Creamo

I went into your room in the morning; you were gone but she was reading. It was warm so we’d both slept in singlets; hers was white and loose, becoming threadbare. With that and her blush knickers, pale skin and blonde hair, she blended in to the crumpled linen sheets, that were ecru, just as I expected you’d have. The high-ceilinged room was sparsely decorated, a monastic minimalism, that cool light of breaking dawn illuminating us from the uncovered window to the right.

I’d brought in two small bowls of congee for breakfast and came around to sit on your empty side of the bed. One of us told a joke about the fermented spring onion (who knows what; dream illogic) and she kept making this funny sound that was related to the joke. In the silence of the morning the sound became hilariously awkward; I said, “Wow, so committed to the gag!” and we fell about giggling, until the giggles melted into amused sighs, like they do when you don’t want to let go of a moment. I lay down facing her but with my head down the foot of the bed, propped up on one elbow. We regarded each other, comfortably, I think. I admired her, anyway. I felt like a blight on the paleness of the scene, with my black singlet, hair and knickers (tho as pale as the sheets myself).

You came in then and I used your side of the sheet to cover myself up for modesty. I don’t know why, I’m more comfortable around you than anyone; maybe for her benefit, to show I wasn’t there by any alterior motive. You lay down on your side beside me, the three of us then top and tail, like sardines in the thin oil of morning light. You lay your arm across me, slowly extending it out in a straight line as tho easing a cramp, or maybe unsure if that was ok. I was unsure if it was ok, but you both seemed at ease.

I breathed in slowly and deeply, and tried to remember all these details. I tried not to wonder what it would be like, the three of us. I can never tell you how beautiful I find her, tho you know me so well, I feel sure you must know. You were the one who said it shouldn’t be weird for friends to kiss; somehow I don’t think your laissez-faire attitude extends to her and I. She is, rightly, your prize.

Suddenly (in the schizophrenic segue way of dreams) the three of us were picnicking with your mother in her back garden. The air was hot in that northern Australian way, those insects that aren’t crickets making their long, droning call, slicing the air at the end like a leather whip cracking. You were discussing a family project timeline, deciding what to plant next in the garden. Your mother pointed out to me her pear tree, so heavy with fruit they were touching the ground.

A wombat ambled right beside us, sniffing the pears. I looked at your mother, silent and alarmed. She said “he might ignore us, let’s see.” He noticed her then, and charged at her. She didn’t flinch, and lifted her skirt hem to reveal the wombat had hit not her legs, but a rock underneath her seat.

He turned his eyes on me and I knew I was next. I squealed and pulled myself up on the tree branches above us, my long white dress billowing out as I swung my legs up out of the way. This confused the animal and in the pause I asked your mother, “should I leave?” She was quiet, then said: “leave. Leave now.”

And I ran.