The Chosen

Donna grinned. “Well, in that case, I guess I can take it easy on him.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Good night. Oh, and Vera, anytime you want to talk, I’m here.”

“Thanks, Donna.”

It was past midnight. Vera headed toward her suite, so weary her head felt light. The Inn seemed draped in silence and cozy, muffled warmth. It isolated her…

In her room, she poured herself a drink, took a long bath, and hoped that relaxing would sort out her feelings. Then, in bed, she opened one of the romance novels, but just couldn’t get into it. I’m bored shitless, she glumly realized. She turned out the light. I’m over the hill, unfulfilled, insecure, confused. I’ve got nothing going on in my life, and I’m so bored I could scream!

It was an interesting outburst of self-disclosure. She curled up beneath the plush down comforter. She longed for sleep but she knew it wasn’t just her fatigue. When she was asleep, she dreamed, and lately it was beginning to seem that dreams were her only real excitement. When she dreamed, there were no confusions, no stress, no Paul, no contemplations. There was only her fantasy, and the heady bliss that always followed.

Minutes later she was asleep.

Dreaming.

««—»»

Dreaming, Donna assured herself.

She must be. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew what she was doing.

She was drinking.

Yes, it’s just a dream. There was no way she’d ever go back to the bottle; those days would always be the ugliest bruise on her spirit. The Scotch tasted exquisite. Just like the old days, she thought in the dream, because it was a dream.

She knew it was.

It had to be.

Yes. Just a dream…

Bladelike heat fluttered in her belly; the loveliest sensations rose gently to her head. She took another sip, carrying the bottle along with her. But where am I going? The dreams were always like this, as cryptic as they were dark. Equally, she never cared. She felt safe in the dreams. So she’d merely walk on, sipping the aromatic liquor, and let the dream take her away…

She felt grateful for the dream; Dan B. hadn’t proved of any use at all tonight. “Aw, honey, I’m really not in the mood right now, you know?” he mumbled in bed. “We got slammed tonight, wound up doing twenty dinners after nine.” Then he’d rolled over and gone to sleep.

This hurt. Donna went to serious efforts to turn him on, to make him happy. But this seemed to be happening almost every night now: she’d dress up for him in the sexy garments, and he scarcely even noticed. So, frustrated, annoyed, she’d go to sleep herself.

And dream.

She never remembered at first. Soon, though, as the dream-Scotch rushed to her head, she’d think: Yes, here it is. I remember this place, from all the other dreams.

Suddenly she knew where the dream was taking her.

Her buzz deepened; the dream became a cloud which muddled her perceptions but one: arousal. She was hot. Something was summoning her excitement, beseeching her with vaguely remembered promises of pleasure. The corridor wound down.

A figure was approaching just ahead of