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“Well, this dream will be our topic of discussion in the next session.”
Linda snorts, shaking her head, “No, it won’t. You know it.”
They look at each other. A mutual understanding. It’s true, it won’t be brought up again. It’ll be another thought in the sea of the many shared in her therapist’s cold room. She’s had several dreams with similar plotlines: with him as a central figure.
“I have another client waiting–”
“These dreams have been more frequent, too.”
He presses his lips together and settles back into his chair. A clear expression of ‘God dammit, I have to listen to more’ sketched on his face. His eyes low and directed on his scribbled notes. A sour taste on his tongue. “You understand that the session is over, right?”
“Exactly. I’m talking to you like a person.”
She’s right. He hates that she’s right.
"Hello?"
“I heard what you said, Linda.”
Linda huffs, unmoved. Her teeth chew through her misshapen nails. “I miss it, y’know?”
“I’m aware.”
“Seriously? That’s it?”
The therapist gazes at the ceiling, its water damage being a constant reminder, before turning to Linda, who shifted nervously when he started to study her. As if her nail-biting habits were a crime. “What happened between us is in the past. You should be focusing on your family—”
“Oh, fucking please,” Linda laughs, “Did you not just listen to what I just said?! I had a dream about you! You got close to me and tickled me!”
“Freud said dreams are unconscious desires–”
“You did not pay attention during those night classes, did you?”
“Linda…” He clicks his tongue defeatedly.
Linda gets close, threading the fine line of shouting and screaming, “This is the only dream I’ve told you about! Do you know how often I think about us!?”
His eyes stop peering over his thin frames. They focus on Linda. A clear and defined vision of the woman who looks tired. Extraordinarily and utterly tired. The therapist was aware he was beyond over time, and his next client could call regarding his whereabouts. If Linda’s cries weren’t loud enough, they were about to be.
He shuts his notebook. This is no longer a session. Only a conversation between two colleagues. Two friends.
“Tell me about these other dreams. These recurring thoughts.”
Linda’s trembling hands lower to her lap. He’s listening. She expected him to reopen the book. But he interlaces his fingers and holds his knee. His head crooks to the side, carefully examining her subtle moves.
“So,” Linda crosses her legs, “A couple of nights ago, there was one from that date decades ago on the pier. Remember that? The one where those kids said you looked freakishly tall?” She smiles at the memory, as if those children had just run past in their sugar-rushed demeanour. Linda covers her grin with her hoodie’s off-white drawstring. “Anyways, I dreamt that the pier was closing, all the vendors were packing their carts, but we walked to the water. And– this is so silly– and you took your shirt off and jumped into the water. You resurfaced and told me to get in, saying the water was great. I really did not believe you, but I jumped in without my own clothes. The water was not great, by the way. It was cold.”
“How did that feel?”
“The water or that you lied?”
“That I persuaded you into jumping with me.”
“It was… exciting. Freeing.” She twirls the loose thread on her sleeve, “And you were warm.”
The therapist raises his eyebrows. A lingering disbelief in the tone of her delivery. “I was warm?”
“Like,” She sighs, absorbing the couch’s comfort, “You held me when we dried off, and you were warm. It was nice.”
The therapist glances away. It sounded nice.
Linda fussed around, “And last week– no… two weeks ago– I dreamt we made out.” She waited for his reaction, which was the common mild interest. “It was nice. It was pretty dark. Pretty sure we were in my bed. I was on top of you, and you took my shirt off. And, God, I remember seeing you with no glasses, no shirt, your hair was a mess, and just… being happy.” She clears her throat to continue.
Linda checks on him. His face was hard, as if deep in thought. She tosses her hands up. “Christ, have you been listening?”
“I am.” He cuts her off. The strength in his voice takes her aback. But takes his suddenness as her cue to continue.
“Good, because it gets crazier,” Linda speaks softly, as if the walls had ears. “I looked down at you again, and I told you that your hair looked funny. It looked like an unkempt clown’s wig. And you, you replied with ‘I love you, too.’”
His eyes shoot up. She didn’t notice. The dream seemed to crowd her awareness.
“I woke up scared. Thought I forgot how to speak, it was… it really wasn’t fun.”
He sits up. Finally, some reaction. “And I said I loved you?”
“Yeah, isn’t that weird?”
The therapist smirks and leans in, “Not to sound like a broken record, but dreams are commonly understood as unconscious desires.”
“Are you trying to say that I want you to say that you loved me?”
He swallows, picking his words, “It’s your dream, take it as you wish.”
Linda groans, snatching her shoes off the carpet, “You understand I can’t be thinking all the damn time? I’m living out of a motel with my daughter, and my husband is out at ‘work’, whatever that is these fucking days.” She marches to the door. Her hand hovers over the aged doorknob before she turns to him, “And what if I did still love you, hm? What would you say to that?”
His gaze is distant. It’ll take an earthquake to get this man’s attention.
“Am I allowed to speak now?” He says, and Linda slams the door behind her. The abrupt noise doesn’t faze him.
The room settles. Despite his layers, the growing heat from his body went cold. The therapist’s body gives out. His arms loosen up, and his head lolls. He whips his frames off and presses his face deep in his palms, stopping all traces of tears from forming.
He recalls those times. Those distant yet fond memories of their college relationship.
He recalls the pier. He recalls the children who ran past him and called him names. How Linda laughed with blooming joy. Her laughter could light up a room, and it has. It’s been decades since he heard her laugh. Maybe she does enjoy herself, but he doubts it. He hates to think of her this way, yet her body language doesn’t lie.
He recalls the ocean at the pier. How Linda dared him to jump in. How he did it, making a snarky comment about how he doesn’t require immature dares to escape his comfort zone. How, after jumping into the frozen ocean, he shouted, “The water’s fine!”
He recalls them drying off. He embraced her because she mumbled about her teeth and how they couldn’t stop chattering. And the subtle jokes about hypothermia worried him. His lanky body enveloped her small frame. Her chills were gone.
He vividly recalls seeing her moonlit pale and smooth body when she sat up. Through her long hair and the soft muttering, he felt complete. A missing puzzle piece in the game of life. His knees supported her back while she blindly worked on undoing her bra. Despite not wearing his frames, she was beautiful. She was radiant. She was herself.
She laughed at anything she found mildly amusing. She jumped during horror movies. She found children’s doodles to be thought-provoking. She would discover clothes in windows and joke that he should buy it for their wedding.
She also lived in the moment. That's when they drifted apart. She appeared on campus after weeks of disappearing. She looked awful. An emotional wreck that pushed him away when he asked what had happened.
He recalls being in her dorm, his body laying on her mattress. The smell of her soaps swimming around him. As Linda bent her arms behind to unhook her bra, she was talking. He didn’t listen. He couldn’t listen. The streetlights illuminated her soft skin. The view was breathtaking. He was forced to confess:
“I love you, too.”