A Dream Come True
It was the strangest day in Trevor’s life, and he had had a few. Working in retail for a decade exposes people to all the good, bad, and weird in the world, the latter of which produces stories no one will believe unless they live them. He loved to record them for posterity, a journal of the uncanny with an extra picture or two. Someday, he would compile them all, publish them online and boom, instant millionaire!
“Yeah, right... Keep telling yourself that...” he muttered as he exited the crowded New York subway, notebook in hand. A sketch of an old, angry woman with a hole in her face mask so she could “exercise her constitutional right to breathe” dominated the page he was looking at, sunken eyes in need of a good night’s sleep. She was the latest ‘acquisition’ in his compendium of idiocy, though certainly not the last until the year was done.
Aged 31, Trevor’s primary dreams were: move to a place where he could own three dogs, buy a vintage Pontiac Astre and open a bookstore of his own, not necessarily in that order. Sometimes, he also dreamed of being captured by a mysterious woman, a silent Goddess that wanted nothing else except his mindless compliance, but he never talked about those for there was no point.
Head down, still trying to figure out what else to add to his sketch, Trevor could have easily missed the moment when his dreams came true had he not been pushed to the side by the wave of working drones behind him, a proof that the best things in life are often born of accidents. He was stumbling like a fool when he saw her.
She stood by an escalator, dressed in a semi-transparent gray latex dress, curls of silky auburn hair resting on soft, incredibly feminine shoulders. Her face was hidden from view, though he was sure it was as stunning as the rest of the package. Although she appeared to be completely still, a closer look would reveal a sultry sway of hips. The innuendos of her latex-clad ass were mesmerizing. Bathed in soft light, it was as if they were a beacon in the night but hell-bent on making ships sink instead of guiding them to a safe shore.
Trevor had one chance to look away and, a single moment between a blink and the next stare, as tiny as a drop of water on an endless ocean. Had he taken it, he could have continued minding his own business and walked straight home and yet, as she took the first step towards the escalator, he felt the pressing desire to move according to her rhythm, without a hint of willful resistance.
“What is happening?” He thought, the weight of the improper question rapidly dissipating from his dwindling mind.
“What was always meant to happen.” He heard a warm voice in reply, dewdrops of honey swimming in his ears. “If you’re done staring, now is the time to follow. Obey.”
Yes. Today. Tomorrow. Always. Even though reality was telling him no one could see her except him, there was no need to worry about anything. As his body followed her up the escalator, an entranced soul dropped deeper into the fantasy she was weaving. Would he ever wake up from it? Not for him to know. Or care.
Unable to stop staring, Trevor didn’t even notice the words he mechanically wrote at the bottom right corner of his open notebook. It was the opening line of Mary Howitt’s famous poem, the last free words of his existence.
“Will you walk into my parlor?” said a spider to a fly...