Her face disappears when he opens his eyes, but the feather-light touches of her fingers along his back and shoulders linger for a few moments more before the dream fully dwindles and he's forced to wake up. Another Sunday morning dream and Jake's mind wasn't refreshed, just wanting more. Jane was his friend, though. Nothing more. And it frustrated him beyond belief every single night.
Jane's lips are pressed against the back of his neck, and her questing fingers travel well-trodden trails along the mountain ridges of his spine. Her breath is hot in his ear and she's saying something he can't quite catch. He can't catch it he can't catch it he can't catch it and suddenly he's awake again, fists clenching the bed sheets and his teeth gritted together as he tries not to moan. Monday morning.
Her dress is the colour of lemon drops, the sticky sharp sweet candy he'd never cared to try but loved to look at. Floor-length and bunched around the waist, the dress falls and swishes beautifully as she walks across the ballroom towards him. He reaches out a hand, and she does the same. Their hands touch, and he bows, kissing her fingers like the proper gentleman. The silk of her glove feels similar to his pillow case, and he drags himself unceremoniously out of the dream only to slam his head back into his pillow in deep frustration. Tuesday had come on brick-hard wings.
Jake runs his fingers through Jane's hair, letting them come down to her chin, and he holds her there as he kisses her. They are little kisses, rimming her mouth, and as her mouth opens under his at last, he lets himself go further. The kisses make their way from her mouth down to her throat, along her jawline and the indent above her collarbone. They explore the skin of her neck and shoulders, hot-footing their way as quickly as possible. She's breathing more quickly, he can feel her pulse when he kisses along the vein, and her hands have made their way into his hair. She leans against the wall, her fingers twirling like mad dancers in a forest of Jake's hair. He doesn't get any further than that, though. All too soon the tangle of bedsheets constricts around his ankles and he is forced awake. Wednesday. Never the nicest of days.
Her hands are running over him, separated not this time by clothes, or even a blanket. Skin on skin, and he likes it. She's there, breathing softly, whispering more things in his ear, things he still can't quite catch. "Aces," he breaths. Her hands are still all over the place, except for the one spot where he really wants them. He's trying to kiss her, but he feels so heavy. And then suddenly she's gone. His eyes are open and she's just a breath of wind and another pair of stained underwear. Thursday.
Jane's face, her eyes, they stare up at him from the ground where she's lying, looking up at the stars above him. If he turns his head, he might be able to see them, but he only wants to look at Jane. Her glasses look over-large, two sizes too big. This is new, it's different. It's quiet, too. She's just looking at him, not even blinking. "Hello, Jake." Her voice can be heard, but her mouth doesn't move. "Hi, Jane," he replies. He kneels next to her. Her eyes don't waver from the stars above, and he pulls her hand into his own and kisses it. No reaction. The slight rise and fall of her chest is the only clue of life he gets from her. He's worried. "Are you worried, Jake?" her voice asks.
"Only up to my eyes," he replies. His voice wavers a little. Never before has he spoken to Jane like this. Was she even speaking? If he looked up he'd notice the sky colour, the purple strips like snake bands behind the stars. Jane's glasses are dark.
He wakes up, this time in a cold sweat and mildly worried. Friday wasn't meant to start like this.
Jane's hand is resting next to his, this time. He's looking at her, and she's looking at him. She's smiling, both of their glasses are lying on the bedside table, but she's close enough he can see her smile. She reaches her hand out and strokes his face, and he's caught in a wave of sadness he can't describe. Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry, Jake," she says, attempting to smile. She kisses his cheek and sits up. She's not wearing a shirt, but she's just far enough away that his vision blurs her edges. He's sad. He wants to reach out to her, but he feels heavy once more. She casts one last look at him before putting on her glasses and dissolving into the darkness of his room.
Saturday.
Sunday should be the re-emersion of the cycle. It should begin all over again. It should, but it doesn't. His dreams aren't right anymore. Something's wrong. The ceiling of his room doesn't disappear from view. His eyes stay open. And a light appears in the upper corner. It wavers, wiggling around like a mouse chased by a cat. It's coming from his window. Is this a dream? He gets up slowly. Beneath his window there's a shadow. There's a body, too. Maybe it is a dream, because it's impossible. He scales down the window and sees the same Jane that had lain under the unknown purple-striped sky. Her glasses are still dark, her skin is cold. But her chest rises and falls. Jake reaches his hand toward her, prepared for her body to disappear like fog in the sunlight. But she doesn't. Her cheek is cold but he runs his fingers along her jaw. "Cheese and crackers," he whispers. "Wake up, Jane. I need your baby blues." But who's dream is this, anymore?