That’s right—people there all had shadows with them. Me, and you—we each had a shadow.
I remember your shadow very well. We were on a deserted street in the beginning of summer and you were stepping on my shadow and me on yours. It was like a game of Shadow Tag I used to play as a kid. I’m not sure how it started, but we began to play. On the early-summer street, our shadows were dark, dense, and alive. It was so intense that we could feel physical pain if our shadow was stepped on. It was, of course, just an innocent game, but we took it seriously. As if stepping on the other person’s shadow would have major consequences.
Afterward we sat down next to each other in the shade on an embankment and kissed for the first time. Neither of us took the lead, and it wasn’t planned. No clear resolve from either of us to do it—it just happened. Our lips came together, and we merely followed where our feelings led. You closed your eyes and the tips of our tongues lightly, hesitantly, touched. I remember that afterward, neither of us could say anything. I think you and I both felt that if we said the wrong thing, we’d lose that precious feeling still tingling on our lips. So we stayed silent for a long while. Then we both burst out with something at the same exact moment, our words jumbling together. We laughed and kissed again.
I have a handkerchief of yours. A simple handkerchief of soft white gauzy material, with a single lily of the valley embroidered in a corner. You lent it to me one time for some reason. I planned to wash it and give it back, but never did. Actually, I didn’t give it back on purpose. (If you had asked for it back, of course I would have returned it right away, pretending to have forgotten.) I’d often take the handkerchief out and, for a long time, quietly enjoy the soft material in my hands. That softness and you were one and the same. I’d close my eyes, lost in memories of my arms around you, our lips together. This was true when you were still with me, and even after you vanished somewhere.
I remember very well a dream you wrote about in a letter to me (or more precisely one part of a dream). It was a long letter that took up eight pages of stationery. Your letters were written using the fountain pen you won at the essay contest, always in turquoise-blue ink. When we wrote each other we both used the fountain pens we received as a prize. A kind of unspoken agreement. Those fountain pens weren’t high quality, but for us they were precious mementos. Treasures, bonds between us. I always used black ink. True black, the same color as your jet-black hair.
“Here’s a dream I had last night. And you were in it, a little,” you wrote at the beginning of your letter.
Here’s a dream I had last night. And you were in it, a little. Sorry it wasn’t a major role, but what can you do? It’s a dream. I don’t create my dreams—they’re given to me, by someone else from somewhere. I can’t change dreams the way I want to (probably), and besides, supporting characters are really important in any play or movie, right? The supporting actors can make or break a play or movie. So even if you didn’t have the lead role, be content with that, okay? And aim to win the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor.
All that aside, when I woke up my heart was racing. [This was underlined, with a thick line, later on with a pencil.] ’Cause I still felt you right beside me even when I came back to reality. Though if you had really been there it would have even more fun…but I’m joking, of course.
And like I always do, I picked up the notebook and stubby pencil I keep next to my bed and wrote down everything about that dream, as exhaustively as I could (I’m never sure how to spell that word). That’s the first thing I do when I wake up. Whether it’s morning or the middle of the night, or if I’m still half awake or in a hurry, I write it all down in my notebook in as much detail as I can recall. I don’t keep a diary (I’ve tried many times but never kept at it even a week), but with writing down dreams I’ve never missed a day. Diligently recording my dreams instead of keeping a diary must seem like a declaration—that for me, what happens in my dreams is more important than real life.
But actually, I don’t think that’s it. Obviously, my daily life and the events in my dreams are far apart—as different as a subway and a balloon. And just like everybody else, I’m captive to everyday life, clinging to the humble surface of the earth. Even the most powerful person, or the richest, can’t escape that gravity.
It’s just that, once I’ve snuggled into bed and fallen asleep, the world of dreams that arises there is so very vivid to me, the same as reality—or often (for some reason I like the word often) my dreams seem even more real. And what takes place in my dreams is, for the most part, totally unexpected. So sometimes I can’t tell which is which. Like I wonder, “Wait a sec—did I really experience that, or did I dream it?” Have you ever had that feeling? Like I can’t draw a line between dream and reality…I think that my tendency is much stronger than it is for other people. (The needle’s off the charts.) Something must have made me that way. Something innate.
I first noticed this quality around the time I started elementary school. But when I talked about my dreams with my friends, no one seemed interested. Nobody cared about the dreams I had, or thought they were as important as I did. And the dreams they did care about were drab, unexciting, unappealing. I don’t know why, though…So, I soon stopped talking about dreams with my classmates. I never talked about dreams with my family (and honestly talked to them as little as possible, no matter what the topic). Instead, I began keeping a little notebook and pencil beside my bed when I went to sleep. Ever since, that notebook has been my indispensable friend, my trusty confidante. Maybe this doesn’t matter, but for me, writing down dreams with a stubby little pencil is best. Nothing longer than about three inches. Every night I’d sharpen a few of them with a knife so they’d be ready to go. Long brand-new pencils are a no-go! Why, I wonder? Why can’t I write down my dreams unless it’s with a stubby little pencil? Weird, if you think about it.
Saying that notebook is my one friend makes it sound like The Diary of Anne Frank or something. I’m not in hiding, of course, or surrounded by Nazi troops. At least the people around me don’t have swastika armbands on their sleeves, but still.
Anyway, then there was that essay contest, and then I met you at the awards ceremony. That was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. Not the contest, but meeting you! You were interested in hearing about my dreams, and you listened so intently. This was the greatest thing. It was almost the first time in my life I could talk as much as I wanted, about what I wanted to talk about, to someone who was genuinely interested.
By the way, do I use the word almost too much? It feels that way. I use some words too frequently (another word I have trouble remembering how to spell). I’ve got to be careful. Actually, I need to reread what I write and do a revision (another word I misspell), but when I reread my writing, it makes me want to rip it to shreds. For real.
Ah, right—I was talking about the dream I had. That’s what I need to write about. I always go off on some other topic and can’t get back to the main point. Another one of my flaws. By the way, what’s the difference between a flaw and a defect? Is flaw correct here? But I’m getting off track again, right? They’re almost the same thing. [This was underlined again in pencil.] Anyway, back to the topic at hand. The dream I had last night.
In the dream, I was naked. Stark naked. There’s the expression without a stitch, right? I always thought it was strange, kind of an exaggeration, but I looked at myself and saw I really was without a stitch. I mean, there might have been a piece of thread on my back where I couldn’t see it, not that it mattered. I was in a long, narrow bathtub, a white, classic Western-style bathtub. The kind that might have cute claw feet. But there was no water in the tub. I was lying, naked, in an empty bathtub.
And when I looked closer, I saw it wasn’t my body. The breasts were too big for me. Normally I think it would be nice to have bigger breasts, but now that I did it felt unnatural, uncomfortable. A really weird sensation, like I wasn’t the real me. They were heavy, and I couldn’t see below them very well. The nipples seemed too big, as well. I was thinking that big breasts like these would swing back and forth when you ran, getting in the way. Maybe my smaller ones were better after all.
And I noticed, too, that my stomach was swollen. But not because I was fat. Every other part of my body was slim. My stomach alone was like a balloon. I realized I must be pregnant. From the size of my belly, I’d say I was seven or eight months along.
And what thought do you think popped into my head then?
Clothes. With breasts this big, a stomach this swollen, what could I possibly wear? I was wondering if there were clothes somewhere that would fit me. I mean, I was completely naked and had to put on something. The thought made me uneasy. If I have to go out on the streets like this, then what?
I stretched my neck up like a crane and gazed all around the room but didn’t spot any clothes. No bathrobe, either. Not even a towel. I literally couldn’t find a stitch.
And then I heard a knock. Two heavy, short thuds on the door. That threw me. I couldn’t let anybody see me like this. As I lay there, confused over how to react, the person at the door swung it open and came inside.
This room was a bathroom, but huge. As big as a regular-sized living room, and there was even a sofa. The ceiling was really high. There were lots of windows, too, and sunshine shone in brilliantly through them. From the light I figured it must be late morning.
Who was this? I couldn’t find out, to the very end, because I couldn’t see the person’s face. As the person opened the door, the sunlight shining through the windows suddenly became more intense, forming a halation, and I couldn’t see a thing. Just a dark, large shadowy figure standing in the doorway. From the silhouette, though, I figured it was a man. A very large man.
I had to cover myself. Since I was without a stitch. And a man I didn’t know was there. But like I said, even if I had wanted to cover myself there wasn’t anything I could use. No towel, no basin, no brush, nothing. With no other choice, I tried to hide the important part—is that the right way to put it?—below my belly with my hand. But my hand just wouldn’t reach. Since my breasts and stomach were too big, and for some reason my arms were much shorter than normal.
Yet the man was coming closer toward me. I had to do something. Just then the baby in my belly—at least I think it was a baby—started acting up, wildly. Like three unhappy moles deep down a dark hole, staging a revolt.
I suddenly realized this wasn’t a bathroom anymore. As I said, the room was the size of a living room, and now it really was one, and I was lying, naked on a sofa. And for some strange reason I had an eye at the center of each of my palms. Eyes with eyelashes, blinking. And dark black pupils. They were staring at me. But I didn’t feel frightened. Both eyes had a whitish scar. And were crying. Terribly silent, sad tears.
This is where the story reaches a crazy climax, and that’s where you appear in a minor role—but unfortunately I have to go out. I have something to do, so I have to leave my desk. Meaning I’ll break off the letter at this point, put what I’ve written already into an envelope, paste on a stamp, and dispatch it (is that the spelling? And why don’t I look things up in a dictionary?) into the mailbox in front of the station. I’ll write the rest of that dream next time. Look forward to it, okay? And write to me, too—please—a letter almost too long to finish reading.
In the end I never heard what happened in the rest of that dream. The next letter she wrote me was about something completely different (I think she forgot about writing the rest of the dream). So I never did learn what kind of supporting role I played in it. And I probably never will.