T is for Trying

Dear diary,

We are all trying. Sometimes trying to get better, to achieve certain goals, to heal. My real life took another unexpected turn to the worst, I didn't know how that was even possible. I'm still stupidly refusing to call for any help, trying to dig out of this hole all by myself. My only distraction from the nightmare I'm living through are my dreams and my writing. I write them down whenever I have free time, which is very little these days, trying not to miss any details of my as elaborate as ever fantasies.

But Nick of my dreams, he doesn't need to try, he is already perfect. Real life monsters brought to life were utterly ugly, the more famous Frankenstein and the less famous Golem of Prague. 

Since Nick was both real and dreamt up, he was perfect, in the looks department too. Standing tall at six foot two, no gray hair in sight, no extra pounds around the waistline. Suits bespoke, shoes shined, hair trimmed, five o'clock stubble exactly at five o'clock, cock always at twelve, and his spunk tasted like he was on a steady pineapple diet.

And right now he was where we left him, in that spacious log cabin kitchen, combing through the utensils drawer. I opened the fridge for the third time to stare at the same dainty merengue concoction with raspberries and strawberries on top. Of course, it's the same cake! Even in dreams the cakes don't change from opening the fridge door a few times. “We have Pavlova for dessert. Are you ok with it?”

“There should be ice cream in the freezer, if you don't want it. Wait, why? You brought it, but you don't want it? It's not about the dessert, isn't it?” He tried something wooden against his palm and cursed under his breath. “I propose to start with dessert. Any preference?” 

A different tapping sound yanked me from the stupor. Nick raised one eyebrow, his signature move, at the artful arrangement he laid out on the counter: a wooden spatula and two long stirring spoons. I knew he would go for the spatula, as it resembled the riding crop in shape and was the least domestic looking. 

“All more or less the same,” I shrugged my shoulders, projecting my real life anxiety into the dream.

“What's wrong, love? You don't sound your usual self. Let me help you.” He cleared the long reclaimed wood table of the flower vase with white tulips. All flowers in my dreams resembled lotus flowers lately, no Dr Jung needed. 

I just noticed that I was wearing nothing but a red hearts on white apron, barely covering my tits, might be a nice sideview for his eyes only. The red leather garter belt and thong couldn't really count as clothing. And the red heels complimented my mile long legs. My legs aren't bad, but I think I can also benefit from some fantasy exaggeration. My whole outfit had a rather interesting contrast with Nick's grey sweatpants and white t-shirt combo, another cliche, known as a lazy Sunday boyfriend attire. Again, Dr Jung can take a day off.

“But… but we eat on this table,” I hesitated.

“I knew you would say it,” my mind reader walked back into the kitchen, holding a fluffy orange blanket. One smooth move, and the blanket covered the table like a tablecloth. Nick tapped again, this time the blanket absorbed the sounds, but just seeing his hand buried in the orange folds was doing things to me I didn't want to admit even in a dream. “Hop on, darling, we have plenty of time.”

“No, we don't. The timer is going to go off any time.” I whined some more. Nick lifted me up and plopped on the edge of the table. That blanket sure felt good against my naked thighs.

“I'm very much capable of turning the oven off.” Nick stepped in between my legs and took my apron off. “When the timer will go off.”

“I feel like I'm on a clock.” I looked at the floor.

“Let's hear it out.” Nick glanced at the oven. “There's about forty minutes left. What's the worst that can happen if you don't take it out on time?”

“The lamb will get a bit dry?” I posed it as a question.

“I assure you, I can live with that.” Nick walked over to the oven and looked at the controls. “And if I turn it off right now and leave the lamb inside?”

“I guess it will get ready, maybe a bit rare.”

“Choose one, Izzie.” Nick cranked up the sternness. 

“Turn it off,” I said. “Please.” I heard the beep, and the oven lights went off.

“On your back, Izzie, and relax.” Nick ordered from the other end of the room.

I dropped on my back, legs in the air. Like a clock, my hands flew above my head to grab onto the soft blanket.  “I'm trying!”