He had dreams, you know. Things he wanted to do, places to see. He wanted to be somebody. The kind of guy you’d say hi to when you passed him on the street and he’d say hi back and the day would be a little brighter for that. They weren’t big dreams. They weren’t like impossible things. Not ‘cept one of ‘em.
He wanted to go to Paris in France. That was possible. He’d heard that it was a city of lovers. ‘Course it was a city first, but in his imagination there was kissing couples in all the shop doorways, and hunched over glasses of wine in the cafés, and walking hand in hand in the Tuileries gardens. He thought that would be something, to be surrounded by love and lovers on all sides.
And didn’t lovers climb to the top of the tower there, all head in the clouds and making vows of their love, and so close to God up there that He must hear what they say? Not so high now that the world stood taller, but surely He’d have a special ear on the city of lovers?
Or Venice in Italy. And that was a city for lovers, too. He could go there one day. He liked Italian girls with their hair so dark and their eyes dark, too. In Venice, the grand ladies, who were also whores, put drops of Belladonna in their eyes and that dilated their pupils and made them look more beautiful. He read that somewhere. He dreamed of lying in a hotel bedroom in Venice, the green water lapping outside his window and the sound of gondoliers in song coming to him on the air.
He saved up, enough for the flight and three days in London, a trip for two. He gathered up his courage and spoke to Cindy in accounts. Cindy who stepped through the office like she was dancing and she was always laughing and saying to everyone to look on the bright side. And in his imagination it was Cindy who stood with him on top of the Eiffel Tower, or lay beside him in a Venice hotel room listening to the water counting time and the gondoliers’ song threaded through the green canals.
And hadn’t Cindy kissed him underneath the mistletoe at the Christmas party last year? And she was maybe a little drunk and she said he was cute and she licked his cheek to see how he tasted. ‘Tastes of marzipan,’ she’d said and she pulled him into the stationary cupboard and they kissed some more and she put his hand to her breast and breathed in his ear. So, it wasn’t impossible, he thought.
She looked at him like he was speaking a different language, like she didn’t even know him. ‘London?’ she said. ‘London, England?’
‘Three days,’ he said. ‘It’s a dream of mine.’
‘Dream on,’ she said, and she laughed and danced away from him; and there was no bright side to this that he could see.
He sat at his desk, crumpled and quiet and dreaming of Cindy naked on a great bed – a best bed, which after all is one better than Shakespeare left to his wife, Anne, when he died… he’d read that somewhere, too, how in his will Shakespeare left to his widow ‘my second best bed with the furniture.’
Patricia Ann McNair 
He had dreams, you know. Things he wanted to do, places to see. He wanted to be somebody. The kind of guy you’d say hi to when you passed him on the street and he’d say hi back and the day would be a little brighter for that. They weren’t big dreams. They weren’t like impossible things. Not ‘cept one of ‘em.
He wanted to go to Paris in France. That was possible. He’d heard that it was a city of lovers. ‘Course it was a city first, but in his imagination there was kissing couples in all the shop doorways, and hunched over glasses of wine in the cafés, and walking hand in hand in the Tuileries gardens. He thought that would be something, to be surrounded by love and lovers on all sides.
And didn’t lovers climb to the top of the tower there, all head in the clouds and making vows of their love, and so close to God up there that He must hear what they say? Not so high now that the world stood taller, but surely He’d have a special ear on the city of lovers?
Or Venice in Italy. And that was a city for lovers, too. He could go there one day. He liked Italian girls with their hair so dark and their eyes dark, too. In Venice, the grand ladies, who were also whores, put drops of Belladonna in their eyes and that dilated their pupils and made them look more beautiful. He read that somewhere. He dreamed of lying in a hotel bedroom in Venice, the green water lapping outside his window and the sound of gondoliers in song coming to him on the air.
He saved up, enough for the flight and three days in London, a trip for two. He gathered up his courage and spoke to Cindy in accounts. Cindy who stepped through the office like she was dancing and she was always laughing and saying to everyone to look on the bright side. And in his imagination it was Cindy who stood with him on top of the Eiffel Tower, or lay beside him in a Venice hotel room listening to the water counting time and the gondoliers’ song threaded through the green canals.
And hadn’t Cindy kissed him underneath the mistletoe at the Christmas party last year? And she was maybe a little drunk and she said he was cute and she licked his cheek to see how he tasted. ‘Tastes of marzipan,’ she’d said and she pulled him into the stationary cupboard and they kissed some more and she put his hand to her breast and breathed in his ear. So, it wasn’t impossible, he thought.
She looked at him like he was speaking a different language, like she didn’t even know him. ‘London?’ she said. ‘London, England?’
‘Three days,’ he said. ‘It’s a dream of mine.’
‘Dream on,’ she said, and she laughed and danced away from him; and there was no bright side to this that he could see.
He sat at his desk, crumpled and quiet and dreaming of Cindy naked on a great bed – a best bed, which after all is one better than Shakespeare left to his wife, Anne, when he died… he’d read that somewhere, too, how in his will Shakespeare left to his widow ‘my second best bed with the furniture.’