against his scar.

“Plus,” he continues, “mornings here are dull, if y’ask me.”

“My parents are in the room across the hall!”

“Bed’s kinda small, too.”

I snort. “Yeah, I’m surprised you fit in it at all.”

He laughs. “We could move downstairs.”

“Do you know,” I muse, “I’ve never had sex in this house. I’ve only brought three men to meet my parents over the years, but they’ve always slept downstairs, or in my brother’s old room.”

“We could go outside,” he persists, sparks dancing in his eyes. “‘Course, you’d still have to control yourself a bit.”

“Bugs!” I object.

“Candy-ass,” he comments.

“You bet,” I say. I snuggle up a bit closer, careful where I put my hands.

“I was in the German city where I did my doctoral research and I was looking for an apartment. I had someone scouting for a place, and I was walking through the historic center to meet her when I ran into two of the people in my doctoral research group who are still living there. They were sort of on the margins of my group of friends and we’ve fallen out of touch. They were excited to see me, but I wasn’t excited to see them, and I was tapping my toe impatiently while we exchanged contact information. While I was speaking to them, the doctoral student whose dissertation I agreed to read and criticize this summer showed up on the street, caught my eye, and then stood just in my line of vision while we were finishing up. She never said anything, but I knew she wanted me to read her dissertation. It was market day and we were standing at the edge of the weekly market. Before the doctoral student could get to me, the president of the synagogue walked by, waved, and mouthed, ‘I’ll be in touch soon.'”

“Hmm, pretty clear what this dream means, eh?”

The view in my dream.

“Yeah, except then the apartment scout walked into view, as well. Somehow now the perspective of the dream had changed and we were standing at the crossroads of the town, and I could see the store across from my favorite bookstore in my line of vision, with the bookstore reflected in the shop window. She told me that no landlord was going to rent to someone who didn’t want to make an open-ended commitment, and she was tired of looking for something that didn’t exist, so she was quitting.”

“And then you woke up,” he says.

“And then I woke up.”

We’re both silent for a moment.

“Look,” he said, “you’re going to have dreams like this for awhile, with all the moving and decision-making you’ve been doing.”

“Especially after the conversations with my parents and brother and sister-in-law the last two nights. I just want to know what the right thing to do is.”

“Everyone wants to know that, love.”

“And I don’t want them to give me new information after I’ve made the decision that makes me question the decision I’ve made.”

“Hey, hey, you can’t change anyone but yourself, girl.”

“I said I would leave it up to G-d.”

“And?”

“The answer I got was more like something you’d hear from the Delphic oracle in a Greek play.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t ask G-d for answers to questions that don’t have do with G-d.”

“Maybe I should stop thinking about my career and family choices as if they resulted from a vocation.”

“Now, now,” his lips come over, and he kisses the top of my head, “no need to be snippy. This is all going to work itself out.”

“I know,” I say, “but in whose time frame?”

We’re both silent again.

“Gotta get up and make breakfast,” I say. “They say they’re doing to make hay today, and dad never eats enough, and now the nutritionist says my father has ‘poor eating competence,’ whatever that is. If I’m moving out in a month, that’s the first of many things I have to get resolved as soon as I can.”

He brightens. “So it’s only a month more for this bed, then. Hadn’t thought of that!”

“Yeah.”

“Wait, before you start cooking, give us a proper kiss.”

I’m happy to comply.

“Will you make me some eggs?”

“Sure ’nuff.”

~ by Servetus on July 1, 2011.