I woke up in the night and remembered the dream…walking down a great marble staircase that circled left on the far wall of the department store. Grey white polished swirls, hand crafted, cut and boxed and shipped half way round the world on an ocean liner with gentlemen in borrowed tuxedos like Leonardo deCaprio and women in long gowns and jewels and comfortable shoes…at least they tell me $1500 sling backs with the crystal heals are anyways…
They arrive at the door of Tiffany’s in vintage Cadillacs with the tops down. 1960 something, somewhere, anywhere but right here right now.
He holds her hand…he is quiet, calm, patient…as she stands and laughs and nearly falls back over the rear seat. He smiles too, with his eyes, and the clocks all stop in the flash of the paparazzi pose. A Raphael photo painted scene on a life size canvas in a NewYork studio apartment with one wall knocked out and a fireplace that hadn’t been lit since winter.
Meanwhile, in the dream…the marble stairs are surprisingly steep in the pointy shoes, surprisingly back in style, and a three piece Dolce, but my host, an eloquent woman with some years to my advantage, glides down with poise and purpose, professional and proper in comfortable contentment…or complete denial and abandon, which of the two I haven’t divested to ascertain. I prefer the former and reach for a handrail as the staircase falls steeper and the run of the next step is half the width of my heal and the rise near my waist.
…elloquent and impossible, delicious and indifferent, and full of the simple pleasures I have forgotten to remember.