There were times he thought of turning his back on his vow. To find someone else to love. A warm body in his bed. A person to connect with. But he could never bring himself to get there. Each time weakness threatened to overtake him, his wife’s face would invade his mind. He would never be able to forgive himself. That’s the problem with memory.
He snickers. If only the Dreamers could see him—the Sandman afraid of his dreams. The Crone told him the past is what he must bear and the present is not a place for him. But he feels he is in neither place. He lives suspended somewhere in the in-between.
He walks the solitude of his house, trying to evade the sticky grasp of fatigue, flitting between states of consciousness. There are no other sounds but his steps on the creaky wooden floor. The smell of centuries past is in everything: the walls, the ceiling, all the furnishings. Even the shadows.
This house features prominently in his dreams. How many times has he been here? Sometimes he wonders about others who came before him. He does not like the idea of a stranger living in his house, sleeping on his bed, cooking in his kitchen. A home is an intimate place. He has never believed the idea that the Dwelling Council randomly assigns them. A person is always meant to be somewhere, he thinks. There are no coincidences in life. He is meant to be here. Alone.
In a moment of carelessness and exhaustion, his sleepless feet take him to the arboretum. It is a large room at the back of his house filled with giant ferns so tall their tops almost reach the vaulted ceiling. Windows the height of the wall overlook the backyard, now gray from the light of the moon. Ahead stands his piano, black like a crouching panther against its surroundings. He feels its pull, calling him to descend into the bottom of its well.
He settles on a spot where the habit of his body has made an impression on the bench. He stares ahead, fighting against the urge. But he is weak. His fingers find the keys, attracted to each one with the familiarity of an old lover.
Music flows out, and he is helpless to stop it. It is her song—inspired by a dreamed past that stretches back for a length as pliable and changeable as memory.
How many cycles were they together? One? Two? Three? He could never be sure. She is younger than he. Maybe her malleable mind was wiped clean by Tabula Rasa. He, on the other hand . . .
He lets his fingers continue their torment as his mind travels back.
It was the time of the Jinn, the moment before dawn when the sky had not yet prepared itself for the arrival of the sun. They sat on the same piano bench, so close he felt heat rising off her. She wore nothing but her skin, as she did every night they were together. Her long hair gathered to one side. An arm wrapped around his shoulder like a shawl.
“What’s this song?” she asked. The point of her chin rested on his shoulder.
“I’m not sure yet. Do you like it?”
“Very much. It’s beautiful. For a change.”
He stopped playing and looked at her. “For a change?”
She laughed. Her laughter had the crispness of morning dew.
“Your music is usually very . . . intense. It grabs you by the throat and forces you to see its truth. This one is different. Lovely. Private. Like the secret of first love.”
“Perceptive,” he said and pulled her close. He brushed her hair back, exposing her throat. He nuzzled it and inhaled her scent. “Only love.”
“Do you think you’ll remember this song in the next cycle?” she asked as she played with a curl at the base of his neck.
“I don’t know. If not, then hopefully something close to it.”
She sighed. Her eyes far away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Time.”
“There’s still some left.”
“Not enough,” she said.
“It’s never enough.”
“Doesn’t it make you sad?” she asked.
“I try not to think about it.”
“I wish I didn’t think about it all the time. But I can’t help it,” she said.
He placed his lips on her jaw, tracing its line. His hand found the curve of her breast. He pressed on it, feeling its fullness in his palm.
She pulled back. “That’s your answer to everything.”
He stopped and looked at her. She seemed sad.
“I’m sorry, I’m just . . . tired. I’m going back to sleep,” she said and walked off.
He watched her body meld into the shadows of the house like a ghost.
A creak stirs him. He looks up. There is nothing there but darkness. The old house is restless, like him.
Aris takes in the chaos of her room. Articles of clothing drape over various pieces of furniture. Her dress lies rumpled on the floor. One of her favorite stilettos is on her nightstand. She hopes the other one is nearby. She looks up. Her silk panties dangle like an errant kite on the chandelier.
She feels blood rushing to her face. Last night was exhilarating. She looks at the sleeping beauty next to her, tracing the contours of Benja’s face with her eyes. Dark, well-shaped eyebrows. Enviably long lashes. Nose the perfect shape of a Greek statue’s. Lips—those lips. She fights the urge to kiss them.
The dreamer stirs. She pulls the bedsheet over her bosom. Benja lifts his eyes at her and smiles.
“We’re past modesty, don’t you think?” he says and buries his face back in the pillow.
She remembers last night and feels heat blooming on her cheeks, but she lets go of the sheet.
“You want breakfast?” Aris asks.
“Nah. I’d have to enter my biodata and all that.”
“Or you can just tell Lucy what you like,” she says.
“Lucy?”
“My AI,” She says. “I know it’s a little old fashioned.” But poetic. The Beatles knew how to name their songs.
“That’s a thought. I forget I can just tell people what I like. I expect them to just know,” he says.
