By Hand, On the Floor

You are holding a book with a goldish-orange cover, reading from the teaser page, which goes:

There are thieves who take this and that. Thieves who steal bread and water, property or bits from the table. These are the ordinary takers, the common thieves. Then there are those who can see what you hold most dear, all that you are and ever will be. They can twist your memories from your mind, eat your soulful confession and leave you hollow, and can shoot your dream in the face while you look on helpless. These are the thieves of all that you are and they made the mistake of crossing my path …

You offer your thoughts on it.

“I was trying to sound tough at the end there,” I say without looking up, continuing to write by hand on a folio size piece of paper. “You know like in a hardboiled detective novel or an episode of … you know … that show we were watching last week … you know what I’m sayin’ here …”

I do this a lot. I ramble on while multitasking. It’s not that I’m distracted; I’m toggling attention rapidly. If my metacognitive buffering service is active, I can literally see what’s being attended to and in what percentage. But I’m in sleeping boxers and a tank top at my house, so the fancy eyes are definitely off.

“I had a dream last night,” I say.

It’s one of those things people say, like, I woke up. Yeah, no shit. But it’s, you know, a transitional expression.

“In it, Lila kept switching places with my mom, which is so Freudian and cringe I just can’t. And she’s one the phone with Ryan Howard …”

You ask if I fell asleep watching The Office again.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course I did. Anyway, she’s explaining that I am depressed and that she is worried about me. We’re in the car, like, she’s driving, and I’m in the passenger. And I'm thinking, like, what the fuck. I’m sitting right here. But I guess I'm also, like, self-evaluating or whatever, and I am thinking maybe I am a little depressed.”

I stop to scratch my bush, which is super feminine and becoming.

You being you point out that it would make sense for someone in my situation to be depressed.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “But I'm talking about in the dream.”

You say that dreams sometimes reflect what’s going on in our waking life.

I pause writing to look around—not at you, just in one direction or the other—and then go, “Is that where we are?”

It might be hard for you to tell if I'm joking or not cos it’s pretty deadpan—likewise if the joke is at your expense or not. But don’t worry, babe, it's not about you. And if you’re sad about it we can cuddle or you can take me up the ass later if you want and it’ll be better, m'kay?

“Or we can go down on each. Or just me on you. Or you on me. Or, you know. All. Like all of that.”

You ask what I’m talking about, and I blink, am quiet for a second, then say, “Who knows. Doing too many things at once. Anyhow, the dream, babe. Let me get through this.”

You weren’t really interrupting, but you’re kind enough not to point that out.

I resume writing and telling you the details of the dream.

“So she thinks I’m depressed. And that had me thinking about my hormones and sertraline, which I think maybe I should up? But then I will have, like, no sex drive. And while sex isn’t everything, I definitely enjoy that dimension of life. And then I'm like, Wait. I need to have sex. That’s why i’m depressed.”

You might point out that we fucked or made love or whatever yesterday—you know, if we did—but I will just say, “In the dream, babe.”

I pause and brush back a lock of hair. It’s the pink washaway streak I put in it the other day after we went to the drug store and I was super loopy and bought it on sale.

“So we’re back at the hotel cos apparently we’re at a hotel, you know, traveling or whatever. And then she is already in bed. Lila, I mean.

“And just to be totally effing crystal clear, it is, like, one hundo Lila at this point. No Mom confusion or any shit like that.”

You might observe and possibly say that it isn’t that unusual for couples with young children to experience this kind of subliminal stress and role confusion.

“Whatever,” I say. “So I tell Lila I’d like to have sex. Or I intend to, but once I get in bed, she’s like already asleep. And I'm like, dammit.

“So I get outta bed and think about maybe masturbating, but decide instead to try to get fucked by some guy at the hotel, you know, assuming I can find one.”

You can ask if I do, you know, find one.

“I don't find one. In fact, I seem to forget all about it, and go see a film instead. Well, it's like a trailer for a film, like a transgressive film. And they’re having technical problems, so it’s projected on this white wall instead of a proper screen? And it's kina gross.

“When I'm walking out, I bump into thus middle-aged woman who looks kind of familiar. She reminds me of Mitz’s mom, but then I remember that she would be, like, seventy now.

“The woman has that look like she’s hoping someone will talk to her, so I do, and explain that the movie has started yet, but they have this kind of improvised screen they’re showing the trailer on.

“She says thanks and that she knows she can’t talk to me because of her sister, and then moves away from me and starts talking to thus group of folks who just walked in.

“And I am like, fuck. That’s right. That’s why she looks familiar. She looks like her sister.”

You might ask what I mean, and I say, “Her sister is on my book. Or you know, was.”

If you know what that means, you know. If you don’t, you probably want to.

But I don’t explain. Instead, I continue the dream, which is almost done, I promise.

“Then I leave and meet up with Horace. We’re coaching little league or something together. The dugout is a total fire hazard and I'm complaining about it. Horace agrees but doesn’t seem that worried.”

I stop writing and say, “Weird thing is, I was the one smoking a cigar. That’s kind of his thing, not mine.”

You could make a joke about Freud and cigars.

To which I will frown, then look down at the paper and throw my hands out. “What the hell am I writing here?”

If that joke is your way of flirting, then I get it after a sec, smile, and crawl over to you, work my hand up you leg.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

If you think it is, then I make my way further up and touch you the way you like. I can keep it going until you come, or we can do something else.

Play procedures

• You may add The Thieves of All That You Are to your inventory. While it doesn’t protect you from ontological identity theft, it might prove useful recovering from it, should that happen.
• Write about a situation wherein you were doing two or more things at once. You can include you internal awareness or ablate it for effect. Dealer’s choice.
• We can have sex if you want. I would prefer anal on the floor or against the wall, but I will do whatever you like, babe. Or, you know, we can just have coffee and tea. It’s your choice, like always.