Flapper Dreams and Other Strange Things


There is nothing worse than finally meeting the woman of your dreams, in your dream, only to wake up and realize that you’ll never see her again. 


And just to twist the knife a little bit more, when you do finally wake up, there are messages waiting.   Messages from a girl who has come the closest so far to meeting the imaginary benchmarks set inside the unpredictability of those dreams.


Much of it was washed out and ethereal, as dreams often tend to present themselves.  But some of the specifics stuck inside my head–hard.  And their lingering presence made me ache desperately to return to their simple, uncomplicated joy.


We were browsing at some ridiculously large antique mall.  Obviously on the hunt for treasures left from some bygone era.  There are shaky memories of my hunting for typewriters–a shocking admission, I know. 


And then suddenly, she was there.  Browsing beside me.  Laughing.  The two of us walking, hand in hand amongst all the vendors and tables filled with ridiculous collections of antique knick-knacks.


I’m still a little salty that she wouldn’t let me purchase that mounted deer head with the full set of antlers.  The monocle and Charlie Chaplin mustache that someone had hilariously attached somehow elevated it to the level of art in my opinion.   And it would have served as a magnificent hat rack.


She vehemently disagreed, despite my protestations.


So we continued shopping.


Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it.  My holy grail of typewriters.  I rushed over to it only to be disgusted at the price listed on the tag.  And I still have no idea what all those squiggles and weird symbols signified–I just remember being horribly disappointed.


When I turned to share my whiny complaints with her, my eyes were met with something even more beautiful than any typewriter, no matter how perfect, could ever hope to be.  An image since burned indelibly into my waking memory.  One that even now quickens my heartbeat and makes me nervous.


She was sitting, legs coyly crossed, in some oversized upholstered chair.  Atop her head she placed a black flapper hat, under which tufts of hair leaked out from her blondish bob cut.  The color of her jaunty head wear was complimented by a black feather boa, playfully wrapped around the alabaster skin of her neck. 


Her chin rested precariously on an upturned palm, the cushion of the chair padding her elbow.  The bright floral print of her sundress stood out markedly against the deep colors of the lush upholstery.  And off the tip of her crossed leg, a strappy high heel shoe playfully danced on the end of her toes.


She was so fucking beautiful I could only stand in mute admiration.  Her green eyes pierced my soul and made me yearn to learn her stories–all of them.  And then write them all down.


I was certain that I could smell her perfume against the collected musk of the trinkets being offered for sale.  The slightest hint of a smile playfully curled up from her delicate lips.  And I ached to kiss her.


I was in love.  It was a helpless, hopeless, immediate, write hard and “burn it all the fuck down” kind of love.


Eventually, I gathered my senses and abandoned any notions of silly typewriters.  Instead, I grabbed the large brimmed gangster hat hanging from a nearby shelf, joining her in the game.


With boldness, I strutted over in front of her chair, our gaze never once breaking. Everything about her demeanor demanded that I kiss her.  And quickly.


So I did.


And I felt everything in that kiss.  Her championed highs and all her crushing disappointments.  The passions of her art.  Her perfection and her fallibilities.  Her innocence and all her naughty, secret desires.


Eventually, our lips parted.  But we weren’t yet done.  Because obviously, it was time to dance.


I reached out and took her tiny hand into mine, helping her up from the comforts of her chair.  Arms wrapped around bodies.  Hearts beat, in unison, next to one another, as we swayed amongst the tables in time to the old-timey music being pumped into the store.


And then, I woke up.


In the fresh panic of muted consciousness, I immediately looked around for her.  But all I found was an empty blue house.  One that felt even more painfully empty than usual.


Because she had been right fucking there.  I held her.  And I had made her smile.  We danced.  And shared the amazing tenderness of a genuine kiss.


But, it had only been inside my head.  And that realization left me to face the depths of another flyover night nursing a heart broken from having loved someone who doesn’t even exist.


At least, not yet.


I have since come to accept that I am condemned to exist within this hardscrabble, solitary bohemian existence– one filled with crushing anxiety, doubt, and typewriters–alone.  


But, if my flapper girl is out there, and she happens to be reading this, I would love for her to know that…


“…if the whole world was watching, I’d still dance with you.

About Typewriter Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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