Butterfly Print Dress Girl

The world from a surrealistic point of view has always been my favorite. Even when the hours are melting, as Dalí portrayed, there is a bright side. But this fanciful look it's not fun in every situation. 

Not when you’re tired and had just woken up.

Not when the tables are spinning right in front of you, as your brain tries to decode what is happening through myopic eyes, while your head is raised from an uncomfortable desk that apparently served as a bed the night before. 

At least this one is not spinning, I thought.  

And as I ran my fingers through dry strands that were curled into a ponytail, I used my side view and saw some of my hair on the floor. I could hear the therapist's voice: "it's stress". 

Well, I guess blondes don’t always have more fun. 

My unbuttoned white shirt and the stacks of German written words under my arms indicated that I was at work. 

And I didn't know exactly what was happening, but I knew I needed to get up.

This insight reminded me that is not easy to walk in boots, especially in the morning, as they seem louder and each step on the floor sounds like an orchestra playing inside a full theatre, where my co-workers were being a very attentive crowd.

I kept walking aimlessly with a bunch of concerns and a mental note saying that I should take a headache medicine or I'd explode. 

"Latte?” A female voice brought me back to the ground. 

“Yes, sure.” 

And how could I refuse? 

One sip of the coffee was enough to start a quick talk with the girl in front of me. Our topics were: files, contracts to sign, bosses.

I guess. I was barely paying attention.

My mind was exhausted and the energy left tried to answer a simple question: Why am I not at home?

While the girl was talking, I straightened my shirt and hair to try and look more awake and consequently focus, but it didn't take me long to start thinking random things.

The coffee tastes like gram. I could make a better one. Her shirt is flashy. She is the only one not wearing white, by the way. 

 Do I even know her? 

“I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” I asked while massaging my forehead. 

“What do you mean?” Her tone implied that I had made a silly question.

“Well… I’m just…”

Before I finish the phrase that would explain myself, an alarming sound echoed through the room, and it felt like two hammers were hitting my head at the same time. 

"Tired." I said as my eyes searched the face guilty of the noise.

“Aren’t you going to pick it up? It's your phone.” The unknown girl replied making my eyebrows raise. 

“I don’t bring a cellphone to work.” 

And so my anxiety started to grow. Every part of my body was uncomfortable.

Head aching. Sweaty hands that had to scratch my neck because it suddenly felt like a million ants were crawling under my skin. My feet hurt. And as the sound got louder, people started turning their judgmental faces towards me.

And for some reason, they all looked the same.

“It’s in your pocket, I can see it” 

She kept saying, but I wasn't even making eye contact with her anymore.

I couldn't feel the cellphone in my pocket. There was no cellphone. I was about to scream when my eyes opened with another two pairs of green pupils staring at me. 

“Your alarm was ringing”. The voice of my 6-year-old brother saved me. 

“Thanks, I was having kind of a nightmare.” I spoke quickly after a relieved sigh. 

“Sure. 5 bucks.” 

“Go to school”.  

The dream was bad, but I was late for college, so I shook it off and started my morning routine. 

I picked up the dirty clothes from the floor and took them to the washing machine. The coffee stain in my uniform was a reminder of how the night cafeteria shift was killing me, and how mad my mom would be when she realized I'd left her laundry. Again.

But that's not so important now. 

I went to the bathroom in the next hall, and in no more than 10 minutes, I was in the kitchen, ready to prepare my cheese sandwich.

But there was an element of surprise: a girl.

 Definitely not my mom. 

She had her back turned and she was wearing a butterfly print dress, and like a spotlight, the sun focused on her as the mysterious person watched the window view. 

It's probably a guest from my mother.

The supposed visit seemed distant, so I slowly approached to make contact, and after one soft step, she faced me. 

Her caramel eyes stared deep into mine, and like a curious puppy, she slightly tilted her head to the left and squinted her eyes in a confused expression that didn't last long.

None of us spoke a word, but her presence was good, and somehow there was a familiarity in her. So I smiled. And she smiled back.

The silence was going to remain if it wasn't for my neighbor, who practices piano every morning, and decided to play Chopin.

The first three notes of Nocturne, op.0 no.2, were enough to break the ice. 

But instead of bringing the subject up, we simply... danced. 

One of her hands found mine and the other gently grabbed my waist. I didn't protest. I just followed. 

We fitted like a puzzle. Our feet roamed the floor easily, and the moment was poetry. And if I was the poet, I'd write something about a walk in the clouds. 

 The wind made her dress floats in the air with the rhythm, and she conducted me in a sequence of steps she knew well. I could almost feel her smile near to my ear. 

Maybe she danced it before. Maybe she plays too. 

I wish it had lasted forever, but the end always comes, and when it was over, I said I needed to go. She nodded and gave me a half-smile. 

4:30 minutes of dancing with a stranger guaranteed a calm feeling that flooded my heart. 

I still had to take the train. It was a reflexive walk. A very long one. I couldn't decide if it felt like the last scene of a movie or the beginning of it. 

But it was the best surrealistic experience. 

The other one I just wanted to delete. 

“Well, according to Wikipedia, a false awakening is a vivid and convincing dream about awakening from sleep, while the dreamer in reality continues to sleep…” 

“It sucks.” I said to Amelia, my best friend, before she continued the definition. 

“And you never saw that girl before?” She asked while tying her long black hair in a thin elastic. 

“No. But it felt so real. Especially this second one. The routine, the piano.” I said while looking to the horizon. 

“Yeah... But c'mon, you're in reality now! 

And we need your pen drive for next week's presentation. Did you find it?” 

“No, not yet."

“So go look in the lost and found. We still have five minutes before class starts.”

I agreed and rushed to the old door with the red “Lost n fund” sign. 

Yes, so old that the letters were messed up.

My second dream was playing in my head rent-free while I looked at some boxes in the musty-smelling room. I just wished I had that feeling again. But instead, a wave of adrenaline invaded my body.

I was surprised when someone else entered the room. 

It was her. Not with the cute butterfly dress, but pants and a sweater. But it's her! 

“I’m sorry. Did I scare you?” Her caramel eyes were wide open and her mezzo-soprano voice had me in shock for seconds.

“Yeah, I…I’m sorry, It’s just that….” 

I could let it go, but I'm a talker, so I just explained everything.

She heard all the details carefully, and as a good psychology student, Jane explained that we can’t dream about someone we’ve never seen before. Her thesis was that I must have seen her very quickly in the halls of college and so the subconscious decided to add that to my dream. 

One of the many analyses she made about me. 

Our talk was very diverse. Personal subjects were in too. We might have missed a class. 

The reason behind the dream itself remained a mystery to us, and I kept thinking for a while after she left. 

Maybe I don't want to know. 

What matters is that the same calm feeling hit me again, and the butterflies that had once been drawn in her dress were now a sensation in my stomach. 

I hope one day we can dance again.