Mirror Of Love

The phone jarred me awake from the first good sleep of the week. It was Wednesday and already I was feeling myself droop at work. I needed sleep, craved it the way a man crawling around in a desert dreams of a glass of ice water. Creating imaginary worlds was a difficult task and without sleep ...

"Hello." My response was loud in the quiet house.

"Sorry." The sound in my ear was so soft I could barely understand the words. "I wanted to hear your voice that's all. Is this a bad time to call?"

I felt such a strong emotion coming from her, a stranger, someone completely unknown to me. Odd I could sense that. It wasn't anger or rage – perhaps concern.

"Not at all. I'm just sleepy. What do you want?"

She was silent for a long time, then spoke, again with that voice that barely carried to my speaker. "I saw your name listed and suddenly I wanted to talk to you. It was a crazy impulsive thing, but here I am. I have a question. What did you imagine today?"

"Desert worlds. They're hard to build and I get exhausted. I haven't been sleeping well."

"What's the name of your story?"

"Story? I don't understand?"

"Don't you write novels?"

I laughed. It might have hurt her feelings, but I couldn't help it. "No dear. I create imaginary worlds. I suppose that's a little like writing novels."

"I thought you were a writer for Doubleday? I'm sure I saw your name at the office promo party. It said 'Doubleday – Publisher for the world's greatest authors'"

"You got the wrong guy sweetie. I work for Double Day New Worlds Incorporated. We design the best imaginary worlds anywhere. Our worlds never break down and we give a ten year guarantee. You don't see that kind of guarantee any where in the archipelago."

"Imaginary worlds?" She said it like a question, but not to me – herself perhaps. "Aren't they like stories?"

I smiled. "In a way they're stories, but more real in an imaginary sort of way."

She laughed this time, like a crystal chime tinkling. Then I joined her with my own chuckle. "Real in an imaginary way?" she repeated. "How do you do that?"

"Use your imagination."

She laughed again. "I've got it. You work in an insane asylum."

"Oh no. I'm not like them. The insane have almost all been used up by now. I wish I had their talent. Big bucks in that ball game."

"Big bucks in insanity. How's that?"

"Don't be naïve. You must know about their ability to visualize. I'm just your average loony artist. Nothing too special."

She was quiet for several minutes and I thought she had hung up. Then she continued. "I'm confused. I don't understand what you're talking about – imaginary worlds, schizophrenic fantasies. What's going on? The United States of America has none of that stuff."

I had never heard of the United States of America but didn't want to offend her or anything. "Of course not. I live in the archipelago. That's what we do here -- make worlds."

"But not real ones?"

"They're real in people's minds. That's pretty darn real you know. And they're fully interactive; you can't control outcomes. Schizos and artists like me design all the rules."

"I'm still confused. I've never heard of the archipelago. Maybe I'm calling long distance." She sighed. "What country are you in?"

"Country? No country. It's just a group of islands. That makes it easy to test our worlds."

"Everyone has a country. How could you be part of the United Nations if you weren't a country."

Something strange was going on and I needed to get to the bottom of it. But later perhaps. For now I wanted to learn more about this strange woman who grew more interesting by the second.

"What's the United States of America like?" I asked.

"You've never heard of the USA!!" Her voice sounded incredulous..

"Am I supposed to know every two-bit city on the globe?" I wasn't going to admit anything Why should I feel bad if I didn't know her precious city.

"It's not a city, it's a country."

"There you go again with this country business. Let's talk about things that I know."

"What do you know my dear?" Her voice was seductive now almost taunting. "Or do you just like to dream. I can be pretty dreamy too."

"Can you now." I thought for a second. "I wish you would dream of being in my world."

"Really. What would the dream be?"

"We would hold each other, then kiss. Oh how warm you'd be. That is what I imagine most, your warmth. You'd be so warm you'd take off your clothes. I'd be shocked at first, then excited."

"Would I excite you – my naked body? It's a short body, and thin so thin. I have small breasts. Do you like small breasts?"

"I love them. I would love yours, small and soft. I would kiss them gently rolling the nipples with my tongue."

"They're white breasts with dark nipples. I have this white skin as though I've never seen the sun. The hair on my head is dark and long but my other hair is short."

"Other hair?" I asked.

"You know, the hair you want to touch, to feel, to imagine running your lips and your tongue through. You would excite me terribly. I can tell that your tongue would be so soft."

"And what would you do?" I asked.

"I'd get wet, all the places you touch, between my legs. I would cry at your touch, want to hold you, to feel you everywhere."

"I am tall you know," I said. "So very tall and thin too. My penis would be excited and would be hard like a sausage only so much more stiff. I would want you to touch me."

"I would. I would. I would love you, not just imaginary, but for real. I would touch your hardness, let my fingers run up and down the smooth skin. Then I would grab it around my fist, slide it up and down, take the tip in my mouth and suck. My tongue would rest on the tip, pushing down on it waiting for the fist bit of juice to leak out. I would whisk the drip into my mouth with a huge suck of my mouth. I know it would taste wonderful."

"It would feel so fine," I said. "I would continue to touch your wetness, the slippery part of you that I caused to happen. I would stick my finger in as deep as I could."

"I would cry each time you touched me, scream as your fingers entered me. My juices would poor over your hand."

"Then I would lick you," I said. "My tongue would be this dynamo of action, yet not rough, gentle, sweet licks enjoying your softness and the taste of you, drinking deep, holding nothing back, craving more, needing all of you."

"And I would straddle you," she said. " My legs would be on either side of yours and I would lower myself onto you. Ah how good you would feel as you slide slowly, inch by inch inside of me. At first maybe you would have trouble entering me all the way."

"The tightness would be like a magic glove, no escape from the joy of being inside of you. I would pull out a bit, then push back, out and in until I was completely inside of you."

"As you entered me fully, I would cry out my pleasure. My wetness would be a river flowing down on you telling you how much I loved you."

"Yes, I'm coming my sweet love. I am about to explode. Yes.. Yes. I .... I ..."

"Ah, Ah, Ah. Don't stop. EEEeeeee. This is so good. I am shaking all over. Can't control myself. I jerk back and forth and release this scream like a Panther."

"And we collapse on each other and fall asleep, our greatest need satisfied."

Several minutes passed with neither of us speaking. Finally, I spoke. "I know one thing. You aren't from this world."

"Of course I am," she said in the softest of whispers. "Just in a different country is all."

"But we don't have countries in Kaligala."

"What's Kaligala?"

Now it was my turn to be incredulous. "Kaligala is our world. I live on the archipelago at the southern end. You must know about it. We have those electrical storms that produce the magic energy we need to create our worlds. That's when we do all those fun things, the things you and I want to do with each other."

"Never heard of it."

"Well, I've never heard of your so called country. Maybe you created it as an imaginary world. Are you schitzo perhaps?"

"Certainly not!!" Her voice sounded offended now. "I'd be angry except that I know you're a genuine nut case yourself."

"Ha. Ha. I wish I was, but like I said, I'm just your average artist. Why are you phoning this other guy – the one with my name?"

"I like his books. They're so real as though he actually lived in the wild places he writes about. He has a new book out called 'Desert Storm."

"I've never met any writers. My new world is called Desert Storm by the way. The whole world is made out of sand, and people live on these little islands of trees and water. Water is scarce and like gold. When the wind blows, a big sand storm gets created that often is so strong it can completely cover an island. This guy and girl they love each other, can't get enough of each other. And yet they never actually meet. It's just a virtual connection, no reality. They want to meet but have no way to do so. They each live on a separate island enduring the storm, thinking of each other, knowing that the other exists. They haven't met yet is all."

"That's the same as the novel by the other Dan Buford. You didn't steal his idea did you – for your imaginary world. This doesn't make sense at all."

"I could've told you that."

"What happened?"

"Maybe ..." I paused for a moment thinking of the possibilities. "Maybe you punched through to an alternate universe, one where all the rules are different – Kaligala rather than the United States of America."

I waited for a response, but received only silence.

Then she spoke again. "If, I mean, if that happened, then it must have been caused by something powerful." I thought I heard a choking sound from her end of the phone.

Neither of us spoke for several minutes. "If we hang up, it might never happen again," I said at last. "So, this could be the only and last time."

"That would be a mess wouldn't it. I'm starting to like you -- in an imaginary sort of way." She laughed softly.

"Me too, but definitely imaginary. No reality at all. Reality would involve genuine feelings and I'm sure you have no feelings for me, right?"

"Right. No feelings at all. So, let's hang up and forget this ever happened. It was just a dream. We will wake up in a few minutes and laugh about it all unless one of us starts crying first."

"Crying. Why would we cry?"

"Suppose, we actually have found magic here – true passion."

"Sounds imaginary to me," I said sounding harsh, but feeling so different.

"I think that sometimes when you want something enough, you find a way even if it is completely crazy and impossible."

"And what do you want so badly?" I asked.

"You know, because you want it too." That was all she said, before I heard the click disconnecting us.

*****************

I finished Desert Storm and started my next world. It fattened my bank account nicely, but I didn't care much for any of that. In fact the next few weeks crawled by in a listless fashion with too much thinking and not enough doing. I always hated days like this when I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, wishing that sleep would enfold me in its loving arms. Or in the middle of the night, I woke up and just barely remembered what I was dreaming about. It was something important, but I couldn't quite remember. There was a woman in the dream. I was sure of that, but the details were hazy, something about a group of trees with leaves the color of the sun -- orange, red, and yellow. We didn't have trees like that in Kaligala.

I stopped visiting my friends and stayed in my small cabin all the time now. I had never been much of a socialite, but now I was even less of one. I worked from the console in my study and ordered my food delivered. The man from Kroger's or Domino's Pizza would leave the food standing on top of my light brown mat labeled "Welcome." When I thought of it, I would slip outside and grab the bundles in their cardboard boxes or paper bags and dump them on the kitchen counter. Sometimes I forgot to put the food in the refrigerator and it would spoil. I bagged it and tossed the bag down the front steps where the garbage man politely picked it up without complaint.

I never forgot to shower or dress in clean clothes. I figured that the woman from my dream might call again and tell me how to meet her. I wanted to be ready. In fact, that's all I thought about any more. I wondered what she looked like and what food she ate. I had so much I wanted to tell her, but I knew that I would never hear from her again. And yet, I wondered. Maybe, she would punch through to my world again and we could talk. That's all I wanted -- to simply talk with her.

At night I often woke up with my dreams slipping away and I would think of her. She felt close to me as though she were in the room next door. And I would fall asleep again wondering what she was doing. Was she married? What did she do for a living? What did she look like?

In the morning the feelings faded fast with the hot sun beating through the windows. My dreams evaporated with the fading mist that always covered the ground in the early morning hours. In the brightness and heat, I felt foolish to think that a phone call from weeks and now months ago was anything more than the idle dreams of a crazy artist.

And yet sometimes even during the day I thought of her in a way that was as real and as powerful as the moments of that phone call. It always happened in my bedroom when I was relaxed after taking a shower or when I was about to take a nap. I'd walk past the full-length mirror standing against the far wall and gaze at my reflection. That's when it happened. I'd feel something squeezing my heart, not a painful throttle, but a gentle tugging as though love was teasing me to open my feelings. And I'd always think of her. She had dark brown hair and eyes so black that the whites surrounding them looked like the purest ivory.

On my birthday, I stared into the mirror and tears poured down my cheeks. I could feel my shoulders shake and my chest felt as though something were pressing into it like a giant vise. I never thought I was that emotional. Every artist needs a special empathy and imagination to create his worlds, but this was different. It was uncontrollable. I tried to freeze my heart the way I had taught myself when my parents shipped me off to the archipelago years ago at the young age of 17. But, I couldn't do it this time. I felt as though all the pain and sadness from all my years were pouring though my body. I needed to cry and shake and get all that poison out of me. And I had a lot of it stored up. The lostness in a new place without friends or parents; the broken love affairs; friendships betrayed; painful secrets revealed by those I trusted. I had them all locked tightly inside of me like padlocked doors in the house of my heart. And I had never let them out. But, now they poured like a waterfall, uncontrollably.

When I came to myself, my knees were pressing into the hard wood floor. I lifted my chin and gazed into the mirror. It looked so deep and real as though it were more than a flat surface. As I looked, it shook with a shimmer as though it were the glassy surface of a calm lake and a small ripple starting at the bottom flowed through it to the very top. And the room was no longer my room but something else, a bedroom like mine but in oak instead of walnut. Someone was sleeping on the bed. It was a woman with brown hair. I couldn't see her eyes, but I knew they were black.

I knew my mind was playing tricks on me in a way that was more real than all the imaginary worlds I had created. But I reached out as though to touch her and my hand passed through the mirror. So, I pushed my leg through and then I was all the way through the mirror. I looked back and simply saw my own reflection. A thought stabbed my brain. How would I get back? But I soon forgot about that as I turned to the form curled on a red and white patchwork quilt.

I crept closer to the woman until I was standing above her and studying her in silence. She was smaller than I expected, but just as beautiful; not as most people would see beauty, but for me she was perfect. I stared at her for over an hour before she opened her eyes. I recognized the brown hair against the ivory white of her skin, the rising and falling of her chest, the way her bare breasts moved, the legs, short, thin, and so smooth. She was facing away from me, her butt resting against the edge of the bed, a half moon in the shadow of the angled light.

As I stared at her, the warmth of the room, the allure of silky flesh encouraged me to remove my clothes. Soon I was as naked as her, standing over her, watching the curve of her breasts cast a shadow against the pale color of her sheets.

When she turned and saw me, she didn't say anything, just lay still, gazing at me with a smile creeping over her face.

"You look so real this time," she said at last. She lay on her back now, breasts open to my inspection, one leg curled over the other so I could barely see the outline of brown hair.

"I am real," I said, my penis rising slightly.

She laughed quietly. "In an imaginary sort of way, right?" As her mouth opened I saw her teeth, so white against her ruby lips.

I smiled. "No. I'm in the flesh – warm and physical." I kneeled down so my head was just slightly higher than hers. I could smell the sweetness of her breath, the aroma of her body, so feminine, so appealing.

"How I wish." She closed her eyes. "You look different though. I don't remember the scar on your nose before." Her breathing slowed and her leg shifted so it lay flat against the other. I could see more of the brown patch between her legs. Her pussy was not visible since her legs were so close together. What lovely legs I thought. White as new snow, smooth, they were like the brushed pictures of some girly rag, not that I'd seen many of those tucked as I was in my little home.

"Did you ever find Dan Buford, the writer?" My voice was loud, too loud, and she jerked open her eyes. Black like ink yet deep like a pool of black water inviting me further. I swore they were almost waving at me – jump in the water is fine.

"Dan? Oh, right. The other Dan." She rubbed a hand between her legs. "Yes. I called the number the next day. It wasn't you, only the writer. I liked him. He started a new story called 'The Mirror of Love'. It's about a man and woman in love from different dimensions. The man travels through a mirror to find her. They travel in marvelous ways until they find a home for both of them."

I took a couple of deep breaths and stuck my hand under my arm to keep it from shaking. "How did they travel?"

Her legs moved apart, her hand between them rubbing those mysteries that I wanted to taste, to touch. I could barely see anything, felt funny glancing away with her eyes staring straight into mine – those black pools inviting me further and further forward. Then she spoke.

"They went through a mirror. It's like the mirror opposite my dresser." She pointed to where I had come from. Her hand pointing in the air glistened with her juices. "It's a portal into other worlds."

"Real worlds?" I asked breathing deeply, smelling the aroma from her fingers.

Her hand dove back to the spot under her abdomen, covering the hair that had become matted and wet. "Sure. Of course it's just a story."

"Exactly. Where do the lovers find their home at last?" I leaned closer. My mouth was over a breast. She didn't react, simply continued her manipulations between her legs.

"AAAAh!!" she said her mouth jerking upward. Her voice was a whisper and as she spoke I could smell her breath, sweet and tantalizing. "I don't actually remember that part. It was some place perfect for both of them. Dan sent me the story and it's in my purse. Should I get it?"