Satisfaction of Denied Indulgence

He drank tea. Chamomile tea, which he had been led to believe was a good drink to have before bed, He suspected that was a total lie, because all literature and packaging emphasized the tea's “calmative" rather than somnorous effects. He was naturally very relaxed; but he drank it, though he would have preferred coffee. He could handle a drink that would let him alone, but affective substances had to be measured out among the days, otherwise his very concept of self would have had to have been reexamined. How can you define yourself as something you are less than half the time? he reasoned. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed coffee. It markedly altered his mood and because it was an infrequent indulgence it gave him something to look forward to, and in the meantime he could enjoy the satisfaction of a desire delayed.

The girl from work. From the cumulative hours he had spent looking at her there he could easily picture her now, every detail in place and polished as it only can be through the filter of fond recollection. He might have been concerned with his intense attraction, but it was not an unhealthy attraction that might lead to harm on either of their parts. He didn't want to own her, or have any other such intentions the keywords for which might raise warnings to a psychologist. He might be obsessed with her, but no. Not her, just the way she looked.

But how can you tell a living girl that she possesses nearly all of the physical traits you find especially attractive? It would be one thing to appreciate only her hair, or her hips, her eyes…he may even have been able to let her know how much he liked one thing about her, but as she was he felt that he would not be able to stop at just one thing, and he would have to tell her everything, once he started. The only way to lie would be in choosing just her hair, and finding a reason to compliment her every day. She would think he loved her hair, which would be true, but he would not be complimenting only her hair, when he said it. "I like your hair today," he would say to her, but he would really be saying "I love the way you walk, the smart turn of your steps around the cubicle barriers and the slow, intensive cadence when you're carrying a cup of coffee from the breakroom back to your desk. Please don't mind when I hear you passing and I get up to fill a disposable cup with water just so we can interact for a few moments, just long enough of a conversation so that we can talk about caps, or shampoo, or the rain, and I can tell you how I like your hair today and it won't seem out of place."

He had dreamt about her, which was why he was thinking about her now. Her body unfortunately precluded any real relationship he might have with her, platonic or otherwise, because anyone who fit him so perfectly physically could only be a disappointment anywhere past the superficial. She was probably crazy, or selfish, or poor with finances. Something. It didn't even matter. Just something. If he did get to know her, only to find out that her mind was equally fit to him, it would certainly set him down a path of self-destruction that would eventually lead to his own death by suicide. Such a perfect being could not exist in this world, and the paradox would drive him insane.

In his dreams, though, she could exist. And she did, at least sometimes. Last night's, she had been perfect. On one occasion, at work, they had been talking and he had said something clever, and she had laughed and put her hand on his shoulder. A gesture that could have meant so many things, and even more nothings, that he had immediately pushed it out of his mind as nothing more than a pleasant sensation, similar to the first wave of warm sunshine after leaving the temperature-controlled office. Pleasant and meaningless and forgettable. His shoulder, though, had not forgotten, and shared with the rest of his body the memory of her touch. She had been naked, in his dream, and she had wanted him and he was there and there was nothing between them that might prevent their indulgence in each other. He kissed her breasts and neck, savoring. She caressed herself, and her hands felt on her body like they did on his shoulder, intentioned and longing and touching.

This dream was where she lived, for him. She made him happiest, here, where the touches and laughs and walks and the hair of the real world were translated into the pleasure of sheer perfection, to linger with, and cherish.