by Dave Edelman
by Dave Edelman
"I have a fantasy," Lawrence told her one afternoon over the phone
"Sounds good already," she replied while sipping iced tea made from powdered mix and tapping listlessly on the side of the toaster oven with a wooden serving spoon. "What is it?"
"I have a fantasy that we meet again," he said.
"Meet again? But isn't it the point that we don't?" Shelly paused to scold a child, her youngest, Teddy, for wandering into the kitchen while he should have been with the others in the living room, absorbed in Star Trek and Disney coloring books.
"That's just it, I've been thinking lately that we should," Lawrence returned insistently.
"Okay ... how would we meet?" Of course, Shelly had no intention of really meeting him anywhere, and neither did he, she suspected. Her intuition told her that what Lawrence really had in mind was an experiment in creative synergy, one of the cooperative fantasies Shelly indulged him in from time to time to -- well, to keep things interesting. God knows he had absorbed enough of her childish regression, dutifully smoothing the wrinkles on the veneer of her self-confidence when probably all he could really think about was that new PowerPC glimmering like a disco ball on the cover of last week's Byte magazine.
"I think we should meet on a bus," said Lawrence simply.
"Okay, a bus. A bus it is, then. When?" She imagined Lawrence glancing at his watch, which would read a quarter to five.
"How about, say, 7:30?"
Knowing full well that she would be going over the monthly bills with Robert all evening -- she could almost feel the warm coffee. That was all she anticipated about those financial powwows anymore, lathering her tongue tranquil as a Sunday afternoon while she delightfully prolonged the swallow -- Shelly said, "7:30's fine by me. How will I recognize you?"
"You mean you wouldn't recognize me?" Lawrence teased. "I'm insulted."
He didn't really mean it. Their one meeting had taken place three years ago in a crowded revival movie house notorious for its greasy floors and bullet-hard Milk Duds. Shelly, fresh from a spat with Robert (back when there was enough energy between them for spats), had wandered into the theater half unwittingly. Lawrence was a big fan of the director -- they remembered the film as Steven Soderburgh's "Kafka." He told her that he had purposely sought a silent communion with the celluloid, serene, embraced by the dark.
© Copyright 1995 Urban Desires