I am lying on the floor wrapped in a blanket with my back up against the sofa. On the sofa, a friend sleeps. On the other side of the room, another friend sleeps on another sofa. The room is full of soft filtered light only found in east coast dawns. The light has a filmic quality about it. Translucent gold. It is my room so I should really be in my own bed. The friend behind me dangles his arm down, brushes my shoulder. I put my hand up. Our hands touch. He takes my hand. And holds it. Our fingers tighten. I feel his warmth in my palm, along my knuckles. In my heart. I am holding hands in my dream and I never want it to stop. It is Tuesday the 18th May 2021. Hugs are now ‘allowed.’
I am having a parcel delivered. It is in the time of covid. The delivery man has climbed three storeys worth of stairs. He is pink and puffing. I put my hand out to take the parcel from him. Our fingers touch in error. We both take a step back. Our eyes implode. The parcel drops onto the floor between us. He runs back down the stairs. I hear the beep beep of his app. I lift the parcel and I go inside and I wash my hands. I am careful not to touch my face for at least an hour afterwards.
I am on an Internet date, maybe seven or so years ago. It is the third or fourth time we have seen each other. We are walking along Queen Street on a cold dark afternoon. We are going to a bar in the East End. The man says something about my reticence, that I am always holding back. I laugh and I frown. I say, I can do it, really I can. I take his hand. Look I say, I can do it. He releases my hand. He doesn’t want to hold my hand in Queen Street. It takes a while to bounce back from that.
I am on the 21 bus, going to a medical appointment. It is in the time of covid. I am trying not to look at the other passengers. It is only the second time I’ve been on a bus in a year. I am listening to Bob Dylan’s Red River Shore, My lips move along with the music. Some of us turn off the lights and we live in the moonlight shooting by… I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is the man on the seat behind. He is asking me something. I am shocked at the touch. The man hasn’t meant any harm. I see the man again on the return journey. That makes us almost friends.
I am on an isolated beach in Sydney. I am alone, it is the late 80s and I am young. A man approaches me, older than me, maybe in his forties. He offers me a massage. I do not want a massage but I do not know how to say no. I did not have the anger in me then, the anger I have now. The man uses some sort of lotion. On my back, then lower. He slips his hand between my legs. I get up, confused, frightened, mortified. Gathered my things together. Walk across the hot sand towards the bus shelter in my flip flops. I wait for ten minutes. The bus does not come. The massage man stops in his car and offers me a lift. The car is silver grey, low-slung. The man is blond, over-tanned. I shake my head, no, no. The bus will be here soon, I say. He insists. I get in the car. I am terrified but I get in the car. The man does not touch me in the car. Nor does he mention the massage.
I am in Germany with my partner. We are staying at his mother’s house. We are in bed. I don’t speak or understand German. I am anxious and discombobulated. I never seem to know what is happening. We go to bed. I need him to hold me. He doesn’t. Maybe I don’t tell him about my needs. I expect him to be psychic, or at least perceptive. He turns his back on me. Rolls towards his edge of the bed. We never do get over our cultural differences.
I am a wee girl, just a baby, still getting about in a pram. I do not let anyone touch me. When a pair of hands come down towards me I open my mouth and scream.
I am holding hands in my dream and I never want it to stop.
SANDERLINGS 