The first time it came, she was sitting alone in the sun. Her aluminum-tubing/plastic-mesh chaise-lounge had sunken slightly under her weight into the patchy lawn of her toy-littered suburban backyard. Squinting against the blazing yellow sun, still too bright through her tightly closed lids, she was day dreaming her favorite cheap escapist visualization. The suggestive odors of coconut oil and sweat fit perfectly into the dream space. She held an image of a place, a home, a nest, with virtues that she had found so painfully lacking in the ticky tacky valley houses she had always lived in. It was an ancient stone villa, full of history, permanence, elegance and dignity, high on a bluff overlooking a calm clear blue sea. She knew that it was huge, spacious and labyrinthine, despite the fact all she had ever felt the need to conjure of her villa, was one small patio. Surrounded on two sides by tall white stone walls with massive doorways, loosely draped with billowing cream colored muslin, the patio led to rooms she had never visited. She just sat on huge velvet cushions looking out across an azure sea. Lavish, but minimal, the dream was nothing but the place. There had never been any action. Never any passion, just a dull contented humming. It had never before been one of "those" fantasies.
Before it came, each detail had always been flawless: the sky and sea an unbroken blueness, the marble deck a spotless mirror, the corners of each stone straight and sharp. But today, the patio was subtly, but profoundly, altered: occasionally a small irregular cloud would drift through the sky, a chaotic patch of whitecaps would appear far off on the perfect sea. Today it was more like a movie with some never ending insert shot of an empty room laid over with a unheard crescendo of strings demanding some inevitable event. Today she was breathlessly excited, as if waiting for a wild new lover to return to her bed.
When it first came she was suddenly startled and delivered back onto her K-mart lawnchair by the clear sensation of being touched. Her eyes flashed open and she stared at the spot on her thigh where she expected to see the hand of her child, or husband perhaps. But she was still alone, and the sensation was gone. Frightened, she called out, then got up, looked around, and listened. She could hear the soft sounds of the small branches in the trees rubbing against each other, she could hear the distant humming of an air conditioner, the faint roar of the freeway across the valley, and she realized it was quiet. She knew that she would have heard anyone there with her, their footstep, their breath. She sat back down, and tried to get back her private place, regain the juice, but it was lost.
The next time it came, she was taking a bath. Expectantly closing her eyes and trying to relax in the darkness, sinking until the fragrant bubbles and warm water covered every inch of her body but her face, she cautiously immersed herself in her patio dream. It's transformation had continued, now there was also a towel hanging on the back of a chair - a half eaten apple on the table. Feeling as if she no longer owned her own dream, no longer ruled this space frightened her, and that excited her. Now it was as if the absent lover was hiding nearby watching her. She was already nearly breathless when the hand appeared on her leg and moved, sliding upward. A quavering whispered wail exhaled as she opened her eyes, this time expecting nothing but the phantom hand. She was right. She was alone. Closing her eyes again, she sighed thankfully to still find the patio behind her lids. The hand was gone though. Panting, she tried to relax and conjure up the hand, but it had vanished, and as the thrill drained from her, she sank sadly back into a calm reality. Drying herself, she stopped as she wiped her thigh, and studied the spot where the hand had touched her. She closed her eyes and stroked herself trying to recreate the sensation she had felt, and marveled at the reality of the experience.
The following day, as she filled the tub, she locked the door and lit a candle and a stick of incense. Laying in the water, she called on the image of her villa. She was vibrating with lust, and the image was transparent, and faded. Legions of voices polluted her visualization, a maelstrom of reactions, guilt, fear, longing, regret, answered the voices. Distracted by wondering why she could not stop wondering, the warmth melted some turgid spot in her, and suddenly she realized it was back. The rest of her conflicted tension crystalized back into the exquisite anticipation, and she gratefully studied the patio. It was even more thoroughly drawn. The stones were now laced with cracks, dust clung to the windows. One chair had a broken and crooked leg, and her clothes lay in a heap on tiles. She felt it approach, and gasped as the hand touched her, then made small circles on her thigh. She tensed, instinctively drew her legs together, but did not open her eyes. The hand stopped then slowly faded. She spread her legs desperately hoping to recall the phantom. All her attention was drawn to the place where she had felt the hand a moment before. But the villa too was gone now. In vain she relaxed, exhaled, shifted, and shifted again. She chanted and breathed, even masturbated, but everything failed to recover the experience. Weeping quietly, she climbed slowly out of the tub, crept sadly to bed.
