Crippled inside

 

I dreamed about Sharon again last night. 

I was at home with her in our house in Paradise, and she was still bedridden, but she had managed to make it out of bed and wander around the house. I found her in the kitchen, standing upright, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. I grabbed her by both arms, and we did a little dance right there in tiny space between the dishwasher and the K-Mart rolling island which functioned as a pantry/food prep area/dining table. Afterward, I escorted her back to bed, but not before registering my shock and elation at the minor miracle that had just taken place.

"Honey, I'm thrilled that you can walk again, and I'm sorry you had to deal with this mess," I said, scooping up a dark blue Fender Telecaster and putting it in ragged guitar case that looked as if it were made of cardboard. I made a mental note in the dream to purchase Tele (with a decent case) someday.

On our way back to the bedroom, her legs gave out, and I had to help her back to her knees. She crawled the rest of the way. Besides not being able to lift her, I was a little concerned that she might trip over some of my junk. Guitars were strewn about the place, some in cases and some just lying flat on the dingy carpet. I went around collecting them up, attempting to make the place a little more user friendly, in case she were to have another unexpected sojourn through the living room.

Later, I was on campus, helping a friend do an oil change on his older Honda Accord. Something about the drain plug and the oil filter being a different size was making the simple maintenance item a major hassle. I made myself useless by loosening the oil filter a couple of turns. I then began to fiddle with the driver's seat belt buckle, prying off the cover and breaking one of the metal clips in the process. I hastily put it back in place, discarding the broken clip, hoping my friend wouldn't notice.

Eventually, I gave up on helping my friend, since he seemed to have a better handle on the oil change than I did. I decided to go home early and called Sharon to announce my change of plans.

"Hello-ooo," Sharon answered the phone in her sexy voice.

When I responded, her voice dropped several octaves. "Oh, it's you," she said, the disappointment palpable in her tone.

I felt crushed, as it confirmed to my suspicious mind what I knew in my gut: Sharon had found another guy to give her affections to, and she had been expecting his call instead of mine. I commiserated with Gene, a former co-worker at Esplanade Manor and a fellow student in this dream. He had some advice for me, but I don't remember what it was. 

"Dude, this kind of thing happens all the time. She's just....fneth iumpthh thion fon terron mon phenon..." his words trailed off into the unintelligible gibberish of Charlie Brown's adult-speak. 

I was in my own universe of pain, unreachable. I woke up, still feeling crippled inside and very much  in the painful grip of one of my oldest and most familiar demons: jealous, again.