The Dreamer

It was August again. That month of bittersweet endings and new beginnings, screaming cicadas and firework festivals, the lonesome heat and constant whirring of the box fan, and underneath it all, the acute awareness that time was, again, flying by like an occupied taxicab.

Having just been laid off, I had spent the summer months filling out job applications and taking shifts at a convenience store down the street, but now that August was here, the last of that motivation slipped away from me like a fast-melting ice cube wrapped in my sticky hand, and I found myself spending almost every day idling, lying on the floor of my small apartment half-listening to the television, staring at a wind chime hanging over the door to the balcony. I don’t remember who put it up, but the small sound of the bell often woke me from my hazy stupors, a clear ding like a drop of water in a pond, and I would open my eyes, and realize that the sky was blue.

Dreaming, I was dreaming. Not that there was anything in particular I dreamed about, no lofty goals that I sought to pursue, no places to sight-see, not even any New Year’s resolutions from all those months ago. I simply thought of grassy fields and a warm wind, maybe lying there with someone, a friend, a lover, or even a stranger. It didn’t matter to me anymore. I just wanted to be somewhere else, doing nothing, idling my days away.

In the evenings, though, I would get up, and either stand on the balcony or on the apartment building roof and watch the sunset. Usually this was accompanied by a can of beer or a smoke, and I would stand there, leaning on the railing, until the last glowing embers of the sky had melted into a distorted blue, and the heat of the sun had left my skin, but sweat still lingered on my back under my shirt. I would stare at the stars until I had either finished my smoke or my drink, then yawn and stretch and decide it was getting cold and to head back in and maybe watch the television until I fell asleep.

I was idling, my mother said. But looking back on that August, I’d like to think I was dreaming.

That night, around the middle of August, I was there again, and she was there again. My upstairs neighbor, a girl maybe around my age, with round eyes like a rabbit’s, all dark and innocent. I think I first met her when I was moving in, and we had bumped into each other in the stairwell, her in a light dress with several empty grocery bags slung over her shoulders, I out of breath, trying to carry a box full of CDs with me. She merely smiled at me and passed on, and I never did bother to properly introduce myself to her, but from then on I took notice of her, whenever we passed each other in the hall, which wasn’t too often, but enough to remember a face.

We first spoke one afternoon when I was standing on the balcony smoking, and she was up on her balcony watering her plants. The air that day must have been very still, as the smell of my cigarette drifted up to her and she commented on it.

“What brand do you smoke?”

I turned the box over to look at it. “These are Hope Light ones.”

She poured a little trickle of water over the railing, and it hit my hand, putting the cigarette out. “Smoking’s not good for you, you know.”

I shrugged. “Just one of many things I do.”

She was dating another guy who lived in the building, a tall and gangly sort of fellow with hair that desperately needed a haircut. I saw them often together, going out on dates or coming back from one, and once in a while I would hear their voices on the balcony above and I would shut my door and head back inside, to listen to the drone of the television instead. He seemed like an all-right guy, living two floors below me, and I would bump into him once in a while when we were both coming home from work. Never asked his name, but we did enjoy a couple evenings together drinking beer on the steps around the back of the apartment building, talking about meaningless sort of things and looking at fireflies.

That night, she was there again. I had been there first, enjoying both a beer and a smoke, the slight tingle of alcohol coursing through my body, when she came up and walked to the edge of the roof, on the opposite side from where I was standing. She seemed slightly sad, and was staring at her phone, when she finally sighed and put it away, and leaned on the railing, the breeze brushing through her hair.

“It’s a nice evening,” I said, but she didn’t reply. My voice must have been too quiet, obscured by all the sounds of the city around us, and I took another sip of the beer to cover up my awkwardness.

It must have been the alcohol dulling my senses, because the next thing I knew, she had climbed over the railing and was standing on the outer edge of the roof, holding down her skirt as the wind swept around her.

“What are you doing?” Either time itself had slowed or my reaction time had, for every second that passed felt like we were moving through a thick, gelatinous liquid, and I found it harder to breathe. All those usual things they tell you to say, “Don’t do this, there’s so much to live for,” none of them came to my mind. I only felt a sense of curiosity, and the beginnings of a slight panic.

She didn’t answer. I repeated my question, louder. “If you don’t say anything I’m going to call the police.”

“I’ve been dreaming,” she said softly, and I thought I misheard her for a moment.

“What?”

“I’ve been dreaming. Of the God of Death.”

I found that there was nothing I could say to that. Staring at the woman, who seemed so beautiful, silhouetted by the sunset, I felt that, maybe, for once, we had formed a connection. For how many times had I dreamed of standing on that very ledge myself? I had heard rumors that she was suicidal, but I never really thought much of it, because why should I? The can of beer slipped slightly in my hand, and I looked away, because it felt rude to stare for too long.

“And what are you dreaming of now?”

“My lover.”

“Your boyfriend?”

She didn’t respond. I clenched my hand into a fist, crushing the cigarette, and the hot end burned my skin, but I didn’t care. My stomach felt tense, but I could only breathe, taking another sip of the beer, and dull my thoughts even further from what was happening. The sunset was beautiful, and so was she. The August night was suffocating. I couldn’t remember who had put up the wind chime. And so on.

Her boyfriend burst through the door leading up to the roof and ran over to her, vaulting over the railing and grabbing her hand. And mildly I wondered what would have happened if it had been me who did that, and pulled her to safety. But he didn’t. He remained standing on the ledge with her, talking about something that I couldn’t hear over the night breeze, probably trying to convince her not to jump.

I looked away, heart pounding in my ears, and finished my drink. It felt like this was a private moment, and that the two should be left alone, and I was merely an intruder, a bystander, just another blank face in the crowd. She said that she had been dreaming. And I wondered what the God of Death looked like.

It seemed like all went silent, quite suddenly, like the ringing in my ears had rushed to a stop and I had gone deaf. When I looked back they were gone, but I hadn’t even heard them leave.

That night, it was just another August night, everything dyed in shades of sweat and cigarette smoke. I left the rooftop, sensing that August would soon be swept away, taking my dreams with it.