The Long Highway Pt. 33

Hiroko translated

I dreamt that twelve women had received your cream and some got pregnant- not many, just two or three. The point was that your virile strength demanded many women.

I took test at the college and got the result back. I didn't do well. At first I thought the teacher hadn't written comments, hadn't thought my work even deserved any. But when I looked in he middle pages of the test I saw he had after all, just not at the end as usual. He'd written extensive comments at various points, referring to specific questions. And he'd given me a link to a video he thought might help. He said my answers showed a lack of imagination and he hoped the video would provide inspiration.

(I'd wondered if the teacher thought I was stupid because my English wasn't good).

I looked at the video at the college. The teacher had sent the link to my email and near it were messages between you and me. An inadvertent click on one could open a photo of my breasts and more that anyone around could see. I had to be careful.

In my dream you danced. You were excited about something and showed your feelings with dance. You were inspired, like the teacher hoped for me to be? You'd been talking about Chinese, said, "Everyone seems to have only bad things to say about the Chinese these days." Then, animated, you pulled a towel up around your head, big one like a blanket, light color, tawny, terry cloth, and you danced, like an African, though of course you aren't African. If someone had pointed your dance out to a real African, he would have grinned in approval. You crouched and hopped, were very skillful, free, lit up, your spirit and body ignited.

What a funny dream! You inspire me! Thank you!

-- --

Akemi and I were talking to a third person about our relationship. We were about to separate for a period, Akemi staying in Japan and I traveling somewhere else.

When I arrived, was on my own, I thought about Akemi and felt love for her. I looked forward to seeing her again after our hiatus. Inevitably, I thought about sex and realized I wouldn't be having any for a while, certainly not with Pam, my still unresolved relationship with whom had brought about the separation from Akemi. Alone, I reflected on the demise of our romance and saw, not for the first time, that it wasn't caused by anything wrong with Pam or with me but by how we were together.

I was in Rome and realized I had nine days there to take photographs to my heart's content. I'd seen flowers, architectural details. What a rich city to explore. Plants put out by a private citizen, flowers and lianas exuberantly overflowed their enclosures on a ledge, railing overlooking the whole city bathed in sun, all that thriving life, structures and populace rooted in antiquity.

It was morning and I went out, bought pastries and returned to my hotel room to eat and plan the day. I turned on the television as I ate and drank coffee. An Italian show was on, of course. People talking, cheerful, over coffee in a sunlit living room-like setting. A book was put in view. One of the television conversationalists laid it on the glass table and the camera zoomed in as his slender hand withdrew. I saw that the the author of the book was Italo Calvino. Good, I thought. Before the name became clear, I'd misread it and supposed the work was by a different author, a puerile Brazilian popular among young people who don't know better. Of course not! This was Italy.

"But turn off the TV," I said aloud. "This isn't the way to start the day." Suddenly all the hours that loomed ahead seemed long. I felt an emptiness, missed Akemi. The daylight that filled the room made it feel wrong to stay indoors when I could be out with others drinking in each moment.

On a walk I looked to the sunset blazing so that the horizon was blurred and thought that somewhere in that direction was Akemi. In the dream then I was in California, looking to the west, where Japan was. I noted people walking past, hippy types still here in California after all those years- a young guy with long hair and a sunburned complexion. He looked so sure of himself, bouncing on his feet, like a grown-up kid, probably living on money from his parents. I thought his touted "lifestyle" a fantasy. He didn't realize, was proud of himself. I felt critical, of course.

--

Hiroko translated

My bra is wet from you. I have to wash it and hope my husband doesn't ask why. Why would he?

You make me wet inside too and will again because I want it. Am I too selfish?

I never show the picture you made afterward with the orange leaf-colored bra but I keep it to keep that moment. It made me orgasm, my pelvis flex and convulse.

I can touch the cream in the picture like touching you through window glass.

Your cream glints shivers on that surface and my flesh gasping and relaxing.

The bra design is from autumn foliage called kouyou 紅葉 and it's wet like a fallen leaf in the rain. Shiny as if it's been dragged along the wet road. So drenched it's become almost transparent. You can see through it my nipples you've kissed and bitten and will again, that moment we keep.

--

Mitchell likes to photograph nature, so of course he likes that bra with kouyou 紅葉 fall foliage design. 　

Last night we were at an event at the college and a guy invited me to an art exhibit in the city. He'd learned I am a painter. I demurred but he kept asking.

"It doesn't have to be tomorrow or even the day after or even next week. I'm not in a hurry," he said.

I answered vaguely, thanking him, saying I would like to find time but was busy.

He persisted cheerfully, undeterred. This was all an unexpected pleasure, our conversation. He seemed to feel he had nothing to lose.

When he kept going, Mitchell finally said, "Can't you hear her? She said no."

"What's with you, man?" the guy said, surprised to find Mitchell there, though he had been all along, with other guests.

"Why is this your business?" he asked him.

"Because you're hitting on my wife."

"I didn't know." He wasn't apologizing or backing down, saw no need, just stating a fact. He was that proud type and sure of his ground then.

"Right in front of me," Mitchell said.

"How was I supposed to know?" The man laughed, again not averting his eyes from Mitchell, even suggesting by his direct look that there might be something wrong with a marriage in which the connection isn't visible at a party like that. He had a tight way of laughing. His mouth didn't open much. His mouth was small. The kind of person you imagine eating with his eyes rather than his mouth. Maybe. Lol.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," Mitchell said. "The point is she said she's not interested. You're being obnoxious. She's too polite to tell you."

Mitchell told me later I looked amused by the exchange.

Actually, that guest wasn't a bad person, I think. Tall, not very but slim so he looked taller than his height. Also there was his posture. Like a board. Dark hair. Thirty-one. Ex-soldier but open to all things, he said. He wasn't prejudiced against me because I'm not American, he joked. His military background explained his erect bearing, I think.

I wasn't necessarily drawn to his face but at least found it interesting. Long and serious (like Lincoln's!), a bony face without much color like he hadn't gotten enough sun- he was Irish, he said; that explained the freckles, which were only palely visible- a serious face that humor sometimes broke through, the kind of humor that seemed slightly cynical, from someone a little sad, also proud, as I'd noticed.

He's the kind of person I can fall for, both vulnerable and strong. Through his vulnerability, which he can't hide, you can see his core of strength, his real strength, the kind of man I both want to comfort and find attractive- needless to say, those feelings weren't serious. We'd just met and wouldn't again. I can fall for didn't mean I would.

Later we met friends of mine and in our living room we talked about bras (that came up because of the picture of me; of course I didn't talk about it or about you). Mitchell looked embarrassed by the talk about bras because he'd told me that after my friends left he wanted to photograph me in one and without one; he'd start with his hand at my pussy.

Also we talked more about war, taking off from the drama Mitchell and I saw. The subject frightened everyone. Even just in conversation we could feel how terrible it was.

I remembered the man at the college was an ex-soldier and wondered what he'd seen and done that gave him his dark sense of humor.

--

I had a funny and scary dream last night after sending you my message. You were an old friend of both Mitchell and me and I was talking about you and Mitchell said it was too bad that you didn't live closer so we could see you more often. I said I too would like to see you again.

And a friend of mine (not Hiroko) who listened to the conversation said to me, "What do you mean you'd like to see him again? You saw him just last week."

Mitchell wasn't supposed to know!