Wonderful Daydream

After a long, particularly dreadful day, I sometimes start seeing things that aren’t there. Nice things. Extraordinary things. This afternoon,  with the sun low on my face, making it impossible to see the screen in front of me, I was very happy to find a miniture version of the girl I secretly worship, floating gently in my coffee.

There is something magical about a girl skinny dipping. The sense of doing something exciting, something you can get caught doing, seems to give just that extra glow over her face. Her hair was wet (she’d just dived down and resurfaced, like Neve Campbell in the ‘Wild Things’ pool scene) and she looked at me. A naughty smile over her lips, and hunger in her eyes.

I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone else was looking. The looking part is not so interesting, it would however be a shock if they saw what I was seeing.

My coffee nymph is resting now, her arms casually leaning over the edge of my mug. Her head tilted backwards, as if she is sunbathing in the sunlight, reflected from my screen. With her feet, she causes small waves, and every now and then, I see a tiny bit of nipple. Or a toe. Or her belly button, like miniature shot glass filled with my favourite poison. I swallow. Audibly.

She looks at me, and whispers: ‘I’d like some sugar in my coffee…’

I wish these dreams weren’t necessary
dreaming the smile of a girl I don’t know,
dreaming of kisses coming from lips
I can only feel in my imagination.

Her perfume, her clothes, the
way she dances to music only she
seems to hear. Maybe she is just
the only one listening.

I should wake up.
Wake up!

Alas, what felt so warm, so real
just minutes ago, has vanished.
Alone again.

Today, for some reason I imagined what it would be like, to be a cow. A lonely, depressed with the world, sulking cow. Being in a stable all day, having to listen to the bull’s ambiguous remarks about milking, and the gossiping geese, coming in every now and then to nick food.
If I where that cow, and the cow would have my imagination, I would pretend to flirt with the salt stones. They would whisper to me, how they like the softness of my tongue, arguing amongst themselves to figure out who is the saltiest, and the freshest, as to provide me with the best licking sensation. The fresh, young salt stones would be in awe if I choose them, and always giggle a bit when licked the first time. ‘Your tongue tickles a bit Miss,’ they would say, blushing slightly. The good thing about salt stones is that they talk, a bit dirty even, when the nights are cold and lonely, but they don’t expect me to play along. Hanging in the stable, with no future except being licked, and thrown away after I’m done with them, they try to make the best of the situation.

If I knew I didn’t have a real future, besides serving my purpose, I’d definitely make the best of it.