She had closed her eyes only for a moment it seemed, watching the swirls of colour dance under her eyelids. She had not meant to give in to the weight of sleep. A banging at her door had startled her from mellow honeyed dreams filled with saffron sights and the darkened room seemed particularly dreary after it. Her tea stood cold at the side of the bed, a tannin patchwork suspended on the surface. The banging came again and she carefully lowered her legs to the floor, shuffling her feet into sheepskin mules. Again, the urgent wrapping.
“I’m coming, I’m coming” Some people were always in such a hurry. There was no time to be old.
It was unusual for her to get a caller after dark but she guessed it could be Martha wanting to ask her to babysit at the drop of a hat. If she shook a leg she could be over there in what, ten minutes, fifteen maybe? She could do with the extra cash towards a new boiler. She peeped through the spy hole at the centre of the door, a useless precaution these days without her glasses. The lamp opposite shot out distress flares arcing across the street, orange across her retina, and she blinked them away trying hard to focus. Looking for Martha’s face. Where were her glasses?
She was dreaming still. It must be a dream. She had imagined him coming to her so many times over the years. They had been getting stronger of late, she had feared she was loosing her marbles. Sometimes his appearance in her dreams seemed more real than the people on the street, memories of youth, authorities they were purely fantastical; dancing monkey gods carrying him to her on a litter through the sky; her prince, blue skinned riding a stately elephant hung about with golden marigold garlands. Always he was coming, but never arriving. It was a cruel trick.
‘Get a grip old girl’ she would tell herself sternly, “now is not the time for girlish fantasies.”
And yet, there he was, her husband. This distorted, convex big-headed image could not be a fantasy. She clawed at the door, the yale, desperate to fling wide the truth of this dream. She could barely remove the safety chain for the tremors in her hand. And then there they were, face to face at last, nothing between them. There was a shadow of doubt, a shadow of lost years written in the lines of his face but as their eyes met it was puffed out, extinguished.
She did not battle against the encroaching sea of emotion but let the tears of joy roll down her creased cheeks as they fell into each others embrace. The ache of doubt and years apart melting away like writing in the sand. She buried her head in the crook of his neck imprinting her body to his, inhaling his scent, the same rose and patchouli, the forbidden fruits of eden she had longed for all these years and never been able to forget. His voice cracked as he spoke to her and the hopes he’d held fast all these years burst their defences.
“I have found you at last Little Mouse.” She raised her head and they kissed just as they had as young lovers, consumed by each other, oblivious of anything beyond the confines of their own embrace.
“We started a symphony between us once but it has followed a tortured path my Little Mouse. How about we write a simple ballad together?” She laughed through her joy and looked on him with love, taking his hand and drawing him into her world.
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