I was sitting on the front porch with a woman. She was a good-looking woman who wasn’t afraid to show some leg. We spent the night together gazing at the stars and talking. We talked about everything: life, love, work, money, people, relationships, men, women, happiness, passion, sorrow, joy…
It was one of the few nights where I hadn’t written anything. I felt a bit overwhelmed by our conversation because it required a bit of madness I usually acquire after writing a few pages.
Anyhow, as the night went on we started talking more and more, and I found her interesting as a woman and as a human being: she was strange, crazy, unusual and unique. Definitely unique in her thoughts and in her words.
We went deeper and deeper in our thoughts and in our words to the point that it all started to sound a bit philosophical and I started to wonder where I could get my next drink.
But then the woman turned and asked me some personal questions – and I hated being asked personal questions. I was a man who kept it to himself, who kept everything to himself. Whenever confronted with intimate questions or questions even remotely linked to my personality, I usually tried to divert them.
But not tonight. Tonight the questions were directed at me, and I made no effort whatsoever to change their course.
Maybe it was my writer brain. It had gotten rusty from not writing all week. Writing is supposedly a full-time job (for me, at least), and one day out of the office can kill a man – or at the very least, seriously wreck his brains.
Or maybe it was because I didn’t know the woman. I always felt more comfortable confiding in strangers than talking to people that were close to me. Maybe because the people who knew me (or thought they did, at least) were always so quick to judge everything and give out advice they thought would clear things.
I had been dealing with this for a while now but tonight I decided I wanted to run away from it all. I forgot the world and for some time it seemed like that woman and I were the only two human beings left out there.
Anyway, I warned her about trying to figure me out like some sort of shrink and told her if she tried to search my soul, all she would find would be a labyrinth from which she would never escape.
So she narrowed her questions down to two: first, she asked me if I was happy. She wasn’t very surprise with the straightforward answer I gave her, a simple ‘no’. After all, what was there in life to be happy about? Work? Money? Bills? Women? Sports? Alcohol? Okay, forget that last one…
Then she went ahead and asked her second question. She asked me what was my wildest dream. No, actually, I prefer to formulate it the way she said it to make sure I’m not changing anything: ‘If money wasn’t an obstacle, and someone guaranteed to make it happen, what would be your wildest dream?’ I joked and told her, ‘baby, money is always an obstacle.’ But then I realized she was being SERIOUS, and she was SERIOUSLY looking for a SERIOUS answer, so I decided to give it to her.
I told her my dream was to travel to the States and retire somewhere in a small cottage facing the beach. Somewhere beautiful where it’s always sunny and the ocean is only a few miles away. I’d set up my small cottage on the seashore. It wouldn’t be much – just a small room with a small bed and a wooden desk and maybe a window. I’d spend my time writing in peace there, occasionally sneaking a peek or two out the window to admire the ocean waves and the beauties running in their tight bikinis or going for a swim.
Of course I imagine I’d be old and ugly by that time, and that would be reason enough for me to live alone in my small house and make sure I write undisturbed for the rest of my existence. And the best part of it all? That I’d be able to die practicing the one thing I truly love. I imagine my death to be both tragic and peaceful: lying on top of my writing desk with a few unfinished pages for the wind to blow off into the ocean, or perhaps carry them over to an unsuspecting stranger to finish.
What a truly remarkable dream that would be.
The sun started to show far away over the horizon. The woman next to me got up, gave me a soft kiss on the cheek and whispered ‘I love you’ in my left ear before going back inside. I don’t know if that was because I’d agreed to confide in her or because I had slept with her the previous night. It didn’t really matter to me.
I stayed outside, admiring the sun rising gloriously over the green hills, thinking about that dream cottage where all I could do is sit alone and write.