© 2016 City of Broken Dreams
“Hey,” I hear a voice call from the foot of the bed.
When I don’t respond, I feel a firm nudge, which finally forces me to attend to the source of my premature waking. When I open my eyes, I see her sitting there, on top of the covers, naked except for a hot pink thong, her nipples hard from the chill of the room.
“What time is it?” I ask, sleep anesthetizing my voice.
“Early,” she replies. “Just before six.”
“And why have you awoken me at such an ungodly hour? And on a fucking Sunday, I might add.”
“Let’s leave the city,” she says. The room is dark—that half-dark that exists in the purgatory moment between twilight and dawn—but I can still make out her big green eyes shimmering in the murk, like the eyes of a feral cat.
“And where shall we go?” I ask her.
“Anywhere,” she replies. “Everywhere.”
“Okay,” I say—because I’ll never be able to say no to her; because I’m not capable of saying no to her. “But let’s get another couple hours of sleep, first.”
She gets on all fours, and lithely slinks up the length of the bed to slip underneath the covers beside me. She seemingly pulls off the maneuver in one single, simple, fluidic motion. It only takes her a half second to come back to my side, but watching her do it is still enough to make me hard.
“Okay,” she whispers into my ear. “Just a couple more hours. But then we leave the city.”
It doesn’t take us long to fall back asleep.
Driving south on 75.
Driving with the last vestiges of the City of Broken Dreams in the rearview, fading into distant oblivion.
I don’t know where we’re going. And it doesn’t matter.
Storm clouds loom on the western horizon, but the sun still shines brightly from the east, filling the car with a warm golden glow. There is music playing (as there is is always music playing)—melodic tech-house, something German; the steady pulse of the beat and bass perfectly in sync with the speed and rhythm of the highway.
I allow my eyes to temporarily leave the road for a brief moment so that I can take a quick sideways glance at her sitting in the passenger seat, beside me. She is a portrait of careless beauty and reckless seduction: bare feet casually up on the dash; short shorts becoming even shorter as the material slyly slides further up her taut, tan thighs. She poses without posturing; she knows exactly what she is and she doesn’t give one goddamn fuck. This is why I
love covet her, this is why I’m not capable of ever telling her no.
Beyond her, outside the passenger-side window, I spy the storm from the west brewing something fierce. The sky is dark. The clouds are ominous. Mother Nature’s bad mojo is about to be unleashed upon a world that intermittently needs to be reminded of just how fierce and just how fearsome her fury can be. Some might take this as a bad sign, as an ill omen for the journey that lies ahead. But not me.
The storm is still far off in the distance; it may move fast, but we move even faster. Inside the car, with her by my side, with the wheels and music propelling us forward like a bullet train from Tokyo to Los Angeles, we are the wilderness, we are fucking unstoppable.
But as I try to savor the moment, as I try to soak up the ethereal image of the warm morning light bouncing off her beautiful blonde head, making her shoulder-length hair shimmer and shine like the halo of some kind of licentious seraph, I am suddenly struck by an arbitrary and completely unsolicited thought:
If I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.