I’d fantasized exactly once about Mr. Rose. The fantasy, if you can call it that—the thought—it went like this: We were out to dinner, at some restaurant that doesn’t exist, or maybe it does, I don’t know. But we were there, and then we got up, and there was a rose, a red one, and he gave it to me, and we walked from the restaurant to his apartment where he took me into his bed. There was never any sound, no words at the dinner, which now, I think was in the Space Needle, which is really weird, and I never pictured any details about the sex, I guess, except I knew that we were having it kind of like you do in those PG-13 movies where it’s happening under mountains of blankets, and there’s lots of rustling, lots of dramatic movement, so much closeness, the weight of implication, but nothing’s never shown. My life as a montage. A highlight reel.
The thing about the dream, the fantasy, whatever it is or was, is that in it, I know I was older I don’t know how old, but I wasn’t me. I was future-me, and everything about that is what made it okay, I remember lying in my real bed thinking about it. About him, or not him, and me, or not me, and the soundtrackless scene. His walls were a sort of terra-cotta, but now that I think about it, I guess that’s the hazy color everything is in dreams. He was on top of me only, and bigger than me, always bigger than me, and his covers were brown, and the sheets were brown, and now that I think about it I could never see his eyes. I kept looking up in the dream-thing, past his shoulders, and there was a ceiling fan that kept spinning. It was gold-rimmed, and it went around about a million times, and we were listening to a song—again, one I couldn’t hear—but it was the perfect song, and the rose was on the bedside table. It was the only bright thing in the room.
Although I laid there in my bed, the real bed in the apartment with my mother across the hall, I had started with my hand between my legs. But one thing I remember, maybe the thing I remember most from the whole fantasy is that I stopped touching. It carried me off to sleep. I never finished touching myself.