On Gossamer Wings

I'm a Believer

I noticed I was no longer wearing the quotidian accoutrements I had bought a month before to welcome spring break: a red cotton top and comfortable jean shorts. I now stood in a gorgeous, magenta, knee-length dress that grew tight at my natural waist. What appeared to be Doris Day's impeccable platform heels seen in 1963's "Move Over, Darling" waited near my feet. I grinned, slipping my feet into the soles. As I did so, I nearly toppled over, unbalanced, involuntarily throwing my arms around Lek. I slowly removed my arms and ran my hands down the sides of my dress in an attempt to steady myself in an Apollonian demeanor.

I turned my head to glance at him out of my peripheral vision and found him studying me curiously. His head snapped back into a forward stance moments after I met his gaze.

Recovering from my dream world, I stopped walking and threw my hand up to my mouth. I gasped. "My book!" I exclaimed with the utmost urgency. I ran back to the nightstand. Nothing. I hurriedly shuffled the sheets of the bed. Nothing.

He furrowed his brow and squinted from behind the thick frames. "What book?" he inquired pensively.

"My-my physics textbook..." I sighed, exasperated from the fruitless search. "I-I have an important lecture today..." I explained, almost to myself. My head rocked with frustration.

"Today?" his murky brown eyes lit up as he continued with eloquent normality. "I've never heard of a lecture at this time on a Sunday."

My head jerked in his direction. "Sunday?" I laughed in disbelief, losing my staid attitude. "Why, it's only Tuesday!"

He frowned, his eyebrows nearing his eyes in discontent. "It's Sunday. The twelfth of September." My eyes widened; my pulse quickened. My mind hurriedly searched its storage of information for a year that the twelfth of September occurred on, but to my chagrin, it found none. "What? Where am I?" I demanded immediately.

"Manchester..." he said slowly, just as he had in that 1964 Hollywood Backstage press conference, as if this were obvious information.

My Heartbeat slowed to its normal pace. I should think that at this moment I realized what had become of me. Gradually my lips lifted into an insouciant smile. I threw my arms theatrically into the air as if I were a 1944 Judy Garland in St. Louis. 1942's "Orchestra Wives" no longer seemed like simply a movie. I prevised an incredibly gleeful notion it would soon portray my life.