The Lounge

It was all just a dream.

Or so I thought.

I had fallen asleep thinking about her. That woman from the library. The one wearing a sleek black dress, her blonde hair curled in thick waves falling just to her shoulders. 

She glanced my direction as she entered, as if her sole purpose of this visit was to find me. My eyes peered over the top of my heavy laptop where I sat, the cursor bobbing on the screen anticipating my next move. Taunting me in my peripheral as my focus was now set on this mysterious person across the room. 

She sauntered down narrow aisles, her fingers caressing the spines, searching for a specific book. She lingered in the nonfiction, eyes focused on the options in front of her. I watched her face relax in recognition as she found the title she was looking for.

She gracefully plucked it from its comfortable crevice in-between ancient and well-loved books, cradling it into one arm as if it were a precious new-born baby. Her steps were quiet as she walked across the library to the counter, glancing my way just once. Her eyes found mine and we stayed there for an eternity before she gently nodded and looked away. As if I should know the language she seemed to be conveying to me. As if I were part of this quiet, secretive trip to the library.

She set the book down softly on the wooden counter as the old man looked up from his laptop, his small glasses falling too far down his nose. His gray eyebrows were thick and bushy, pointing in every direction, but he lifted them in puzzlement as he scanned her book.

“Dreamwalkers, huh? Curious subject.” The librarian said.

The woman smiled softly but did not utter a word. 

“Well, hope you enjoy your book.” He said, handing the book to her and setting his gaze back to his computer screen. 

She nodded and turned, her eyes finding me again where I remained sitting, the cursor on my laptop screen still dancing for my attention. She looked away and exited the library, and as I followed her movements, I found that she had vanished. No car in sight, no bus, no taxi. She was simply gone.

So yes, I fell asleep thinking about her. That woman in the black dress in the library.

In my dream, I enter a small cigar lounge. The wooden door creaks open, jazz music flooding out as the swirl of smoke draws me in. A man stands behind the bar, his elbows propped on its counter as he engages in conversation with the woman sitting in one of the stools. To my left, four lounge chairs stare at one another, their green fabric complimenting the yellow glow of the lamps that dimly light up the room. And sitting in that green chair, a woman. A woman in a black dress, blonde curls, and a book in her lap. The woman from the library.

We lock eyes, just as we did today, and suddenly this dream feels too real. I feel my body in my bed, the one I left behind, as it stirs and begs me to wake up. As it breathes heavily, warning me to get out, get out, get out.

But I can’t wake up. So I peel my gaze from her as I meander to the bar. I just need a drink. Everything will be fine, I just need a drink. I sit in one of the red-cushioned stools as the bartender turns lazily my way. It seems I have interrupted a most serious conversation. 

“Well, it’s about time you finally showed your face around here.” He says to me.

Puzzled, I frown. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” I ask.

“Hah!” He says. “Good one. I’ll get you the usual.”

He turns, his hand wrapping tightly around a bottle of brandy. He makes me an old fashioned, sliding the glass across the bar. It halts directly in front of me. 

“Enjoy.” He says simply, turning his attention back to the woman sitting at the bar. 

I sip, relishing the smooth flavor. I remind myself that it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream. I need only relax and wait it out, no matter how eerie and real it may feel. I don’t remember the last time I dreamed. I don’t remember the last time I had a nightmare. But I can feel this picture turning into one. 

“Henry.”

The utterance is quiet, coming from my left, my name whispering into the air and mingling with the cigar smoke. 

I turn, my drink in hand, and catch the woman staring intently at me.

“Henry.” She says again. She opens the book in her lap and begins to read.

My curiosity triumphs over my fear. After all, this is just a dream. I can’t get hurt in a dream. I walk towards the lounge chair, a new-found calm resting on my face. My drink in my hand, comforting me, a clutch of normalcy. 

I approach and sit in the chair beside her, but as I draw nearer, she lingers inside her book. She does not look up, not once. Not until I see the book she is reading.

“Dreamwalkers,” I say. The book from the library. The book that had that old librarian puzzled, a temporary curiosity drooping on the edges of his face.

She looks at me. This is the closest I have been to her face, the details now sticking out to me clear as any real day. The most vivid dream I have ever had. Her blue eyes pierce my soul, the slight wrinkles next to them a product of her unceasing concentration. 

“Henry,” She says to me.

“How do you know my name?” I ask. “I have only seen you once before, and that was today at the library.” It’s just a dream, I remind my beating heart.

“No, Henry. We have met before. Before you were trapped inside your own dreams. Before I arrived and pulled you out of that place,” She says earnestly.

I stare at her, not sure what I should say.

She smiles. “I’m glad you’re finally awake.”