The woman of my dreams

The woman of my dreams

By Erich Bridges 

It was too good to turn down. 

We’re talking an all-inclusive week at an island resort in the Caribbean. For half the price of schlepping to a dumpy beach hotel in Florida packed with drunk Spring breakers and screaming kids, I could luxuriate in some seriously tropical sun and forget my troubles. 

I had frozen my butt off all winter in pandemic isolation, so I eagerly paid for the nonrefundable, online vacation deal -- they called it the “Surprise Fun Package” -- after a quick scan of the terms. Even the nonstop flight from my frigid hellhole of a city was covered. What wasn’t to like? I figured they were desperate for the business after a year of COVID cancellations and shutdowns. I’d finally hit the jackpot after a long stay in Sucktown.

I packed three Hawaiian shirts, some cargo shorts, a bathing suit, two trashy novels and some cheap sunglasses (with the lenses so dark they won’t even know your name, a la ZZ Top) and headed for the airport. 

To get in the Caribbean mood, I drank three Mai Tais on the plane. I was ready to forget everything. Not much was happening in my personal life, anyway, and for all I cared, they could fire me if I didn’t show up for work next week. I watched the sun paint the sky with burnt-orange fire as we approached the island, a green jewel in an endless expanse of turquoise. 

Feeling fine and mellow, I strolled out of the airport after clearing customs and picking up my bag. The golden dusk and salt air enveloped me, and I felt even better. The resort’s courtesy van met me and some other bargain-package vacationers, and off we went.  

We took the seaside road, watching the glorious sun begin to sink beyond the horizon, and pulled into the resort in less than half an hour. The hotel was beautiful, soaring above a white-sand beach, surrounded by manicured gardens. An open-air, thatch-roofed bar sat outside the hotel entrance (I planned to spend a lot of time there). I almost hugged the smiling check-in clerk when I got to the reception desk.

“How may I help you, sir?” he asked brightly.

I presented my reservation confirmation with a flourish. “You may help me start my dream vacation, my good man,” I announced.  

The clerk chuckled. “Very good, sir. Let’s get you checked in.”

He perused his computer screen, typed a few keystrokes and turned back to me with a bulging envelope. “Here are your keys, your bar and buffet vouchers and your spa pass. You’re on the 17th floor. Please let us know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks. You don’t know how much I’ve needed this!”

He smiled again. As I started away from the desk, he added, as if it were an afterthought, “Oh, and your roommate should arrive later tonight.”

I stopped. What the hell? “My roommate?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are you talking about? I came alone. I’m not sharing a room with anybody.”

“It’s in your contract, sir. One of the terms of your special vacation package is your agreement to share your luxury accommodation with an additional guest.”

“Where? Show me!”

He did. It was way down near the bottom, in small print. I never got that far the night I signed up. I demanded to see the manager. She smilingly repeated what the desk clerk said. There was no possibility of a refund; that was another part of the deal. How could I get home, anyway, without waiting for the departure flight at the end of the week?

“So who is my roommate?”

“That’s the fun surprise of our Surprise Fun Package!” the manager cheerily said. “Who’s your surprise companion for the week? We’ll let you know when he or she arrives.”

He or she?

“What it is, is bullshit,” I growled, grabbing my envelope and my bag and storming down the lobby hall to the elevator.

“Enjoy your stay, sir!” the clerk called after me. The manager smirked.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

The room was nice, I had to admit. Plenty of space, two huge beds, wall-sized TV, elegant marble bathroom, panoramic view of the ocean outside the window, big deck outside the sliding glass. The booze in the mini-fridge was part of the fun package, so I cracked open two bourbon minis, drank and sulked, lying on the bed closest to the window (I could claim my own spot, at least). 

He or she? With my luck, it would probably be a grumbling geezer with bad breath and irritable bowel syndrome. Damn. Story of my life. I took another long swig and drifted…

I woke up with a start hours later. It took me a moment in my boozy haze to remember where I was. It was pitch dark, but I knew someone else was in the room. I sensed it. Smelled it … the distinct scent of jasmine perfume. Was I so drunk that I never heard the call from the desk when my “fun surprise” arrived -- or even my roommate’s entry? I reached toward where I remembered the bedside lamp to be.

“Don’t.”

It was a woman’s voice. Hint of a Latin accent. A bit husky, a bit smoky, but definitely a woman. I drew my arm back, cautious now.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Are you here to rob me?”

She laughed softly. “Why would I want to do that? I’m your roommate. But you don’t need to see me in my nightgown. At least not yet.” I heard her pull back the covers of the other bed and get in.

“I was expecting a man,” I replied. “You’re not concerned about sharing a room for a week with a complete stranger?”

“How strange are you?” She laughed again, making herself comfortable in the other bed. “It doesn’t bother me. Does it bother you?”

I thought for a moment. “It depends.”

“On whether I’m your dream woman?”

“How would you know who my dream woman is?”

“Beautiful? Smart? Funny? Doesn’t talk too much?”

“Not bad. Do I know you?”

“C’mon. That’s what every guy wants. Am I right?”

“Well, not every guy can deal with a smart woman.”

“I think you can.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere. What’s your name?” 

“Bella.”

“No last name?”

“Let’s leave those out for now.”

“OK. Can I turn on the light now?”

“Yes.”

She was beautiful, for sure ….

……………………………………………………………………………………….

The days that followed were bliss. 

We talked, but not too much. We laughed a lot. We walked the white-sand beach and drank at the bar with the thatched roof. We danced, even though I’m a klutz. We sat on the deck outside our room and watched the sun go down and the moon rise. We soon dispensed with the two-bed arrangement and made crazy love every night -- and every morning. 

Bella had liquid green eyes and wavy black hair. Her skin was almond. Italian, maybe, or Brazilian? She had lines around her eyes and mouth that deepened when she laughed. They only enhanced her beauty to me. Youth is overrated in women. I prefer wisdom and experience. 

I asked about her past, but she didn’t say much. I didn’t press. I guess some things are too painful to talk about. She didn’t ask about my past. She seemed to know it already, along with my own pain, my hopes, my thoughts. We focused on the now, not yesterday or next week.    

On the last night before our scheduled departure, we had dinner under the stars. We talked for hours, and took another walk on the moonlit beach. Back in our room, we toasted each other and watched the ocean outside from the deck. Could it get any better?

“Bella, I don’t want this to end,” I blurted. “I want you to come home with me …”

She put her finger on my lips. “We can talk about that later,” she whispered. “Let’s listen to the waves.”

Later, we fell asleep in each other’s arms, still listening. 

……………………………………………………………………………………….

I woke up late the next morning, hugging a pillow to my face as the bright sun shone through the window. Bella wasn’t in bed, or in the room. 

I figured she had gone downstairs for coffee and breakfast. I quickly showered, shaved and went down to join her. But she wasn’t in the restaurant, or the beach bar, or on the beach itself as far as I could see. Perhaps she had gotten up early and taken a long walk, I thought. I loved nothing better than watching her from behind as her hips swayed from side to side. I sat on the beach and waited until I began to get hot, then returned to the room.

When Bella didn’t come back after an hour, I began to get worried. Several cups of coffee cleared the cobwebs from my brain, and I finally noticed that her things were gone, too. I went back downstairs to the reception desk.

“How was your stay, sir?” the checkout clerk chirped, cheery as ever.

“Wonderful. Sorry for being such an ass when I arrived. Listen, have you seen my roommate?”

“Who?”

“Bella. You know, the woman you paired me with. I can’t seem to find her. Did she check out?”

He gave me a strange look. “Sir, your scheduled roommate never arrived on the island. He called late the evening you checked in to say he had to cancel. He’s an older gentleman, and apparently he had a gastrointestinal incident en route and had to return home.”

I stared at him, mouth open. 

“Given your displeasure about sharing a room, we thought you would be delighted at having it to yourself,” he added. “No extra charge, of course. Didn’t you receive our phone message that night?”

“Apparently not,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling unsteady on my feet. “And you never saw me in the lobby with a woman?”

“No, sir….Are you feeling well?”

I slowly nodded and wandered back to the room. I sat in shock for a long time, then searched every inch of the place for a trace of Bella. A lipstick smudge, a long black hair in the bed or the sink. Nothing -- except the faint scent of jasmine.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

On the flight home, I stared out the window, dazed. What had happened to Bella? Where did she come from? Was she even real, or had I dreamed her all along? I’d never had a week-long dream before. 

I guess if you want something, or someone, badly enough, you can imagine it into existence, at least for a while.  I promised myself I would get out more, meet more real people before I went completely nuts. Maybe get some therapy. I was clearly overdue.

When I opened the door to my gloomy apartment, I picked up the bundle of mail that had been dropped through the slot and tossed it on the couch. I made myself a double, toasted my dream vacation, collapsed into my La-Z-Boy and switched on the TV. As the local news droned on about the weather and who got shot the night before, I distractedly flipped through the mail, struggling to keep my eyes open. It was the usual -- bills, glossy flyers, junk mail. 

I almost missed the item at the bottom of the stack. It was a small, lavender-colored envelope, addressed to me by hand. No return address. Curious despite my weariness, I opened it and pulled out a single lavender-colored sheet. I read the note, written in a delicate cursive:

Thank you for a week of island happiness. I wish we’d had longer, but you know how it goes. Everything has to end, even our dreams. The short, sweet ones are the best. Maybe we’ll meet again. I will never forget you. Hope you don’t forget me. Love, Bella.  

I pressed the sheet to my face and closed my eyes. It had the scent of jasmine.