It is right there. Lurking in the periphery of my mind. I keep my eyes closed,
stretching my brain-fingers into the corners, trying to pull it back. My fingers slip.
Elusive bastard.

          Baby, come to me.

          Orange and green polka dots cartwheel across the back of my lids. Relax. Do not
try to grab it this time, let it come to you. I exhale, lolling my head on the pillow, telling
God, No.

          There is a room. Built on a cliff overhanging a river. Everything is red, like Mars.
Even the water in the river is red, a shiny, wet red. Men are standing close to a window,
looking out over the expanse. They have their backs to me.

          Did I walk closer?

          I must have, as I am now amongst them. They are strangers. Except one tall
man with dark hair. He looks familiar in his cowboy hat. I know those green eyes.

          Who is he?

          “Hello Jessica. Let's take a ride.”

          He runs his fingers up my arm. My body tingles, my thighs contract.

          “Ride me,” I beg.

          “I will,” he says, throwing me to the floor.

          He straddles my body. We are naked. He licks my nipples. The room is echoing
empty. Then everything turns green. Lush and warm. We are in the jungle.

          “Harder,” I cry.

          But he vanishes, the others return.

          Where did he go?

          There is a film crew. A man with a beret motions for the cameraman to zoom in
on me. I do not mind. I twist and turn, preening for the camera. I open my legs and raise
my buttocks from the moss beneath me, arching towards the men.

          A parrot flies overhead, beckoning. I do not want to follow the parrot, I want to
stay here. I want the men to come to me, one by one, then all. But I am gliding over
rooftops. It looks like Brooklyn. A black and white aerial photograph. The words: “On a
Rooftop in Brooklyn” appear, penned by a sky-writer. I watch from the Empire State
Building until only a white wisp of “Lyn” remains.

          “You said something that was really important,” a uniformed guard says, taking
me by the elbow. “Come with me.”

          We are in a cramped office with monitors stacked against the walls. Multiplying,
they fill with images of me fucking. Each screen contains a different man. Men I have
never been with: Dream-men. One by one, the screens turn to color. The images start to
swirl, spiral, swim. Ferris-wheels, Catherine Wheels, pin-wheels, spin spin spin, shatter.

          Alarm. Awake.

          I sneak my hand between my thighs. Wetness. I remove my hand. Opening my
eyes, I stare at my fingers.

          Blood.

          I turn to my husband lying next to me. His green eyes blink at me. He leans in for
a kiss.

          I hold up my bloody fingers, Stop sign style.

          “Still not pregnant,” I sigh.

c.g. calger is an African living in Chinatown, NYC. Before coming to her
senses, she practiced law. Her muse is a miniature man. He wears
pinstriped suits and a fedora with a violet feather. She suspects he is
in the mini-mini-mafia. He is making her write a novel about pot plants
and cookies. She can be reached at cgcalger@yahoo.com