Dori and the Dolphins

The first time I saw him was two weeks ago. He waited until Father Sun had journeyed beyond the horizon, leaving me isolated. That's when he appeared, darker than a charcoal nightmare, and lit the end of refer under the transient lamplight. I watched as the smoke snaked high into the darkness. I did not know what I had been looking for until that moment. For weeks I had sat silently in my antique oak chair, rocking, waiting. Something intense--a giant invisible hand--twisted me there like a helpless doll always after the angels laid me down to rest. Repeatedly my eyes had scanned the empty street beyond my bedroom window without vision or answer. Then he stood there, engulfed in the radiation of the branching streetlights beyond my lawn. He wasn't what I had expected. Denim jeans careless ripped in the knees, a rose T-shirt, and a cowhide jacket costumed his rough figure. This was his childish game, like an actor carefully shaping himself into role, and I knew it--and he knew that I knew. The way the cigarette smoke streamed through the jagged arches of his goatee told me. Then our eyes connected and I felt those hypnotic lips form a warning: "I know." When Father Sun woke he was gone. * * * I gripped the curved armrests as a sudden noise snapped me into being. Outside the window daylight began it's early walk over the lawn. A small blue jay was looking for worms. I looked straight at the street lamp but there was no hint of last night's history. Had he been there or was it only a dream? "Dori?" I twisted from the window. My old friend was beside me, the edges of his eyebrows turned under in that way they sometimes did when he was upset with me. His lined hand traced the top of my chair and for the first time I noticed it's jagged design. "I'm sorry," I said looking down at my favourite green slippers. I only take them off when I go to bed. "But I had to see." He lifted his head to the window and rubbed his white beard like I'd imagine dwarves sometimes do. But he's taller than me, skinny, and has a long nose that has a tiny scar at the tip that you can see in the sunlight. "It's not good for you to be sleeping in your chair," he said. "I'm worried about you, Dori." I put a hand to his. His skin was rough, knowledgable. "I'm sorry," I said again. "I can't help it." He looked down at my slippers then back to my face. "You can't or you won't?" "No, no." I rose and put a hand to the window pane. "He was out there, last night. Under the lamp smoking a cigarrette. He came for me." My friend's forehead tensed like a prune and the few hairs on the top of his bald head moved forward an inch. He wrapped a warm arm around my shoulders and gently pressed me towards my bed. "You need to sleep, Dori. These nightmares aren't g--" "But I did see him! I don't know who he was--but I should. He'll be back and I need to find out who he is!" He tried pulling my slippers off but I kept my feet set firmly to the floor. He sat down beside me and my bed bounced for a moment. We both stared at the far wall on which rose petals of red paint glided downward. I was tired but I wouldn't let my friend know it; I had to find out who it was. "Dori, are you sure you won't go to sleep for me?" I looked at him. His friendly blue eyes normally could convince me of anything, but I needed to know. He could wait with me. My eyes lowered to my slippers. He got up, left the room, and returned within the count of fifteen breaths. He sat down and handed me a cup of water. I pushed it away. "Please, dear." He said and pressed a pill into my right fist. "Take this, it will help you sleep." I was about to shake my head again but when I saw his face I realized that I could sleep now and wake up before nightfall. He dropped the pink tablet in my small, open hands and I swallowed it. Then I got under the white knit covers and he tucked them around my feet and shoulders. Soon I would be asleep. But when night came I would wake and find out who had come to visit me. That night the lawn was empty. For many nights I sat there and rocked, waiting, hoping to see a glimpse of the apparition. When the darkness came, so did my depression and the angels tried to sooth me, asking me to sleep. In the mornings I still sat, dry eyed, staring out the window. My old friend would come and give me pills, which I held under my tongue while pretending to swallow. I then put them under my matress. On the sixth day after he came, one of the angels found the stash and told my old friend. He came in, arms crossed, and shook his head. I felt very badly, but could not hold my head up to talk with him. Then the angels came in. I could not resist when their magical hands pinned me to the bed. I screamed as they pricked me then fell backward into the dark. * * * Eight nights passed before she returned to dance a graceful pas seul. I pulled my fatigued body out from the covers and watched breathing cherry ruffles sweep over her enchanted hips and spell my name in tidal waves of sparkling silk. Each new letter transformed her costume: red, yellow, green, and blue hugged her waist, the heart of a multicolored rose. Using the wall to keep balance, I carefully worked my way to the window. My selfish eyes, sleepy as a new born, threatened to close but I refused. My visitor continued to dance but my blood grew heavy and I fell into a dream where devils laughed as they pushed me off the edge of a cliff, into the roaring ocean below. They laughed as I fell and laughed when I hit the rocks. I awoke on the floor. My right hand was bent under my stomach and my temple was a beam of pain. I slowly pulled myself up and stared at my hand with half-open eyes. The fingers tingled in red anger. I held them away from myself then leaned up so I could see out again. She was still there. She had paused the captivating allegro for me, but now partnered herself with the trunk of the street light. She circled it, twisted, and hugged close, her legs wrapped around the base. Then her hands rose and she leaned away from the pole and her hair came down and touched the grass, then she hugged her hips close to the lamp post and moved them inward. The relationship deepened into a libidinous fervor when her streamlined figure catapulted back onto the sea of sprouting blades. Three strenuous leaps led her to my window where she collapsed beneath a jumbled heap of greying fabric. Despair filled my chest. I flattened my good hand against the cold window pane. She leaned up, close enough for her breath to fog the window. I needed her. I needed her to hold me to her bosom and entertain this ceaseless night. Her auburn hair parted and elfin lips flowed into my thirsty eyes my answer: "I know." Then she rose into an energetic arabesque, stopping in mid-air and slowly rotating as a ballerina on a silent music box. She raised her arms and with fingers spread like fragile wings she grasped the stars. Those perfect legs melted in and out of the ruffled material, pushing her up into the atmosphere. The movement accelerated, culminating to form an effulgent column of fire. And Venus took her away. * * * The next morning I described my heavenly ballet with my old friend whose doubts were etched into his ancient face like the wrinkles on a worn dress shirt. But this was understandable. The performance was dedicated to me. That's all that mattered. His rough-warm hands felt my wrist then padded along my neck. He hummed to himself a tune I'd never heard, looked at his watch, and then up at me. "I'm glad you've finally gotten some sleep, but it looks like you've lost weight." He took my hand in his and looked right at me. "Dori, when was the last time you ate?" I shrugged and stared back out the window. How would he ever understand? I couldn't chance missing him if he or she or who ever it was decided to come back. "Dori?" "Huh?" My head bobbed back in his direction and for a moment he looked like a fuzzy grey coat. I allowed my eyes to focus then made a weak smile. He hummed to himself again, sighed, then stood up. "Just lay back down for now," he said with a hand to my shoulder. And then I was falling again, toward the rocks. And they were there, those devils, black and laughing at me fall. But I fought. And I moved so fast I flew out of their reach and saw my window again, there, in the light of day. But no sooner had I realized my triumpth than I my eyelids dropped and I felt myself swaying nearer the edge. "Dori?" I looked up. My old friend had a orange tray in his hands. He rested it on my knees and a spoon appeared in his hand. "Here," he said scooping some brownish liquid out of a bowl. I kept my eyes on the window and opened my mouth then fell toward the rocks. * * * "...very difficult time," said the foggy voice. It had a sure tone to it, like a trumpet. A sad trumpet in the distance. "...can't allow you to go anywhere... ...not safe right now...you don't know...will hurt you...are you ok...understand?" No, a french horn. Sure, but dull. Rounded. Almost whiny, trailing in and out in waves. ".....here to help you...." it said. "Keep her sedated......see you later, Dori." * * * When I slammed into the rocks I felt the waves of blood rush from me into the surrounding darkness. And the devils, with their wide grins and tractored teeth, chanted in their own tongue. I couldn't move as they wrapped around my arms and around my legs. They smelled like carrion purposely rotting in my viens. I tried to shriek but found a grimy hand covering my mouth. "You want me to let you go?" it asked in a surprisingly friendly tone. "Is that what you want, Dori?" I jerked and squirmed but my body was now totally numb. Let me go!! I thought. "She wants to go back," says another to another to another an they're all laughing again, that chainsaw laugh that seems like a thousand pinches on my heart. Then my mouth is free and my eyes are open and my room is bright with sunlight and he's standing there, outside my window. He's wearing a black and white striped cowboy shirt that obliques the wire meshing impaled within the window. He has a shaved head and a five o'clock shadow that screams trouble. Suddenly I know who he is and I do not want to be here anymore. Then a malevolent smile covers his features and two leathery hands flatten on the window pane. Sketched on the palms a horrific tattoo echoes: "I know". His biting eyebrows narrow into hatred then he crashes a fist through my only protection. I try getting up to run, but the demons are still holding me tight and they're laughing: "You wanted to come back," they sneer. "This is what you wanted, Dori." I scream. Still outside he looks up at me, then at his bloody hand, then at the door to my room. My old friend shoots through my with an angel floating like centurians at his sides. The angels rush to me, grabbing me by the arms and I can feel them tugging at those devils, pulling them away, saving me. But no, the grip tightens and my old friend is looking at me and shaking his head. "This is what you wanted, Dori." I scream for him to turn and my old friend raises an eyebrow, turns his head, and drops his mouth at the sight of blood on shredded glass. But the cowboy is no longer there. * * * The shade of her feline eyes posses the only color darker than that of her midnight blue uniform. Invisible calluses scar her youthful face, merely veiling the gentle kitten beneath. She sits like a proud timber watching over an ageless forest and presses an obligatory smile to her firm lips. We have not met--no matter. Our introduction is formal, dry, and mildly unnerving. To compensate I sing a short verse I envisioned many months ago while I slept: Dori's soul is always bright, Morning, afternoon, or night, Dolphins dancing in the light, Newborn moon to my delight. To my blushing surprise there is applause from those in the room, particularly the woman in blue. Her thin lips are wide in a grin, but here eyes are still hiding something from me. She has a copious book on her lap which her hands move over knowingly. A photo album, apparently. She opens opens it, sets it on my lap, then scoots it towards my curious focus. How odd, I think, that this strange woman will allow me to delve into her personal belongings. I smile and offer to get my picture book as well but am shocked by her lack of enthusiasm; politely, I volunteer it for a later occasion. Her's is a peculiar album. No group pictures. No women. No bodies, for that matter. Just the blank faces and matching profiles of men--lots of men! Do this many people even exist?! If so, where are they and why haven't I met any of them? Her delicate hands brush over the pages and she asks if I recognize anyone. Chances are I will--there are so many! Father Sun has surely given her an extraordinary gift. And that I may gaze upon so many of my newest companion's friends imparts me ten times as many! How will I find the time to meet them all? A trickle of curiosity forces its way through my lips but to my consternation my new friend replies that I will not meet any of these people; she says they aren't the type of guy I would want for a friend. "Who are they then? Why are we looking at them?" I guess thse were the wrong questions to ask as they caused her face tense into a raisin. My paranoia quickly declares that she is angry; she convinces me otherwise. Yet this abnormal situation still disturbs me. I do not want to muse through three volumes of foreign men! Why do I need to? Pushing the book aside I stand to leave. My old friend, who has been watching quietly from a corner, assures me that no harm will come if I look and that my company will delight this new friend. My trust in him is agreement enough to browse these photographs, but I don't understand how I might recognize any of these strangers if my newest friend does not. It's getting late and I've scanned one book. The plastic seat is uncomfortable so I rotate to pop my back. It cracks with a loud sound like a Ping-Pong ball being dropped on a hard wood floor. Pop! I repeat this in a clock-wise direction. Pop! My old friend stands behind me, rubbing my sore shoulders. Another page passes like a leaf off an autumn tree and I still don't recognize any of the men. There are those who have familiar features and jostle my clouded memory but none that I... "Wait!" I shout. The woman in blue returns to the previous page. "There he is, the man outside my window!" * * * I have a new room now. A reflection of my old one, it is barren except for my bed and my rocking chair. But since no window stares out at the great blueness I steadily grow claustrophobic. My old friend promises that I can return to my portal after it has been replaced. I want to touch the sky again. Thus no true light brightens this place, only the superficial flickering of the elongated tubes crowning my head. When I rest I can almost understand the quiet chattering, like a field of bees harvesting their honey. Their curious tongue sprouts in me. Beyond these simple things there is nothing in my room. It is an austere setting for a lonely person. Even the door is a blank sheet of wan oak. And as with my previous abode there is no escape. My restrictive view births from the tiny square of glass, high in the door. Outside, my guardian angels are laughing. My old friend is visiting. A melancholy of unusual dimensions holds him perched on my bed. His contemplating eyes avert towards the finely aged fingers of his hands. The hairs of his mustache rhythmically mimic his breathing. He says that there is something important that we must do but that ultimately the choice is mine. I tell him that I am not used to making my own decisions, especially not important ones! Yet his empathy convinces me: I will embrace my own path. "Dori, do you remember me asking you to lie down on your bed once?" my old friend asks. I nod slightly. "Do you remember how I asked you to close your eyes and slip away into another place?" My old friend refers to what I call the other dreams. It is an odd experience; that is the only way my feeble vocabulary can describe it. To begin, he would ask me to lie flat on my bed and relax, as if my spirit were to travel to the sanctuary where my dreams are preserved. But instead of going there, he caresses me with his rich nature. I evaporate into the deep articulations of his voice as if they were the multitudinous branches of a never ending forest. Like a patient gardener, my old friend kneels and searches my soul with adept precision and care. Yet I must guard myself closely and prevent this sweet distraction; every syllable will be important: to miss one would be as dire as misplacing a single key to a doorway fitted with manifold locks. As a willing slave to his every fluctuation we uncovered the forgotten dreams of another person--of a person who I can hardly believe existed. She was an attractive young woman who experienced an abundant life beaming with beauty and friendship; in comparison mine is austere. Her days were an intricately woven quilt; mine are bland as water. And yet my old friend assures me that I am intimate with this woman--inseparable as Siamese twins. Yet even in her abundance, she is unhappy. I have watched her hunkering on an elaborate bed, tears coursing down her delicate cheeks like old memories. She flipped the pages of her own picture books in empty frustration. Something was missing from her heart. I could feel the vacuum in mine. Now I must return to her dreams. I must awaken her nightmare and search its unlit corridors for that special key. Perhaps there I will find my peace, in the darkness of my sister's heart. * * * Our bed was empty the night Mark died. The intricate ripples and bumps in the quilt my mother had sewn were no longer dancing. The sheets were sprawled lazily about the mattress's gentle surface and the smell of Mark's masculine body clung to the them with a last will to survive. It's my bed now. Quiet. Empty, like a book without words that somehow continues to whisper testament of the past. It's been suggested that I sell anything that reminds me of him. But I can't sell my life. I won't throw away what he gave me. The glass sliding door is cracked open. A cool wind surreptitiously enters, brushing a wisp of curly brown hair in my face. It tickles my eyelashes and is enough to catalyze the reaction of one tear--the first that I have allowed. When should I mourn? When the officer arrives at work with the news? While I continue working because no one can cover my shift? After getting home and telephoning the distant relatives? While organizing the funeral? Why didn't they tell me what to do when death leaps into my bed? Isn't death at least a semi-important subject for Lifetime Health and Fitness 101? Or is everyone doomed to be pushed from this plane without a parachute? God must have dropped me from 60,000 feet. I met Mark in a Social Psychology class at the community college. He wore ripped blue jeans and wrinkled T-shirts and if it wasn't hot he wore a beat up leather jacket that carried the characteristic scent of tobacco. Sometimes he wore slacks and a dress shirt, other times he had on a tank top and shorts. Clothes were a costume to him: no more, no less. While the professor explained aspects of Freudian psychology, Mark's chameleon eyes penetrated the souls around, including mine. He discerned what no one else had cared to see: a lonely girl who had grown up fatherless, penniless, and for the most part, friendless. "A person," he stated in his accustomed seriousness, "is like a banana. If one takes that banana and throws it against a wall, it bruises. And if someone else picks up that same banana and lunges it towards the wall, it bruises again. In fact, not only does the banana bruise as it hits the wall, but its damage doubles as it falls to the ground!" He stopped a moment to rub his scruffy beard that's condition indicated his mood over the past twenty-four hours. "Why are we always blaming the banana?" Distressed produce sells cheap but is not worthless. "Waste is laziness," he believed. "Waste is when we throw away seeds instead of sowing them. Waste is a meal left uneaten, a compliment left unsaid, and a soul left unloved." My grandmother, who raised me, criticized every inevitable change of appearance. My wealthy friends complained that they could not buy the hottest tape when I fumbled for a quarter. And men replaced their hands with my body, compounding my sense of worthlessness. Mark was the only human to acknowledge this and give me his unconditional friendship. He had fallen off the rungs, gotten back up, and was willing to help those slipping off. My grip loosens. My friend--my husband--is dead. * * * I'm crying. That is all I know when I wake up and find myself in my old friend's arms. "There," he says to me and I feel better. "You're going to be alright. Everything's alright, Dori." I whipe my nose on my sleave and look up at him. He's smiling and somehow I can feel the sun on my cheeks again. I give him a tight hug and just lay there against his chest. "Who is she?" I ask. Every time I see her she is so sad? Why? What's wrong? What did she do to deserve it? "I want to help." He combs a hand through my hair then pushes me back onto my head. "You are," he says. "You're very strong. A very strong woman, Dori." "But I want to help her!" I cry. His eyes widen and one of the angles is at my door, looking with an unusual frown. My old friend raises a hand to him and looks back at me. "How about we make a deal. You get some sleep, and when you wake up you can try to help her." I smiled and kissed his hand. I didn't need to think about an answer. It simply is like I am. * * * When I wake, he's there as promised. He has another bowl of soup. This time I'm able to eat, without the emptiness swallowing me. He smiles at this and tells me how wonderful I am. I'm glad to have him as my friend. Then he lays me back down, like yesterday, and he begins to sooth me with that rich, old voice of his that seems like a river flowing into the ages. My arms, legs, body, and head transform from solid, into liquid, and lastly into gaseous clouds that float with airy currents. My liberated spirit rises through the ceiling and out into the azure expanses. As I join the animated breezes and float higher, aggravated winds decide to bat me like a powerless leaf. The sky darkens into a grey sheet of drizzle and I am pushed around houses and excited tree branches. The gentle voice of my companion directs my ethereal journey until I arrive at a clear glass doorway. It opens and my soul breezes in. * * * "About time you got here, Dori!" Eric quips. I hate it when he does that. And of course he does it every day we work together. "You'd never guess what happened today." There wasn't an answer to his question. Nothing had happened. Nothing ever happened! If anything did happen it was the crowning event that had screwed Eric's personality awry: his parents used to dress him up as Elvis Presley and show him to the relatives, neighbors, and members of every Protestant church within a ten mile radius. That's not too bizarre (yea, right!), as most parents like to brag about their kids, but Eric seemed to think he was one step short of Godhood. He could be described as having an ego that was blown beyond comprehensible boundaries like a hot air balloon. He had plenty of hot air. "What?" I feign interest. "Nothing." "I'm so glad to hear it," came my sarcastic response. Dripping wet, I cruised around the counter and into the employee room where I set my bike helmet and rain parka down. My watch reads two o'clock: time for work. But it runs five minutes fast--a safety precaution to keep a lazy-ass punctual--so I slump into a cheap plastic chair. In a dream world I wouldn't be working for minimum wage renting videos to people who have nothing better to do on Thanksgiving than vege out on a cheap thriller. In a dream world Mark and I would travel: the Pyramids in Egypt; the Great Wall in China; the Coral Reef in Australia; and finally an ancient castle in Scotland that his ancestors had once lived and fought in. The measly $4.75 an hour that goes into every paycheck is limited to food and rent--Hell, a month ago college metamorphosed from a reality into an event saved for other peoples lives. "Dori, I need your help out here!" Eric shouts. "Now would be good!" "OK. Hold your horses, I'm coming." Before I started this job I didn't think a video store needed more than one counter person at a time. What do they do? First take the numbered tag from the customer and grab the movie, next find the customer's file on the computer and enter the movie under their name, most importantly take the cash and finally hand the movie over. Six simple steps for checking out a movie! So why's it so fucking hard? As Mark is so kind to point out, "Look, listen, and learn." My first customer is a regular: Mrs. Marcia Thompson, housewife and mother to three gradeschoolers who are swarming around her legs like flying saucers around a mother ship. I switch into my quaint service mode and greet her. A slight response is all I get, not much more than one might give a stranger walking by on the street. That's my cue to transform into an automaton: there are no people in the service industry; no one wants them. While I process Mrs. Thompson's movies, unrest unfolds behind her and her buzzing family. A scruffy man in his thirties proceeds to curse under his breath, apparently unequipped with the patience needed for standing in any type of line. The continuance of the ranks reflect this attitude, with the exception of one man. He's about six feet tall, shaved head, a cowboy shirt and boots. Unlike the others, he is unhurried; he has his own agenda. His clear, glazed eyes are scanning my motions like a video recorder. Whereas the others create my frustration, he creates my harassment. Whereas they feed my stress, he feeds my fear. His façade is cool. It verges on liquid nitrogen. As he leans over the counter far enough to glance down my blouse he bears a tar tainted grin. I pull away slightly to regain my comfort zone. "So, how ya doin'?" he inquires in a bogus cowboy drawl. "I'm fine, thank you. Can I get your mov--" "Ya know, you look awful pretty today, miss." My psyche teacher used to tell me the same thing, minus the fake accent. But that was different. When my professor said, "You look pretty today," he meant, "I think you are a beautiful and intelligent human being." It wouldn't take a psychic to see that this testosterone case was hitting on me--he'd been doing it for three weeks straight. "Thank you. Your movie?" I asked attempting the impossible of masking my anxiety with politeness. "How would ya like ta ride with me? Get on my Harley, drink a few--" I didn't let him finish. "I'm sorry, but I'm married." Besides the point I've told you this four times this week! "There are other people in line. Now, If I could get--" "Look, Dori. What he don't know won't hurt him." I'd been hit on before. I'd been harassed before. But the cowboy's inconsiderate persistence twisted around my neck like a hungry boa. Casually, I fingered the can of pepper spray in my pocket. "C'mon babe," he said extending his thick, tattooed arms over the counter. "How 'bout tonight?" he continued, grabbing my shoulders. The store was mute. Eric halted pecking at the computer keyboard and the entourage of boob tube fanatics solidified into a concrete mass of passive viewers waiting intently for the next line. The cowboy's lust smeared eyes bled into mine. It was time to pass his order. "Meet my friend," I bluntly told him. "Just as long as she's got a chest as nice as yours, babe," he returned. "What makes you think it's a she?" I asked as I lifted the pepper spray to eye level. His arms flopped behind the counter and his sureness evaporated. "Meet Sergeant Pepper. Now, the Serge's been listening to you on and off for the past week and he isn't at all happy with your blatant sexual-verbal assaults. So I've asked the Serge if I've been fair to you. "I've told you that I am uncomfortable with your advances. I've told you that I am married. And now," I continue, "you've crossed into no man's land. I have two suggestions for you. Kindly rent a video and make everyone else in line happy--or get your macho ass out of this store!" The cowboy's face twisted as if he had swallowed a handful of chew. "Fine, bitch!" he grunted. "You'd better fucking stay away from me!" he yelled, knocking a rack of videos down on his way out. I waited a moment for the pervading quiet to fade before turning to Eric. "You'll never guess what happened today." * * * He's sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner, away from the door where the angels cannot see him. I know who he is now: I know his name. Staring into his erudite eyes I whisper: "I know." "I missed you, Dori," he gently breathes to me while pulling his curly hair out of a pony tail. Straightening, he drags a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, jiggles one into his agile fingers, and lights it casually. The bursting flame highlights crescent ringlets around his features into a dandelion halo. Reality creeps from the smoking refer's end and tickles my nostrils. Here is my Mark--my husband Mark--alive and relaxing in the corner of my room. "You're... I remember--" "Slowly," Mark suggests, puffing away again as I remember him doing so many nights in a happier lifetime. "Allow yourself the time to heal. There's no hurry." No other words could describe Mark's attitude better. And I knew he was right. Forgotten memories were already scraping my consciousness as if I had fallen off a bike and scraped my knees; to speed the journey would only rip my soul to shreds. His gentle gaze directs me towards the reflective surface in my mind that no one but he or I can see. It's a place where I used to constantly jaunt to and pose, observing the outwardly unobservable. It's that place where I pressed makeup to my battered face, camouflaging the bruises. It's where I tempered the split ends. My illusive state had forgotten that the mirror hangs there waiting to be used. Looking, I see that the present fog of this cramped space drapes a hazy human image. My shaking palm wipes the speckled water away, revealing a familiar face: the woman from the other dreams. And that woman is me. All we can do is stare at each other with confused awe. Then, as our hands meet on the flat surface they melt together, snapping our incomplete forms into a finished entity like two glorious rivers flowing into one. I shy from this newcomer who hugs me to her sweet bosom. Falling deeper, Mark's Dori struggles insanely with the realization of her residence in a mental hospital, so I patiently assuage her spirit with warm colors. A newly born butterfly, we release our grip on the bars and test the wakened vitality of our spanning wings. * * * Mark still dominates the corner, patiently meditating on the addictive fumes. Green irises rise into mine, greeting a new being. His laconic figure does not shadow his delightment, but it does not answer my questions: Was this my Mark or was I truly certifiable? If this was Mark, why was he here? And lastly, who was the dancer outside my window? As if reading my thoughts my husband answers, "It's time for you to dance again, Dori. Spread your wings under a newborn moon, Dori and the Dolphins." Smiling like a Cheshire cat he faded into a column of sweet incense. * * * My old friend comes in the room and behind is my friend in blue, the police officer who I had just recently met. "Dori," he says, "We were wondering if you would come somewhere with us." I sat up in bed, my back straight. My old friend steps back and shoots a look at one of the orderlies--my angel shrugs. I smile at both of them and stand up. "Craig..." I stop and look at my old friend. His face is now whiter than his beard. "Sorry... Doctor, is that what I shall call you? May I have some, um, clothes. I'm not going anywhere in these pajamas." They're still staring and the woman officer is looking from me, to my old friend, to my angel, and back to me. My old friend is biting his lips and staring at my dizzily. What could I do? I went up, hugged the old bear, and headed for the door. "Come on, everybody. Get me some jeans or something," I said, patting my angel on his enormous bicep. I turned back to the room. "I thought we were going out." * * * The cowboy stood under number three: he was the third to reflect himself in my bedroom window; he was the third I had to see. Pride and egoism had vanished from his abused canvass as if alien to it. That incorrigible façade was replaced by a recognition of his grueling future. Had a grim reality of loneliness made him kill? His reply was written in tears: "I don't know". I once thought that the only good cup was a full one. I thought that the only good book was a written one and that the only good person was a predictable one. But how can we taste exotic drinks with a brimming cup? How can we write new books when all of the pages are full? And how could we find excitement when everyone is predictable? Our psyche teacher once asked a riddle: "What starts out on none, then goes to two, then is on one, and ends up on none?" With the answer in mind, Mark wrote a poem: One To None Two rainbows intertwined In morning mist Two petals twist Two lips kissed Hungry, lonely, hermit On island shore One soul sore One day more A rumbling in my chest Opens my eye So souls must cry So souls must die