DISCLAIMER -- WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS UTTER FANTASY. NOTHING THAT YOU WILL READ HERE IS REAL.
Life has been difficult and different here for most of the last year. Much of what has always constituted the core of our erotic connection has fallen away, or been put on hold. So, perhaps it is not entirely surprising that my mind has begun to concoct elaborate erotic fantasies. This was where my brain was last night -- keeping me awake until the wee hours of the morning...
January blows raw here in the Midwest. The snow swirls in every corner, and muddy slush splashes and then freezes in eerie forms on every surface.
A few weeks into the new year, my students are deeply engaged in learning and growing with the winter break fading into memory. The ninety-year-old bricks of the old school building echo the sounds of children from floor to floor as we all wrap ourselves into sweatshirts and warm socks to ward off the winter chill. On this particular afternoon, we are given the gift of a visit from a traveling musician -- a concert level cellist from far away Montana. His name is Cole Hammond, and he is as weathered, rugged, and beautiful as the wild western regions that he hails from. I sit on the floor in the old gym with my students and am transported by the full, golden warmth of the music he shares with us -- Bach, and Handel, and some bit of Celtic enchantment.
When the last quivering notes fade away; when he has answered dozens and dozens of questions from students young and old; when we are milling around working our way toward the doors and back to class, he materializes beside me -- and I smile my thanks and reach to shake his hand. He asks my name, and I happily give it. He sweeps his arm around my gaggle of pre-adolescents, and with a twinkle in his startlingly blue eyes, asks me who they might be. "These are my kids," I tell him. A smile spreads across his face, and he replies, "Why, yes Ma'am, I believe they are." And then, I have to head off to class, to teach, to be who I am in my days.
Hours later, after the bells have all rung; after things have been put away for the day; after the desks have all been straightened; after all is in readiness for the next day -- I head out to my frozen car in the nearly empty and windswept parking lot. It is bitter cold, and the car is covered in ice and drifted snow. Muttering and cursing the rotten weather I dig out my scraper and begin to do battle with the frozen mess.
Suddenly, a big, leather-gloved hand covers mine, and a low, quiet voice says, "Here, Ma'am, let me do that." I look up into his smiling eyes and leathered face, and he is so spectacular that I am struck dumb. Like a silly, star-struck girl, I hand him the scraper and wave helplessly at the still icy car. His low chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest, and I can feel myself blush.
And that is how, at three or four this morning, I was lying there, wide awake, all hot and bothered, while in my head, I was sitting across the table at the funky little Italian place, sharing interesting appetizers and amazing conversation with my imaginary cellist from Montana.
I don't know what to make of all of that. I didn't consciously invite Cole Hammond into my head, but I'm not unhappy to have "met" (invented?) him. Will he come back again? If he does, what do I do about him? I'm so confused...