By Greg Dixon
Neal was frowning at a page of type, long since deteriorated into a more or less random collection of characters, when a colleague reached through the partially open door and rapidly flicked the fluorescent lights on and off a few times.
"Leave the damned lights alone," he snapped, slamming the book shut.
"Hey, Lazaro, time to go! Don't you have a home?"
"Just what time is it, please, Mr Weston?" he asked with an artificially formal air.
"Half five."
"No-o-o! I'm late again."
"Go home. I'm sure whatever you are working on will not go away by tomorrow. What are you working on, anyway?
"I'm doing some background research for a report I must submit on Friday. Must sound like I know something of the matter, even though the topic interests me about as much as counting the number of names with an "o" as the third letter found in the telephone directory."
"That exciting, is it. Want to trade projects?"
"No thanks. Now let me out of here before Clare phones," growled Neal as he hurriedly tossed a small collection of books and papers into his briefcase and rushed out the door.
The dull pain of a nearly chronic headache nagged at him as he rode the elevator to the car park, making him feel irritated with the world around him: he swore at the elevator door when it was slow to open, he banged his fist on the steering wheel of the car when it was sluggish to start, he drove aggressively and verbally through rush-hour traffic, and kicked the side of his car because he had forgotten to turn off the headlights when he had stopped in his driveway.
The front door was locked, so he shook the handle sharply as he fumbled through his pockets for the key. He had just managed to stab the key into the lock when the door swung open, wrenching the key out of his hands. Clare peered at Neal with weary eyes.
"I wish you wouldn't lock the door, Clare."
"Sorry, Neal," she sighed. "It is really nothing to get upset about."
Neal looked down, slightly abashed.
"I know, honey. Sorry I'm late. Damned traffic. When will I learn to leave the office earlier?"
"Go fix yourself a drink, dear, and I will dish up dinner."
Dinner was eaten in a silence only broken by the usual requests for salt and butter, and a few habitual inquiries into each others daily activities. After clearing the table they retired to the television room. Neal turned on the set and settled into a reclining easy-chair, while Clare picked up a half-finished novel from the teak coffee table and sat on the couch. A McDonald's Hamburgers commercial faded into an interview with the Minister of Finance on the evening news.
"The idiots are going to ruin what's left of the country," Neal moaned.
"Yes, looks that way," Clare uttered in token assent to this and a series of other ill-humoured comments issued periodically from the chair.
During a commercial break, Neal glanced over at his wife. She seemed to have become fat lately. A thought flashed through his mind that he did not understand why she was there at all. What was the mystery behind this strange circumstance, this marriage to that person on the couch? Why her? Indeed, why anyone at all? The obscurity of the whole business made him sleepy. He turned his tired eyes back to the news, falling asleep during the weather report.
Neal dreamed the most vivid and colourful dream he had experienced in many years. He dreamed he was a lush, splendid planet with rugged mountains, expansive plains, varied forests, deep blue lakes, and vast oceans Call teeming with a seemingly infinite variety of life forms. Above him floated endless streams of white and grey clouds, sometimes blocking the whole sky, sometimes drifting in a sea of blue air. The planet often looked up into the sky, marvelling at the wonderful clouds. The planet fancied the notion that he was seeing the universe spinning above him, in all its majesty of blue, white, and grey.
Years and years and years went by, and, due to some peculiarity of the planet's climate, all he saw whenever he looked up was the blue, white, and grey of the sky. This phenomenon continued until one time when the sky was in its dark phase, much to his amazement, he caught a glimpse past the clouds into an infinite space, filled with a myriad of points of light of various sizes and colours. All of this was extremely mysterious to the planet at first. He gradually came to understand that the clouds and sky above, which he had always believed to be the universe around him, were merely parts of his own atmosphere. The better he understood this, the more he could see past the clouds. With time he was able to distinguish other planets, as well as suns and other galactic bodies.
His attention was soon drawn to another planet that was by far the nearest to himself. He studied the other planet intensely, trying to determine its true nature. The planet appeared to be a white sphere, which he thought was very likely spinning. He continued to be satisfied with his assessment of the neighbouring planet until, one day, he began to contemplate what he himself might look like from out in space. After some thought, he decided that he probably looked like a plain white sphere Cespecially when he considered all of the clouds that had long restricted his vision.
This new thought led him to examine the planet even more closely, searching for a glimpse past the clouds he believed were hiding the true nature of the planet. He was not successful to begin with, but suddenly he thought he saw a patch of dark blue through the white sphere. As he patiently studied the small patch, it slowly expanded until he could make out a few rough details of the planet's surface.
He could not immediately discern very much, but he was very excited. Further study began to reveal detail after detail. Although he was never able to see more than a fraction of the other planet's surface, he saw enough to realize that the other planet was extremely beautiful and as diverse in features as himself. The more he saw, the more he wanted to see.
Suddenly, Neal woke up. Feeling somewhat disoriented, he looked around the room for clues as he slowly recalled where he was. M.A.S.H. was on the television. He looked over at Clare, still reading her novel. She seemed different, somehow. He could not say how, or why, but she had changed. Was it her hair? Her face? Was she thinner? No. None of her features had changed. And still he was quite sure that she had changed.
He was struck by her beauty, a kind of inner beauty that was at once new and at the same time oddly familiar to him. He felt a strong urge to reach out and touch her. He got out of the chair quietly, then pretended to leave the room. When he was sure that she was absorbed in her reading, he crept up from behind and startled her with a tender kiss on the forehead.
"What's this!? Horny again, are you?"
"No, no. I felt an urge to kiss you."
"This is most strange...are you sure you don't just want sex?"
"I'm sure. That is not why I kissed you."
"No...then why?"
Neal pondered the question for a moment.
"I'm not exactly sure myself. It is as though, well, as though some of the clouds have dissolved."
"Clouds! What clouds? What on earth are you talking about?"
Neal stared into her eyes for a moment, trying to find a way to explain the mysterious feeling inside him.
"Oh, nothing, dear. Just something I have dreamt."
He bent over and hugged her warmly before returning to his chair.
Clare scrutinized Neal for a few minutes, puzzling over the mysterious transformation.
"Clouds?"
"Yes, clouds. It has been a long time since we have seen past the clouds, hasn't it."
"What clouds?"
"Our clouds," he answered, rather cryptically.
"Oh," she said, very much confused.
He smiled at her, and sank back into his chair.
"Please be patient with me, honey. I can't fully explain...I'll try later. Please understand."
He gazed intently at his bewildered wife for a moment, then again closed his eyes.
Greg Dixon: Writings
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