Free Aftermath of Dreaming by DeLaune Michel Page B

air bubbles on a fisherman’s net. I could only hear their conversation when I got up close.
    â€œBecause I don’t want to,” the famous actress, Lily Creed, said as I approached the table.
    Andrew was looking down, fixing a forkful from his plate. A beautiful, fleshy pink meat from a lamb that once was small, had become smaller still, and now was being prepared smallest yet into calculated cuts to enter Andrew’s mouth.
    He stopped, mouth ready and open, fork midair, when he saw me. Then it all went back so quickly—lips together, hand down—but our first moment was that. Seeing him like that. Then it was gone.
    I knew I knew him from before. Like a dream I didn’t need to have, it was already so much a part of my sleep. So much that I didn’t even know that part of him was me until I saw him. Looked him in the eyes. Mine on his. His on mine. Again. Because that’s what it was—an Again. An “Oh, it’s you,” plus an “Oh, and that part of me I thought was me has been you. All this time, has been you.”
    â€œIs that for me?” Andrew said, looking into my eyes and able to see all inside me and all outside me all at once me.
    It was clear in that moment that everything was for him, whether it was meant to be or not.
    I had to answer but didn’t know what to say. My mind had gone blank. I knew Seamus had said, “Take a phone to Mr. Madden’s table—a call [something] Bonnie Davis.” But I couldn’t recall if he had said “from Bonnie Davis” or “for Bonnie Davis.” That information had slipped away, as though my body had known ahead of time that something momentous was about to happen, and shut down my brain so it wouldn’t get in the way.
    But it did get in the way because the word was lost, the preposition was gone, my mind did not grasp its short sound. And it wasn’t like I could turn around, go back to the maître d’ stand, and say, “Seamus, hi, sorry, me again. Is this a phone call for Bonnie Davis? Or from Bonnie Davis?” That was not a possibility, so there I stood in front of them, holding the phone before me, clutched in both hands like some dead telecommunication bouquet.
    Finally, I made a decision. “It’s for Bonnie Davis,”
    â€œFor Bonnie Davis or from Bonnie Davis?” Andrew replied.
    Jesus God, all of this because of one word. I just wanted to hide, but then I saw the smile in his eyes and heard the hint in his words replaying in my head.
    â€œFrom Bonnie Davis, for you.”
    There was a pause. As if I had won. As if the contest were over and in one long, though barely perceptible, moment, we had shifted from crossing the finish line to celebrating the game.
    â€œThank you,” he said, and looked at me with a smile held inside.
    I rested the phone before him, then knelt down to plug in the cord. I had to crawl on the floor because the jack was underneath the table in the middle of their legs. Lily had daintily painted toes on huge feet. Now, I’m usually rotten at telling the size of anything, but I had to put my hand flat on the ground next to her shoe while I inserted the plug, so it was easy to determine the space her feet took up. They were huge.The other woman was wearing clunky, closed-toe, hot-looking shoes of synthetic leather. I imagined neither of them thought while they were getting dressed that someone would be examining their feet from so close up. I figured Lily still would have chosen the strappy high-heeled sandals that she had on while the other woman maybe would not—they probably were stinky when she took them off. Andrew’s black silk-socked feet were encased in black leather loafers; I could sense their desire to be free, like two large children swimming in inner tubes. I scooted out the step or two backward and stood up, sure that I was a mess.
    I looked at Andrew again. I hadn’t wanted to, because a small part of me