A Dream

He raised the vermouth bottle to a large glass cylindrical mixer. I asked him to "please make it very dry."

He poured some vermouth into the cylinder and I said, “That’s enough, thanks.”

“Is your name Mitchell?” I inquired.

“No,” he said, “my name is Monvreau."

I watched him mix the martini. He was short and stocky with caramel colored skin.

“I’m sorry I did not remember your name,” I said, “I am not very good with names.”

“That is OK,” he said, as he smiled and handed me a perfectly cold martini in a frosted glass.

“That’s OK,” the blonde woman whispered to me.

Monvreau left the tastefully decorated room, leaving me alone with the tall blonde woman who was sitting to my right on the sofa.

The room was dimly lit and ornate in its décor.

She had her head down from taking pills. Our feet were bare and rubbing against each other. Her hand seemed small in mine. Smaller than I remembered. She massaged my right hand with both of her soft hands as I studied her finger nails.

“Your feet are better than stone,” she said, without raising her head.

I took a sip from the martini in my left hand. It was strong and bracing.

As her head was still bowed I noticed the nice white skin of the back of her neck.

I leaned over and passionately kissed her there.