THE PRESCRIPTION By: Jude W. Mire
Thursday, July 23rd, 2009He’d been here before. He was sure of it; black tablecloths, silver candlesticks, and a flock of penguin waiters. When had he been here?
“We dreamed this, silly.” He frowned. She was gone.
He turned, straightened his shirt, and hitched his jacket. He hated to admit it, but the breathy woman in his head: she was right. They had dreamed it. He tingled at the memory.
A rail of a man with a lantern jaw approached him, a smile stretched across his vast expanse of face.
“Tom! How are you?” He rolled his wineglass between thumb and forefinger.
“Good, good.” There was a hint of perfume on the air. Tom glanced left.
The other man continued despite Tom’s distraction. “I was glad you didn’t hesitate to call me on that pharmaceutical question. Was a hundred enough?”
“He’s switched doctors. It wasn’t working out.” Tom blinked twice.
The other psychiatrist nodded. “Well, you know how people are. They hop around until they find someone who says something palatable. With schizophrenics it’s so hard to build consistency, especially in cases like you described.”
“I know. I’m not worried. It happens to all of us.” Tom slid his hand into his pocket. His fingers wrapped around the pill bottle he’d brought. A clear voice slid hot across his earlobe.
“Come on Tommy. Tell him. Tell him who they’re really for.” He scratched his ear fiercely.
Big Jaw kept talking. “Well, if you ever need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
Tom saw her. There, across the room, walking away with ringlets of auburn rolling down her milky shoulders. He had to catch her. “Excuse me. . .”
He left the man slack-jawed, no small feat. He raised his glass to the air and wound through the crowd, trying not to spill. She was heading toward the ladies room. He hurried, bumping a dainty girl in a melon fresh dress.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
She looked at him with hazel eyes under long bangs. “Don’t worry. It was only an accident.”
Tom nodded with a polite smile and looked back. The lady was gone. His disappointment must have been clear. “What’s the matter, you lose someone?”
“Sort of. I think she went into the ladies room.”
“Ah, no boys allowed in there.”
“Right.” He watched the hall.
“I was headed that way to fix the strap on this damn shoe. Like me to tell her you’re out here?”
He twitched his shoulders in a miniscule shrug. “I doubt you’ll find her.”
She gave a confused little smile. “And why would you think that?”
“Well . . .” Because she’s not real, thought Tom. “I guess it’s worth a shot.”
She headed for the bathroom, talking over her shoulder as she wove through the party.
“I’m Nancy Penelope, I’m with the Brinthon Group.” So she wasn’t just someone’s errant date.
“I’m Tom Mackey, independent practice.” She stopped at the door.
“Who am I looking for?”
“She’s got a red dress, long hair, dark and curly.”
“Does the mystery lady have a name?”
He answered without thinking. “I hope so.”
This time her confusion was not veiled in a smile. She entered the ladies room. He stood there, waiting. His thoughts turned to the dreams. All the time spent with his mystery woman, the conversations they had. He could almost hear her now, in a phantom memory. She talked about being a dancer, and how she thought ballet would be beautiful on a beach at sunset. He asked her his same old question.
“Can we be together?” Her answer was always the same.
“I’m right here, silly man.”
It was never enough of an answer. It always made him angry.
The door opened on reality and perky Nancy walked out. The door to reverie shut. He blinked twice.
“No mysterious ladies in red.”
He nodded. “I know.”
She looked at him and slid a hand along her hip. “You are a strange one, aren’t you?”
“No.”
She gave him a final smile, and, not the type to play games, melted back into the crowd of shrinks. A fingernail ran down his back.
“You’re not attracted to that are you?” Dark curls dripped over his shoulder. He could smell the shampoo.
“No.” Had he just hurt her feelings over that woman? He hoped not.
There was a playful tug at his jacket. “Come outside so we can talk. Maybe this time you’ll listen to me.”
He walked alone out of the building.
“I always listen to you.”
“You always hear me. Not the same.”
He could feel her next to him, but didn’t dare look. She wouldn’t be there; only a swish of dress, a barely perceptible heat. They crossed the lawn to look across the lake. It reflected city lights in a million flashes. At the railing, he lit a cigarette and contributed his own tiny flash.
“Can we be together? For real I mean?” There was longing in his voice. He was haunted, desperate to know flesh his mind had tasted.
“I’m right here.”
“But we’re not. Our minds, they’re linked somehow, but we’re apart, our bodies anyway. I know you’re real, the pills, the pills don’t work! If you were only a dream, you would have faded.” He pulled the pills from his pocket, displaying them.
She leaned her frame into him, resting her cheek on his spine. “Oh Tom, sometimes you have to flip the switch to turn on the lights.”
He let her touch him, almost feeling it. It was close, so very close, but it wasn’t quite real.
“I want to find you, the real you. God, I would do anything! To anyone. Are you jealous of that girl? Because I could take care of that. Whatever it takes! For you! Just tell me where you are!” His face got red with anger and his hand squeezed the sealed bottle, exactly one hundred tiny pills.
Her voice was a little small, a little sad.
“I’m right here Tom, I’m right here.”
—
©2009 Jude W. Mire
