It was one of those dreams that left him wishing it could have been longer. Better yet, it left him wishing it wasn't a dream at all. She looked and felt just as he remembered her, from the fresh-linen scent and baby-soft feel of her skin, to her soft, sexy voice. The dream was short--too short--but sweet. They were in bed, his bed, in the high-rise apartment building where he once lived, where they spent much of their time together during the year and a half they dated. It was the most vivid dream yet--and the best one yet--of this girl that he had been dreaming about a lot since they broke up. They were just about to make love. And then he woke up.
Danielle had just turned twenty-one when they met during the Carter administration. She was a college student still living with her parents. Derrick, twenty-six, was living the care-free life of a single guy who worked for the county court system.
She had arrived late at that singles mixer in the "social room" of a local apartment complex. He had been there for over an hour and was about to leave. "Zero prospects," he had groused to a friend he met there. Then, when she walked in with a couple girlfriends, he changed his mind. She was tall, a few inches shy of his five-foot-ten, with legs a mile long and a helmet of light brown hair that dropped just below her shoulders. He didn't take notice of her eyes-- brown, mesmerizing, seductive--until he got close. Wearing tight yellow slacks, heels and a white blouse, she was huddled with her girlfriends when he tapped her on the shoulder. "Hi," he said, when she spun around.
Amused, surprised, outraged--her face conveyed all those emotions during the few moments she looked at him, not saying a word. Finally: "Hi."
"Sorry if I startled you," he said apologetically, "I'm Derrick Carlin."
She glanced at her girlfriends and giggled. "I'm Danielle." She left out her last name. "We just got here."
"I know. I saw you come in when I was on my way out."
"You're leaving?"
"WAS leaving." He let the meaning of that digest a moment. "Look, not to monopolize your time, but can we talk a little while?" He pointed to a sofa against the wall. "In private?"
She looked at her girlfriends. They nodded. "Well, okay."
Not all women would agree to talk privately with a guy they had just met only seconds after walking through the door into a meet market. Derrick was pleasantly surprised. It's not that he lacked confidence; it's that he knew nobody would mistake him for one of the heartthrobs of the era--John Schneider, David Cassidy, Burt Reynolds, Robert Redford, et al. He was one of those "average" looking guys, distinguished in his own way as all of us are distinguished in some fashion. It was obvious that he took care of himself. His lean athletic build said as much. After all, he put in over one-hundred miles a week (weather willing) on his bicycle, down from twice that much during his racing days. He was a walking billboard for the fitness benefits of cycling. Even so, he wasn't too fussy about his looks. He let his wavy, light brown hair hang halfway over his forehead and ears with minimal combing and shaved every few days, when he "felt like it."
"I hope your girlfriends don't mind me corralling you like this," he said.
"They'll get over it," she said, giving him a wink. "I mean, we all came for the same reason."
"Which is?"
"Which is the same reason that I suspect you're here, to meet the person of your dreams."
He chuckled. "I detect a mix of sarcasm and seriousness in your tone. Am I right?" Her wide grin told him the answer. Then he continued. "Okay, now tell me which is there more of, the former or the latter?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said. "It's probably an even split."
Like Danielle, he sat sideways on the sofa, one leg tucked under the other. "I like women who possess a comic sense of cynicism. You know, we might have a lot in common. Do you ride bikes?"
"Not since I was a kid."
"Do you watch football?"
"Not if I can help it."
"Hmm...okay, let's see. Did you vote for Jimmy Carter?"
She laughed. "Now you're getting personal. But I'll answer anyway. Nope. Jerry Ford was my guy."
He drew a weary smile of resignation. "All right, give me another minute. I'm sure that common ground exists between us somewhere along the line."
She sighed and patted his shoulder. "We've already found it, Derrick. If not, you wouldn't have approached me and I wouldn't have agreed to sit here with you."
It took a few moments to sink in, to know what she meant, to know that common interests and that mysterious element called chemistry could be mutually exclusive. As they continued talking, he did find common ground insofar as things they did and liked. She exercised regularly (running) and read a lot. She body-surfed in the summer, went sledding in the winter. She liked going to the movies, dining out (who didn't?) and watching TV cop shows. One thing she didn't like was the game-playing that went on at meet markets. They had that in common, too.
Which is why, when he asked for her phone number, she didn't hesitate in jotting it down, including her last name, Weisner. And why he didn't wait long in calling and why she didn't put him off when he asked her out.
It was mid-winter, a time for cuddling, sipping steaming cups of hot chocolate and sledding. Great times, fun times that carried over into the warm months. There were those long weekend trips to Ocean City and New York and that weeklong trip to Myrtle Beach where they rented bikes. She enjoyed the bike riding so much that she purchased one shortly after returning home, a green Trek hybrid. "I haven't had so much fun since I was a kid," she was wont to say.
But, like all relationships, things either move forward in a "serious" direction or die. Which is what happened after eighteen months of fun times. Danielle wanted to continue, wanted to see if they could get close enough to possibly make a life together. Not Derrick, who had wished that such potential was there, but didn't see it. In all those months, neither of them had said 'I love you' even once. There was plenty of mutual respect and fondness and the sex was pretty good, sometimes great, especially when Danielle dressed for the part. Sometimes she'd put her hair up in pigtails and wore a short skirt, replete with high socks and loafers, conveying the image of the sexy prep school girl. Other times, she'd dress like a French maid, wearing a frilly dress with spiked heels, stockings and garters. Also, from what he remembered, she climaxed fairly quickly, the way most guys could if they didn't hold back. And she wasn't shy about it either. He had sometimes wondered if the apartment next door heard her in climax, so loud, clear and unmistakable was her release.
But that euphoric feeling of falling in love never happened, and Derrick realized that one of them would have to initiate the break that he saw coming. He felt bad watching Danielle cry. "We just need more time," she said, choking back sobs, "and I'm willing to give it more time. We haven't been together that long. Maybe our feelings will deepen with more time. Not to get maudlin, but maybe the best is yet to be."
But Derrick felt it was time for both of them to move on. They did have periodic phone contact, all of it initiated by Derrick. He wanted to meet with her again, but she kept putting him off. In fact, not long after their breakup, Danielle began dating a commercial airline pilot named Bob Fugate whom she eventually married after they moved to San Diego. For Derrick, hook-ups and breakups followed, including one live-in liaison and a marriage that failed.
The dreams about Danielle began around the turn of the millennium. It confused him, because out of all the women he had been with, including those he had fallen in love with, Danielle got top billing in his nocturnal life. On occasion, Linda, Arlene, Cathy, Robin and the rest would creep into his subconscious. But it was Danielle he dreamed about the most. Not only that, his dreams about her were the most vivid and visceral. Danielle really did look like Danielle, not some other person or a composite. Even in his sleep, he could smell her lovely scent, feel her baby-soft skin and see the sheen in her Breck girl thicket of hair. The frustrating part came when he awoke, just as they were about to make love.
The dreams became more frequent as the millennium wore on. There was dialogue around the same theme--Danielle asking why he couldn't love her and Derrick insisting that he did and then Danielle asking why he wanted to end things if that was true. Danielle would then become elusive, dodging Derrick's attempts to reconcile, to make thing right, to do things and say things that proved he loved her. He was always chasing her, literally and metaphorically, never quite getting where he wanted to go.
He dreamed about her so much that he thought that breaking up with her might have been a huge mistake. Then again, maybe it wasn't her he missed so much as that time in his life, those care-free days when life was simpler and devoid of responsibilities except to himself. The only thing he was sure about was that he wanted to see her, if for no other reason than to see what she looked like in middle-age. He hadn't seen her since she turned twenty-two. In fact, the last time they had even spoken by phone was a brief New Year's greeting during Clinton's first term, a year or so before Danielle left Maryland for San Diego. Brief it was, too. "Happy New Year to you too," she had said. "Sorry, gotta run."
She wasn't on Facebook, although some of her relatives were, including her brother Joel who had been just fourteen when Derrick began seeing Danielle. Sometime during Obama's first term, Derrick sent him a private message just to say hello and to ask if Joel remembered him. Yes, he wrote back, then told him that Danielle was married, living in California and didn't mess with Facebook, all of which Derrick knew. "Tell her I said hi," Derrick messaged back, and that was that.
Danielle's avoidance of Facebook didn't surprise Derrick. She'd been a somewhat reserved, private person when he knew her. Every few months, he Googled her name in hope to find a link to his long "lost" girlfriend. About a year after the message to Joel, he found one on Amazon Kindle, a romance novel she had self-published under her maiden name, Danielle Louise Weisner. He figured it had to be her--he could find no other person with that name on the Web. And when he clicked the 'Look inside' icon and read a sample of her book, "When Jimmy Was President...," he had no doubt. It was a first-person account of what the female narrator described as an "extraordinary time in my young life," set during the Carter administration. Her voice came through loud and clear, the words she used, the rhythm of those words and the sentiment. There were fifteen reviews also, mostly four-star ratings. He couldn't resist buying the download.
