Chapter 14

He must have been dreaming, because he could have sworn he felt soft hands stroking his face, through his hair, and then along the ridges of his ears, down to his chin, and then back to the sides of his face again. Perhaps he had dreamt that he had finally gotten married to a woman who loved him unconditionally and treasured the thought of being equally loved in return, as though such a relationship that expressed this particular brand of old-fashioned love were actually possible—the kind where a man and a woman had no problem staying together for the rest of their lives and that each new day only opened love’s possibilities even wider than before. This was quite a contrast from squabbles over money, divergent interests, and the conflicts that unwarranted changes brought. He thought he must have been dreaming, because old-fashioned love between two people just didn’t seem possible anymore in the contemporary age. A woman and a man couldn’t be held together by love anymore—but property and prestige instead, their love growing cold due to their self-imposed independence from each other and their constant striving for more, as the two together are just simply not enough anymore. And instead love becomes this partnership drafted in an attorney’s office instead of something that was supposed to keep them mutually dependent on each other and equally engaged. Instead they had a reliance on the delusion of their ambitions.

These were ambitions that made a woman cold and a man look elsewhere. These were drives and wants that made a woman look for something better than what a lowly but loving man could offer her. Perhaps he was dreaming, because within the world he dreamt about—with soft hands touching and probing the parts of his face that hurt terribly—love was the only element necessary that bound a man to a woman. All of the other accoutrements that a marriage may have brought became meaningless when compared to the initial happiness of opening his eyes, his bruised head resting on fluffy pillows, and the golden visage of Renee staring down at him as he lay in one of Artie’s many bedrooms, moving in and out of his dream world, her hands gently forcing him from this visionary bliss into the real world of uncertainty and doubt.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Shhh,” said Renee. “There, there. You were sleeping. I was watching you sleep.”

Charlie looked around him and saw that he was still at Artie’s place. It was light out now. Renee wore the same silk robe that he had seen on her the night before. It must have been early in the morning.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You’re hurt,” she said. “Artie knocked you out. How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I guess. Especially now that you’re here with me.”

She smiled at this.

“How long have I been out?”

“For a few hours. It’s six in the morning. I couldn’t sleep all night.”