The Broken Dream
Creeping up the steps to my second floor apartment I am filled with tension. Willow will be worried. Always she thinks that one of my customers will fuck me then fillet me like a fish. A little worry wart. She is probably out on the sofa, dozing uncomfortably, lines of anxiety etched across her milk white skin, fiery red hair splashed across her face, and emerald eyes moving around under the eyelids. I wonder if it's a good dream or bad dream this time.
I slowly push the door open, dropping my keys on the hook. The apartment is tranquil. Only our Scooby Doo clock with its soft ticks, unchecked drip drops falling in a soothing rhythm from an unknown faucet sink, and the barely audible rustle of the curtains as the open window lets in a cool breeze are the only sounds. And with all my will I intend to keep it that way. No reason to wake up Willow who has an appointment tomorrow with a client. No reason at all to wake up the poor girl.
Silently, with extreme caution, my feet tip toe past the arc walkway to the quaint living room where sleeping Willow resides upon the couch. Must be crafty. Real. Crafty. And silent. Must not forget the whole me being silent part. Trudging on, the irritating stickiness between my thighs becomes all to annoying, making it harder to glide across the floor. I rub them together. Nope. Still there. What a hideous reminder of my nightly activities.
I am utterly moments away from my destination-the bathroom. Then the most ridiculous thing happens. My hard earned green paper money diligently forked over from that sleazy man that Angel took his share from just minutes ago slips from my bra, flutters down my displayed stomach, and descends like a leaf from a tree to the floor in nothing but a whisper. I freeze in my tracks. Did she hear that? She is Willow. Willow is observant . . .
"Buffy?" A muffled, tiresome voice questions.
. . . even in sleep.
"Yeah?" I softly reply.
"I had a bad dream."
As if those words are my cue, my body flings itself into Willow's waiting arms. We contently cuddle, situating ourselves comfortably on the couch, regulating our breathing to match each other's. This moment is captured within my mind as our tears roll and splash somewhere to be forgotten because of pride. She calmly smoothes back my hair, a silent gesture evoking so much. In return I snuggle closer. I bet if anyone else saw they would think we were lesbian lovers.
As if.
I am not lesbian. Willow is. But it's cool. Willow has a supportive and extra, way, really, nice girlfriend named Tara. Tara makes Willow feel complete. Every other night I might accompany Willow to Tara's club, Miss Kitty Fantastico, which by the way, they named after Tara's kitten, and watch their sparks fly. They're both so lucky to have each other. Lucky and happy. They're my addictive light at the end of my gloomy tunnel. My thread to the thought that happiness, true love, and all those good things really exist, thrive, out there in this big bad world. One day, hopefully, I'll reach my light, just as those two have officially reached theirs.
Willow cracks the silence, and instantly I know she is revealing the freaky deeds of her dream. "You cried so hard. These sobs of gratitude and sorrow. He laid there. Still. Still as rock hard stone. But you weren't crying for him. You were crying for this sleek silver panther. It ran away after slicing into the man. After bleeding the man's power into puddles for you to lap upon. And you did just that." Willow shudders. "Lapped it up through your thick torrents of tears.
"Your pain was mixed with pleasure. The blood was filling you. Making you whole once again. But still you cried for that panther. That sleek silver panther." Her hands clutch and securely holds me. "Then a circle of shadows befell you, scaring you, warming you, sucking you into them. And you went without protest. Racing forward right as the shadows were swirling you down a bottomless hole was the panther. It never left you. You just left it. That was as far I got before you woke me up.
"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, it was disgusting." What in the world could her wacky dream mean? "The noises. Your slurping of the blood. Only the panther seemed to shine. It was beautiful. You were dying, as you were living." Her grim tone lightens a bit, becoming a tiny bit playful and demanding. "It was one of those dreams that calls for ice cream when you wake up."
I nuzzle her hair, breathing in her unique scent with a relaxed smile on my face. "You want some ice cream?"
Her answer is late and drawn out. "No. I want to hear about Buffy's night, first."
I cringe against Willow. I knew she was going to ask this if she awoke. I just knew it. I only wanted to shower quick and thoroughly, effectively divesting myself of the memory of tonight's customer. And when that was done, hop into bed, grasp Mr. Gordo, and dream of dreams full of sunshine, canvases, and nachos. Shoving away any thoughts of reality until my eyelids crack open to face a new day. For that means back to business. The alleys. The corners. The dark motel rooms.
"You know how it is . . . same old, same old." I try to lace some casualty around the words, only to fail terribly.
"He did wear a condom?" Her question is such a pitiful plea of concern.
I slowly but surely nod. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth. Good, Willow is happy. Now we can eat ice cream. Still, I hesitate.
"Willow, I'm gonna go take a five minute shower. You make our bowls." A small smile touches my lips. "Make me Cookies an' Cream."
I slither out of our embrace, rushing to the bathroom, along the way snatching up my money and depositing it in my room where I grab my towel. Pealing off the hooker clothes I donned earlier in such haste and with so much distaste I almost move to the toilet and puke. Not expressing that I don't like the clothes. Nah. Just expressing the dislike I have for the usage of the clothes. The soap cleanses the outside of my body. Wiping away the scent and touches of the anonymous man. Oh, but the inside is sore and still quakes with the aftereffects of our fucking.
Scrubbing and scrubbing to feel clean. Scrubbing to feel pure. Rinsing and rinsing to wash it all down the drain. Bye. Bye. You will never be missed.
Feeling refreshed and clear-headed I throw on a tank and some sweats. I meet Willow out in the dimly lit kitchen, two bowls of ice cream with all the works waiting for us to chow down. The girl talk flows back and forth concerning our days, thoughts, and guesses about Willow's dream. An hour is spent in our cozy kitchen. If only this pictured was what it really seemed. Just two girls eating ice cream while chatting away. Not an illegal computer hacker. Not a prostitute. Just two normal girls.
We reluctantly retire to bed as the lateness, leads on to more lateness. As soon as my head graces the plush pillow the vow I make every night is mentally uttered. Forget tonight. Forget the night. And one day you won't have to forget anymore.
Creeping up the steps to my second floor apartment I am filled with tension. Willow will be worried. Always she thinks that one of my customers will fuck me then fillet me like a fish. A little worry wart. She is probably out on the sofa, dozing uncomfortably, lines of anxiety etched across her milk white skin, fiery red hair splashed across her face, and emerald eyes moving around under the eyelids. I wonder if it's a good dream or bad dream this time.
I slowly push the door open, dropping my keys on the hook. The apartment is tranquil. Only our Scooby Doo clock with its soft ticks, unchecked drip drops falling in a soothing rhythm from an unknown faucet sink, and the barely audible rustle of the curtains as the open window lets in a cool breeze are the only sounds. And with all my will I intend to keep it that way. No reason to wake up Willow who has an appointment tomorrow with a client. No reason at all to wake up the poor girl.
Silently, with extreme caution, my feet tip toe past the arc walkway to the quaint living room where sleeping Willow resides upon the couch. Must be crafty. Real. Crafty. And silent. Must not forget the whole me being silent part. Trudging on, the irritating stickiness between my thighs becomes all to annoying, making it harder to glide across the floor. I rub them together. Nope. Still there. What a hideous reminder of my nightly activities.
I am utterly moments away from my destination-the bathroom. Then the most ridiculous thing happens. My hard earned green paper money diligently forked over from that sleazy man that Angel took his share from just minutes ago slips from my bra, flutters down my displayed stomach, and descends like a leaf from a tree to the floor in nothing but a whisper. I freeze in my tracks. Did she hear that? She is Willow. Willow is observant . . .
"Buffy?" A muffled, tiresome voice questions.
. . . even in sleep.
"Yeah?" I softly reply.
"I had a bad dream."
As if those words are my cue, my body flings itself into Willow's waiting arms. We contently cuddle, situating ourselves comfortably on the couch, regulating our breathing to match each other's. This moment is captured within my mind as our tears roll and splash somewhere to be forgotten because of pride. She calmly smoothes back my hair, a silent gesture evoking so much. In return I snuggle closer. I bet if anyone else saw they would think we were lesbian lovers.
As if.
I am not lesbian. Willow is. But it's cool. Willow has a supportive and extra, way, really, nice girlfriend named Tara. Tara makes Willow feel complete. Every other night I might accompany Willow to Tara's club, Miss Kitty Fantastico, which by the way, they named after Tara's kitten, and watch their sparks fly. They're both so lucky to have each other. Lucky and happy. They're my addictive light at the end of my gloomy tunnel. My thread to the thought that happiness, true love, and all those good things really exist, thrive, out there in this big bad world. One day, hopefully, I'll reach my light, just as those two have officially reached theirs.
Willow cracks the silence, and instantly I know she is revealing the freaky deeds of her dream. "You cried so hard. These sobs of gratitude and sorrow. He laid there. Still. Still as rock hard stone. But you weren't crying for him. You were crying for this sleek silver panther. It ran away after slicing into the man. After bleeding the man's power into puddles for you to lap upon. And you did just that." Willow shudders. "Lapped it up through your thick torrents of tears.
"Your pain was mixed with pleasure. The blood was filling you. Making you whole once again. But still you cried for that panther. That sleek silver panther." Her hands clutch and securely holds me. "Then a circle of shadows befell you, scaring you, warming you, sucking you into them. And you went without protest. Racing forward right as the shadows were swirling you down a bottomless hole was the panther. It never left you. You just left it. That was as far I got before you woke me up.
"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, it was disgusting." What in the world could her wacky dream mean? "The noises. Your slurping of the blood. Only the panther seemed to shine. It was beautiful. You were dying, as you were living." Her grim tone lightens a bit, becoming a tiny bit playful and demanding. "It was one of those dreams that calls for ice cream when you wake up."
I nuzzle her hair, breathing in her unique scent with a relaxed smile on my face. "You want some ice cream?"
Her answer is late and drawn out. "No. I want to hear about Buffy's night, first."
I cringe against Willow. I knew she was going to ask this if she awoke. I just knew it. I only wanted to shower quick and thoroughly, effectively divesting myself of the memory of tonight's customer. And when that was done, hop into bed, grasp Mr. Gordo, and dream of dreams full of sunshine, canvases, and nachos. Shoving away any thoughts of reality until my eyelids crack open to face a new day. For that means back to business. The alleys. The corners. The dark motel rooms.
"You know how it is . . . same old, same old." I try to lace some casualty around the words, only to fail terribly.
"He did wear a condom?" Her question is such a pitiful plea of concern.
I slowly but surely nod. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth. Good, Willow is happy. Now we can eat ice cream. Still, I hesitate.
"Willow, I'm gonna go take a five minute shower. You make our bowls." A small smile touches my lips. "Make me Cookies an' Cream."
I slither out of our embrace, rushing to the bathroom, along the way snatching up my money and depositing it in my room where I grab my towel. Pealing off the hooker clothes I donned earlier in such haste and with so much distaste I almost move to the toilet and puke. Not expressing that I don't like the clothes. Nah. Just expressing the dislike I have for the usage of the clothes. The soap cleanses the outside of my body. Wiping away the scent and touches of the anonymous man. Oh, but the inside is sore and still quakes with the aftereffects of our fucking.
Scrubbing and scrubbing to feel clean. Scrubbing to feel pure. Rinsing and rinsing to wash it all down the drain. Bye. Bye. You will never be missed.
Feeling refreshed and clear-headed I throw on a tank and some sweats. I meet Willow out in the dimly lit kitchen, two bowls of ice cream with all the works waiting for us to chow down. The girl talk flows back and forth concerning our days, thoughts, and guesses about Willow's dream. An hour is spent in our cozy kitchen. If only this pictured was what it really seemed. Just two girls eating ice cream while chatting away. Not an illegal computer hacker. Not a prostitute. Just two normal girls.
We reluctantly retire to bed as the lateness, leads on to more lateness. As soon as my head graces the plush pillow the vow I make every night is mentally uttered. Forget tonight. Forget the night. And one day you won't have to forget anymore.