Dreamland

"He was a god. And I worshipped him to death."

I decided to go through the journal because I tripped over it on the floor. He had been out of the country for weeks but I had lived in a sort of permanent denial, unable to face his absence directly for fear that it might make me go blind, like daring yourself to stare at the sun until you see spots.

I remember everything about the last few weeks we had together, sitting in that dive bar with the wooden booths and broken juke box machines when he told me that a flight to Rio was $1500 dollars. Eating cheap quesadillas in the rain on the sidewalk, green hot sauce burning a hole through my tongue. Towards the end he’d fuck me in a way that hurt, just to hear me gasping for breath. I’d always ask him to stop, just so he’d lay those slim fingers on my face, kiss me with his whole mouth, tell me how beautiful I was. I always liked the very end of the event, when he lay on top, in me and on me and over me, struggling to breathe like I was drowning him in deep water. He’d been some kind of artist, with his black cameras and over-stamped passports and creamy untuned guitar. I don’t think I was in love with him but I could’ve been if I’d had another month. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, always worming my way out of it before the feeling can fully settle in my chest. So yeah, I don’t know if I was in love with him. All I know is that I wanted him to be happy more than I wanted to be alive.

He was never supposed to leave me because he had to. He should’ve left because he wanted to, grown sick of me like all the others. I always think about that. When he left he went in a hurry, forced out by an expiring visa and a company-wide layoff. Eight days before he left he was still purging, sorting through piles on his bedspread. He was going to throw the journal out, but in an effort to keep any piece of him that I could—I asked to take it with me. He also gave me a printed photo that he took of men in a South American jail cell, a shirt with a tattoo machine printed on the breast, a pair of round sunglasses with close-set lenses, and a pink portrait he’d sketched with bloodshot eyes.

The journal was full of faces, square jaws and thick eyebrows and inky lips. An occasional grocery list, a scribble of Portuguese, and a page of paint blots made it feel less like trash and more like art. Maybe I thought if I looked through it I could find something beautiful. Maybe I thought I’d find a reason for the last six months. Maybe I’d see something I hadn’t seen when he was here, always distracted by his hands on my face and in my mouth and on my hips. Teeth, nails, skin, so much skin, eternities of it, all running together like sand in an hourglass. Maybe I thought I’d find something about him that would make me hate him enough to forget him. I was always trying to hate him, squeeze my way out of the feeling that I needed him, wanted him, liked him enough to love him.

In those weeks of avoiding the journal, I could always remember perfect moments, him blowing cigarette smoke out the window and turning sideways to look at me, his eyes so interested in seeing me. Those times when he would turn to me and slip into Portuguese, forgetting that I couldn’t speak his own language. His hands, oh, god, what I’d do for his hands to be on me, at any time, all the time, divine beings on their own. If I could chop them off of his body and send them to myself, I would. They were tattooed with memento mori, remember that you too will die, and I wanted them on me all the time.

On our last night together, he looked me in the face and said, “I’ll always fuck you.” I cried so hard I think I scared him.

He’d been gone for two weeks when I tripped over the journal and started looking through it every night. He’d been gone for six when I had the first dream. He was standing ankle-deep in the ocean, his hand outstretched. I could smell the salt on him, sweat and brine, seafoam eyes, his mouth upturned at the sides like it used to when he was waiting for my opinion.

“You have to come.” He stated plainly, beckoning me forward without moving his feet. I looked at his fingers, swirling eddies of intimacy. I stepped into the water and woke up. Something in my room felt different, the fan wobbling in its nails. I was drenched, my shirt soaked through—but it didn’t have a scent. It was like I was covered in nothing, the emptiness seeping into my chest like wetness and making me feel so hollow that I ate half a bag of Doritos before falling asleep, waking up with cheese smudges on my tear-damp pillow and a deep sense of self-disgust. I didn’t even wash my sheets, just took off the pillowcase and threw it in the mountain of dirty clothes on my desk chair. Just the memory of it makes me feel concave, like a black hole is eating through my chest. But now it’s today. What day is it? I never know anymore. I never have any plans. It is only 9:00 in the morning. I let out a big sigh. I watch TikToks for an hour. I attempt my job from the couch. Around lunch time (three pickle spears, nine cubes of cheese, and 32 Triscuits), I get a message on my phone from a girl I used to spend time with back in the summer before she got a boyfriend, asking me to drinks. It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen anyone really, the early darkness of winter and convenience of living alone keeping me safe from social interaction. Today, like all the days since the dream, the thought of going to sleep and seeing him again is too overwhelming. I want to stay awake as long as possible. I tell her I’ll meet her at the bar down the road, six o’clock. I arrive fifteen minutes late, apoplectically sorry over text, blaming my undiagnosed anxiety that keeps me from getting dressed until ten minutes after I am supposed to leave. The bar is crowded, and I spot Masha defending two barstools, her pink leather purse on top of one and her knee on the other. She waves frantically, like she’s on a sinking ship and I could rescue her.

“Hi! I’m so happy to see you!” Masha says as she leans in to hug me, hugging me so hard I feel my ribs strain to stay together. I can smell her perfume, something thick and heady, spiced flowers preserved in glacial ice.

“Same here! I’ve missed you.” I squeak, out of breath from her embrace. I haven’t thought of her in a month but she doesn’t need to know that. It feels good to be held.

“How have you been?” She breathes into my hair before releasing me and pulling out her barstool, her hands blindly searching for a hook to put her expensive purse on. I let mine slide to the floor.

“I’ve been good.” Lie. Total lie. I sit down beside her, our knees knocking together. “How are you?”

“I’ve been better…Dylan and I broke up.” She sighs, her lower lip trembling before resetting into her permanent Slavic grimace. So that’s why she texted me. She got bored. Like me.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry.” I pat her shoulder, but I am not sorry for her. I’m sorry for me. Dylan was an idiot. I was with an artist. He spoke three languages.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a bummer. But honestly, he was starting to drive me crazy. Kind of a relief, if I’m being honest.” She twirls a piece of her bleached hair, the frayed ends moving in a half-moon.

“Yeah, I think you could do better.” I reach my hand out to try to get the attention of the bartender, while Masha lets out a wistful sigh, as if she always knew that she was slumming it with Dylan. As if she didn’t move in with him and fuck him without condoms. As if she was capable of making good choices. “Two vodka sodas with lime!” I half-yell to the bartender when he looks my way.

“He was rich, though.” Masha defends herself to herself, picking at her manicure.

“Yeah, that must have been nice.” I place a comforting hand over hers, and she smiles up at me.

“What about you? Are you still with that guy?” She questions, smiling at the bartender when he places the glasses in front of us. He smiles back.

“Uh, no he had to leave the country.” The words burn my throat. I stare at the bubbles in the glass, clear my throat.

“Oh, so you guys broke up?” Masha asks casually, handing me her lime and drinking the vodka like juice.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I squeeze the limes into my drink, mixing it with my straw.

“You guess?”

“I mean we never were formally together so we didn’t formally break up.” I take a long drink that ends up being all vodka at the bottom of the glass.

“Sounds unresolved.” Masha only has one sip left in her drink. God, I forgot how much she can tolerate. I know I’m going to get hammered here with her, the vodka sticking to my tongue as I swallow.

“Well, I mean. He had to leave. There wasn’t much to say.” I shrug.

“How do you feel about it?” She therapizes, tilting her head to the left.

“I mean, not great. I really liked him.”

“You couldn’t go visit him?”

“It’s really far, and really expensive.”

“And? He could pay for it.”

“I wouldn’t want to ask that.”

“He should offer.”

“Not everyone is rich.”

“Then why date them?” Masha states this so confidently that I pause, the vodka slowing my brain waves. Masha only dates men who make more than six figures. I don’t really have many rules.

“Uh, human connection?” I venture as the next two glasses are placed in front of us.

“So, the sex was really good then?” Masha looks at me sideways, her mouth breaking into laughter.

“I mean…” I can feel myself blushing as I laugh, the heat rushing into my face. Someone bumps into me from behind and some of my drink sloshes onto the bar.

“God, I miss sex.” As soon as the words come out of her mouth, at least two men turn to look at her, assessing their odds.

“Use a vibrator. More reliable.” I raise my voice so the men leave us alone. They’re always intimidated by the robot orgasms. Women in STEM.

“You think I haven’t?” Masha laughs again, draining her second glass. “So besides the sex, were you in love with him?” It’s hard drinking with Russians.

“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in years.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I’ve never been in love, so how would I know?”

“Huh. That’s weird. Aren’t you a little old?” She looks at her watch, as if I’m aging right in front of her. The third pair of drinks arrive.

“Maybe. It just never happened.”

“Wow. Unlucky.” Masha is very superstitious. When she hands the lime to me, she doesn’t touch my skin, dropping it into my open palm.

“Honestly, I think it’s lucky. Love makes you insane. I think I would’ve lost my mind.” I defend myself, mumbling as I chew on the straw from my empty drink.

“You don’t want to be in love?” Masha looks surprised, her mouth forming a tight line between us.

“No. Never.” I tip back the drink, feeling it fill the hole in my chest.

Eventually Masha and I run out of things to talk about and part ways, her perfume sticking to my sweater after she hugs me goodbye. She had been texting Dylan towards the end. Maybe they’ll end up together again and I can go months without touching vodka. I get back to the apartment around 9:30 PM, too early to go to sleep. I drop my keys, hear them clatter as they hit the floor, and stare at them splayed out on the floor. I am too dizzy to pick them back up. I look through my phone, trying to remember names of boys I used to know before him. I try to think of a single person I would be able to stomach touching me after him. It’s a hopeless endeavor. I don’t want anyone to touch me ever again. Except for him. I flop down on the couch. Try to think of ways to fill the emptiness that swells from my chest and fills every inch of my body. Maybe I could put my weighted blanket on. Maybe I could use my dildo at the same time. God, that’s depressing and weird. I bet it would feel good though. I put my fingers against my temples and press until there’s pain. I start to cry. I miss him. I want to hear his voice, the syllables sweeter than mine, thicker, fuller, more perfect. I could listen to him all day. I could call him. It wouldn’t change anything about how far away he is. Or how much I want him here, now, like he used to be. I feel like if I try hard enough, I can imagine him here, like he used to be. I could open the door and he’d be waiting in the hall like he used to be. I can’t take conscious thought anymore. I pull up Instagram. Look at people getting married and having kids. Eventually I want to throw up. I head to the bathroom and vomit, chunks of marinara and mozzarella floating face-up in the water. Did I eat mozzarella sticks? At the bar? I rinse my mouth out with Listerine, burning my gums and numbing my tongue. I spot the pink and white pills on the shelf, their typewriter label. I remember seeing something online that said Benadryl can cause Alzheimer’s, prematurely, in young people. I never checked if it was true but I find myself acting on faith. I tap out three little pops of salvation into my palm, swallow them dry. I curl up in the fetal position on the couch, unable to face the memories of him that have made my bed unbearable to be in.

My desire to forget him goes unheard by god, because there we are, together, in dreamland. The second dream lasts longer, what feels like days. We are on a raft out in the ocean, vicious sun in our eyes and the feeling that if our skin got any hotter, even by a degree, we would burst into flame. We are sitting cross-legged, panting, not saying a word to each other. There is nothing but the two of us, an endless indigo sea, and thirst. Even so, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He asks me, eyes closed, his body moving with the rhythm of the sea.

“What did I want?” I am confused, my mouth dry, only thinking of bottled water and a tree-lined shore, coconuts dropping onto sand. Like all dreams, I cannot remember what happened before. I only exist in that miniscule moment.

“Me.” He manages to say, his eyes hopeful, before I shake back into consciousness. I am freezing cold, sleet coming in through my open window, the sound of the radiator spewing to keep up. I don’t remember opening the latch or pushing out the screen. It lies flat eight stories down, half-covered in snow. I drink a bottle of water so quickly that I throw up again, liquid acid on my bathroom floor, creeping towards the face-up journal. When had I pulled it out from under my bed? I push it out of the way and fall into dreamless sleep on the tile.

When I wake up there is no food in my cabinets. I don’t want to leave the apartment, even though it stinks of puke and sweat. The grout was steeped in yellow bile overnight and I can’t bring myself to scrub it clean. I light a candle. Shut the bathroom door. Order groceries online that cost me over one hundred dollars. I turn on a sitcom where they never stop talking, no commercial breaks, just human conversation blaring to comfort me as I lay on the floor, my head pounding. When my phone rings my heart jumps, always hoping it is him, maybe he’s at the airport, maybe he got a job here, maybe he has good news, maybe he’s in love with me enough to come back. It is the delivery driver, telling me that he dumped all the bags in the lobby and left. I go down and get them, the heavy plastic carving lines in my fingers.

I think it is Saturday. I eat frozen meatloaf without checking the internal temperature. I look at flight prices. I delete my Instagram and then re-download it within thirty minutes. I do four push-ups. I check my work email. I water the plants. When I fall asleep on the couch, he is there again.

The third dream is different than the others because it feels like I have more control over my body. I am lucid, coherent, alive, in this dream. I am standing in the street, looking up at a yellow apartment building with big windows. He is there, with me. I can feel the heat of his body beside me and when I turn to look at him he is smiling.

“Do you like it?” He asks, looking so earnest that I feel something sour inside of me melt into sweetness.

“Of course, it’s beautiful, but what is it?” I ask, confused about where I am, what’s happening, how I’m here.

“Our home.” He takes my hand and pulls me inside. It’s a dream so we don’t climb any stairs but we’re on the top floor and everything is furnished. The walls are my favorite color and he finally bought me flowers and the balcony looks out over a green sea. “I knew you’d like Rio.”

“Rio?” I’ve never been, so my mind gives it palm trees and white sand and people playing soccer on the beach. It looks like Florida.

“Rio.” He kisses me on the mouth and it feels like it used to, and we fall into a bed of blue sheets.

I wake up with a start, in my own bed, fully naked. At first, I feel a tickling sense of unease, like I’ve made a wrong turn down a dark street or like someone is walking behind me but when I turn around to see them there are only shadows, wind, reflections of light that vanish as I’m watching. I lay there in the dark, my heart pounding, but I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t have any religion. I don’t have any guiding force in my life. I don’t even know if I believe in evil. I’ve never been scared of demons. I don’t think ghosts are real. Everything is expensive and the planet is dying and who cares, really, if I’m having weird and intense dreams about a man I used to know. My insurance doesn’t cover therapy, so that’s not an option. I could look it up online but I think that’ll probably freak me out more. The last time I looked something up online I cried for three days because I convinced myself that I had brain cancer. Maybe it is brain cancer? Something glitching in my mind because of a tumor swelling against my skull. That’s ridiculous. Right? Right.

I press my fingers against my eyelids, feel the jelly of my pupils underneath. I let out a big sigh. I do nothing. I go back to sleep.

After that, though, all of the dreams became lucid. It becomes unbearable to be awake. I stop watching TV. All I want to do is sleep. I know that people won’t understand because they weren’t in the dreams with me. But I had another life, there. We were together. I made new friends, I went to parties, I got pregnant. Everything was perfect. I never worked. I swam in the sea. I had fantastic sex. I wore bikinis and never gained weight and he always held my hand when we walked in the street. Waking up was like water torture, every second dripping down like agony, waiting to be back in a world where we were together, where I had everything, where I was part of something.

Everything started to fall apart. The bathtub grew mold and cockroaches crawled on the counter and the couch started to sag, the springs poking into my hips. I mixed Benadryl and Nyquil. I slept so late into the mornings that I lost my job. I gained fifteen pounds. I never left the house except to go to CVS, primarily surviving off of sleeping medication and frozen meals. They all tasted the same after a while, overly chewy macaroni and cheese and wet broccoli and crumbly meatloaf. Half of the time I didn’t cook them long enough, the condensation making everything damp. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be asleep. I kept needing to increase the amount of drugs that I was taking, sleeping more because I couldn’t predict when I’d see him, how I’d see him, who would be there.

It was summer when I realized how I could stay asleep forever. The unpaid bills were sliding under the door and my landlord was threatening to evict me, and my mother had booked a flight to come save me. I needed to keep this make-believe going, terrified that one day I’d fall asleep and he’d be gone, somehow lost to me forever. How could I live with myself knowing I gave up everything for something that had slipped away? He had been lovely in real life, but in my dreams he was perfect. He was a god. And I worshipped him to death.

“Maybe I am in love with you after all.” The words fall out of my mouth, slow and gentle, as the pills close my eyes heavy.