Proximity
by Caroline
"You couldn't possibly tell me you liked that show."
"It was interesting! The lead actors both made very interesting choices! It was just very very... interesting."
"If you say interesting enough times that doesn't make it good. That was a shitty play. Right Sarah?"
"Hmm?" Sarah Williams finally lent her attention back to her two closest girl friends, Gretchen and Christine, who were gabbing animatedly about the play they'd just been dragged to.
"What did you think of the play? This is your job and all, anyway, to tell people your opinion on that kind of stuff."
At age 27, Sarah was the leading drama critic for the SoHo weekly newspaper. On the newspaper's dime, she was sent to all different genres of plays, musicals, and performance art pieces, critiquing them afterward. Harsh on some and easy on others, Sarah never liked to become predictable to her readers.
But tonight? She had no idea how to review this play. She scarcely remembered what it was about. She couldn't focus on the storyline -- not necessarily because of a bad choice on the actor's or director's part but because she had other things on her mind. Too many things. That she should have stopped thinking about over a decade ago. And it would be easier to not think about it if she didn't dream about it so much. Once you dream about something all night long, you can't help but think about it all day long.
Twelve years ago she retrieved Toby from the Labyrinth and brought down Jareth, the Goblin King. And for twelve years, she only thought of the experience sporadically, had the occasional dream about being back in the Labyrinth. Recently, however, the dreams had been more frequent. A few times a week for the past several months and then, for the past week, nightly.
Only these dreams were a bit different. They all seemed to revolve around the very man she defeated when she told him he had no power over her. The man whose proposal she refused at fifteen (which she still heard in her head often -- 'fear me, love me, do as I say') when she took down his kingdom. In these more recent dreams, he wasn't necessarily in them, but she could feel his presence. It made her restless beneath the sheets, kicking and flopping around and never able to be completely relaxed because there was some part of her that had to be on guard for some reason.
And she wasn't entirely certain, but she thought she'd been seeing the occasional barn owl recently, despite them not being indigenous to the area. That was the form he had taken when he had first come to see her -- when she'd summoned him, and then when she had defeated him. Throughout her life she had seen the occasional barn owl and always tried not to think much of it. This week, however, she couldn't help but be bothered by it.
Christine asking her opinion on the play for a second time ripped Sarah from her thoughts, and she raked her hand through her long, dark curls as she lied, "I haven't really formed an opinion on it yet. I'm waiting for it to sink in."
Gretchen immediately rolled her eyes. "You're not marinating a chicken for God sakes, Sarah, you're rating a play."
She had yet to tell Gretchen and Christine about her dreams. Mainly because Gretchen and Christine just barely believed her tale about the Labyrinth, chalking it up to a dream she'd had while babystitting or maybe a weird reaction to some food she'd eaten that particular night. So she kept the dreams to herself.
Christine tugged on her arm. "Come on, come into this bar with us."
Sarah threw a glance up at the glaring red neon sign for The Night Owl and sighed. "Guys, can we go out some other night? I'm exhausted and I have to start writing my review."
"Just for one drink," Gretchen promised, which always meant a minimum of three drinks. "We heard they got a cute new bartender."
"Yeah," Christine joined in, waggling her eyebrows. "From England."
"So?" Sarah shrugged.
"So British accents are hot."
Sarah just rolled her eyes and started to dig around in her purse for her cigarettes as she blindly followed her friends into the bar, who were already giddily clinging to each other's arms like high school girls, waiting for a glimpse of the bartender.
"I bet he's got one of those kickass Brit names too," she heard Christine gushing. "Like Nigel, or Rupert."
Sarah finally retrieved a cigarette as she heard Gretchen chime in, "Or Niles, or--"
"Jareth," Sarah breathed when she looked up and caught eyes with the bartender.
And her cigarette dropped to the floor.
TBC
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is only a prologue, hence the shortness. It is a mere prelude to the wonderful fic I hope to write for you. Stay tuned for more!