by Cezarija Abartis
In Caroline’s dream, she had been swallowed by a bear. Now, the snow ticked on the window panes.
She sat up and pushed her water glass away. She had once named her cat Bear. He did not like the name, said he was Puss ’n Boots – smart – not a Goldilocks bear. But here had been a real dream bear. She had patted this bear’s head. She’d taken a vitamin earlier and now she tasted fish oil at the back of her throat. Bears ate raw fish; cats ate raw fish in the wild; she ate raw wishes. There’d been a streak of blood across Bear’s mouth – some smaller creature he had shredded.
In the dream she named this bear Mickey. She stepped away from him, picked up her sketch pad and made a drawing of him, fine as a cat, sitting on an iron bed, smirking, sardonic, harboring some secret, superior. “How many angels dance on the head of a pin?” he joked and riddled like a sphinx. Head raised slightly and eyes looking down on her, paws in his lap, he said he was a big fan of fishing shows, liked tall women, funny advertisements, organic food.
Her sketch pad dissolved. She sipped her beer in the wine-dark bar. “Me too,” she said. She nodded emphatically. “I mean tall men.”
Mickey smiled and blinked wisely. “I know what you mean.”
How rare was that? We all wanted to be understood, or she wanted to be understood at least partway, at least sometimes. Here would be a man to sail across the ocean with, to go into the woods with. What about her husband? He would have to find another wife. He was already working on that, she thought.
She felt Mickey’s hot breath on her ear. “Stop,” he whispered.
“No, you stop,” she said and turned toward him.
She put her mouth on Mickey’s mouth. The lips were soft, the mouth inviting, carnal. She could not smell iron, not taste blood. This one must be an angel.