She, the Dream

Prologue

"Otherworldly. That's the best way I can describe her. The way she is, her entire being, can be summed up in that word. It took me all of this time to find the perfect word that describes her. The way she is, the way she acts, the way she feels and makes you feel in return. It describes the way she looks, and the way she looks at you. Her eyes themselves seemed to be galaxies and other worlds entirely. And for that summer, anytime i was with her, i felt like i was on another planet."

"And is that a good thing?"

"Depends"

"On what, exactly?" Andso the questions begin. It's what he is good at; asking questions. He always does,and no matter what the question is I always end up answering it. 

"On whether or not she actually existed."

"So you're seeing a therapist because you don't know if the girl of your dreams really existed? Shouldn't you be seeing the FBI instead?"

"Why would I do that?"

"You know! To Track her down!"

"I don't need to track her down. I know exactly where she is. I just can't get to her. And she isn't the girl of my dreams. She is better than that. She's impossible."

This stumped him. I know it did. But then again it doesn't take much to stump Charles. we've been best friends for years, basically know each other in and out, and still all i have to do is talk about my feelings and he gets lost. But he is my best friend, and after all that has happened, he really is all i have. 

"Man, I don't see why you would want to date a girl like her anyway. By what you're telling me, dude, she sound like an alien."

"No man, she's otherworldly."

"What does that even mean?" Charles asks as he picks some gum off the bottom of his shoe with some debris he found lying nearby.

"Well, it's the best word i could think of to describe her. I could use the words beautiful or amazing, or even something as extreme as heavenly or glorious. But I feel like those are all relative terms. And in comparison... well it's just not fair to anyone else if she were they were to be compared to her. She can't be described easily, and none of the words in all of the dictionaries and thesauruses I've read suffice. And since I can't find any words here that describe her, i picked otherworldly. Although I'm sure you wouldn't be able to find another girl like her on any other planet if it were even possible to search every inch of the universe. She's just that great."

"Well... that's some sick shit you've gotten yourself into." He has stopped picking at the gum and looks in my direction like he is actually listening to, or even understanding, what I'm saying. But in actually an attractive woman has just walked by and he is probably staring at her.

I know he doesn't understand. No one ever could, really. But it helps just to talk about it and thankfully Charles likes to listen to me talk about my problems. He calls himself my therapist, and sometimes, i really do need him. And although he doesn't understand a word I say to him, sometimes he says just the right thing. This was not one of those times.

"My hypothesis is that all women suck and you've been 'sucked' into one of their traps"

"You suck!"

"No I don't, I'm a guy."

We laughed at this, and for a moment the weight on my chest was relieved. We sat on the curb outside the speedway down the street from Charles' house. We could hang out at his house but he says he "likes the atmosphere here more." this just means he likes the feeling of looking edgy and bumming cigarettes off of people although we are both eighteen and both have more than enough money to buy a pack of cigarettes.

He tugs at the material of the chest pocket on his flannel shirt and draws out a cigarette he bummed off of some guy wearing a strikingly similar flannel shirt earlier. The almost matching flannels were how Charles was able to obtain his cigarette. Apparently there is a thing among similar flannel wearing smokers that makes it okay to ask one another for a cigarette. Charles explains it better but it still makes the least bit of sense.

He lights the cigarette with a lighter he stole from his mother's collection of lighters, (Nothing Charles owns is ever really his) and takes a long draw from it. He holds it for an adequate amount of time, looks up at the sky, and then exhales loud and smoky. He then turns and looks at me in the eyes and says, "'I woke up one morning, all my fingers rotten. I woke up a dying man without a chance.'"

"What?"

"It's the Fleet Foxes."

"Oh..." She liked them a lot.

"You know who they are?"

"of course I know them! But what does that have to do with anything."

"I don't know. Maybe you just need to wake up. You've been so dead ever since you got fired and this thing with this girl happened. And I think a lot more than your fingers have rotted, Art. You just need to wake up not... dead."

And he was right, but that doesn't make it any easier. It's easy for him to say, especially because he has no clue what happened.

We sit there in silence for a few minutes. He is right and he knows I know it, but he doesn't rub it in any. We just sit there and he lets it sink in until he finds the right time to ask what's been on his mind from the very beginning.

"So, what did happen?"

The question of all questions. What happened? The million dollar question in fact, and the question I knew would have to be answered eventually. And if anyone was going to get the answer, it would be Charles. And so... our adventure begins.