The room feels cold, a consequence of the rain and air conditioner having been on full blast throughout the night. To say the room is cold is probably an understatement. It feels like localized winter, against which the combination of pajamas and duvet struggle to provide cover. Their success is at the very best, minimal.
I’m slipping in between sleep and wakefulness. Like a yoyo, flipping pages from dreams to reality and back. My mind can barely separate the boundaries. I’m in the twilight zone, where consciousness shines dim. Everything feels surreal. Only one thing stays constant on both sides of the divide, the energy sapping, and bone numbing cold.
I feel fingers. I assume they belong to a sorceress. Such dexterity and suppleness should not be found in any mere mortal. I feel their feather light, silky smooth touches. Here, there, everywhere. I feel the life they bring. I feel their magic. I feel their electricity, their vitality. I feel everything, everywhere. I feel my brain buzzing, my blood rushing, my nerves sizzling. I feel my limp gradually become rigid, turgid.
My eyes are closed as I follow the light. On and up, with increasing gusto, I ride the waves of delight. I have no option, I desire no caution. The music those fingers play cannot go to waste. I move as they strum my waist. Fast, faster, faster still. The fingers become hands and more they thrill. I can feel my skin start to sweat; I can feel the emission of heat. I can sense the cold shift feet and flee. I can feel the vortex open and swallow the very core of my being. I can even hear from afar, like a bystander, as I scream, loud and long, at the exhilaration of release. I float in bliss; till slowly my heart regains its beat. I swim in peace, for a second or two, until I open my eyes and wake up to an empty room.