You Lie Down with Dogs

       “Not good enough to lie beside you anymore?” He stands up, faces her. She is still his beloved, “the one,” the woman he has wanted from the beginning of time, Hollywood time, the one in which Brenda Marshall is Errol Flynn’s wife sticking with him through murder and mayhem. But something sinister, downright murderous, has seeped into his life, killing off her side of his dream. She’s packing up, getting ready to leave, he’s sure of it. He can see his clothes scattered all over the yard, straight from the screen-written script, her card with a number written in her hand left on the nightstand—for the lawyer more than for him. He isn’t to call.

        “Where are you, Daniel? I’m talking about right now. You’re in your own little world, ghostly absent most of the time, even now. It’s in your eyes. You come to my bed like you’re directing a film. I see through it, finally. You can't simply walk into the room, say a few endearing phrases and expect, well, you know, like I’m on call. That’s it, exactly, isn’t it?. I’m your call girl.” She mumbles as an afterthought, “Usually without the call.”

        The dog rubs up against his leg while he says, “What? You think I came up here to lie down with you for sex? It never crossed my mind. I’m simply coming home, being where I’m supposed to be, at night, in my bedroom with my wife, expecting a decent conversation after not having seen her all day.” He looks at her through slitted eyes. The ocean is advancing in waves faster than his thoughts can carry him. “You think I want sex?” He repeats himself, trying to hear his own words. He glances away, out to sea, then back to shore where she’s looking at him in a bedroom, secure with all the décor she’s put together for them these past ten years ago. Taking off her glasses and laying her book aside, she rolls onto her side, her arm up on her elbow, head resting in her hand while she simply stares at him from a bed coated with extraordinary sheets, pillows and thermal blanket. It’s all so fine, so solid, so real. Why is he carried away in such circumstances? It’s right before him, and he can’t be in it. It retreats like part of a stage being moved to storage. He wants her, and he wants her for the sex. But she is the shore, the envisioned horizon in this castaway life of his. The dream is the reality in a reality that doesn’t recognize dreaming any longer. Everything before him lingers slightly, then fades—a stage, not moving now, only silent when the show is over and the lights are switching off.

        He sits back down on the bed, a tiny comfort. When she doesn’t move, he lies next to her. They lie like that in silence. He reaches out to find her hand.

        “Don't,” she says softly, but with heat.

        He stands up with a jerk and begins walking to the bathroom. He walks while scratching his side with vehemence. He turns to her to say something, but he stands there with his mouth open to say lines that she interrupts, exactly as the script has it written.

        “What the hell is it now?” she asks.

        “The dog has fleas,” he says. “Why do you let him on our bed?” Just as he slams the bathroom door, he sees her slip the sash over her eyes, push the silicone plugs in her ears, and settle her head into the pillow for sleep, the dog jumping on the bed now that he’s gone, scooting in next to her warmth. The curtain falls and the audience applause hesitates only for a second before bursting through the empty room where she no longer lies in bed sleeping, waiting for him to arrive from his night of theater. Only the dog is left on the bed to hear the praise of the final scene.

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