Sometimes you just need a day off. First, the phone call. “Good morning, Jergin’s and Assoiciates.”

“Jane, hi, it’s Christopher.”

“Hi, what’s going on?” Her tone implied she already knew I wasn’t coming in. Well, I wasn’t here to disappoint.

“ I’m not feeling well today, so I’m gonna stay home and take it easy, ok?”

“Ok that’s fine. I hope you’re feeling better.” There was a hint of sarcasm there but it didn’t matter; I had the day off. Now for a little more sleep.

This time the dream was a different, darker one…The river is much colder, rising much more swiftly than before. I waited, almost selfishly, for the hand to come and save me. This time, no hand was seen. How can one be a victim with no savior? There was always death. I coughed as cold water sloshed in my mouth. I was losing my footing on those green rocks again.. Still, no hand or movement towards safety. I am immobile and am now being swept away, jolted at first and then determined. Nature is always determined, isn’t it? I enter the first stage of what is probably drowning and then I smash into an underwater rock. Two black, shadowy birds soar above, and the blue sky seems a day away. Only cold, dark water, drowning and acquiescence to death. A large, definitive gulp of water, choking, coughing…

Awake. Glad to be ripped from that dream, I needed to get out of bed. I needed to get out of my house (my parent’s house, actually), I needed to Get Out. The beach, a 20-minute drive, was the closest possible exit. I had become so fixed on the idea that I only had one sock on when I walked out. I squinted and my eyes started watering as I stepped outside. The day was warming up to itself, with a light blue hue that would melt away into a deeper, fuller blue later in the day. I hopped in the car and headed to the beach. Well actually, I didn’t make it out of the driveway without realizing I needed my ‘purse’ as my friend affectionately called it. Book, writing materials and protection. From the sun, that is. The only sexual protection I had was an inability to get laid, for the time being.

It was such a beautiful day that everything was hazy and dull. If the colors had been sharp, they would have cut me. It could have been my contacts but the slight breeze gently shook the leaves so as to avoid direct observation. Every plant around was shaking softly in differing sways, lazy to the heat and breeze.

Funny, that line was straight out of a movie. Which one? Probably thirty movies, including pornos, if one cared to count. I was interrupted in the middle of counting.

“Hey.”

“Huh, what?” I had been ripped from my train of thoughts.

“I said, ‘is this seat taken?’ Or is your imaginary friend sitting here?” she asked.

“What, oh, uh, no, go ahead, they just left.” What kind of fucking comment was that? How often does a woman come up to the man first? I was doing the math when her next comment snatched the paper from my mind.

“Good," she said, "I didn’t want to sit in his lap without meeting him first.” She was looking at me, analyzing me.

“It was a she,” I responded good-naturedly.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” I slapped my mind once. “What’s your name?”

“Lily, and yours?” Ok, this girl was sexy. She wasn’t flirting with me but she sure was being friendly. I hoped she wouldn’t let me sleep with her on the first date.

“Christopher.” For some reason, I always used my full name when meeting women (or girls).

“Chris, huh?” She was sizing me up. I let her. She was probably about my age, maybe a year or two younger. What woman has time to sit and hang out in Laguna Beach on a weekday?

She had brown, milky eyes, the kind that melted in one’s mouth. Her hair was shiny burgundy leaves cut a little past shoulder length.. She looked lovely. Being the romantic I am, I am enamored of women, but what guy isn't, right? They are my hidden treasures and meeting new women is like a mysterious map, with frayed edges and a foreign language promising riches. There are traps and wrong ways but somewhere, in each of them, was an X that marked the spot. I could only hope that eventually I dug in the right spot and there she would be, shivering and cold, having waited for me the whole time. I would drape my blanket around her and let her know that---

Occasionally people would ask a question at the most inopportune times. This was hers: “What are you thinking about?”

From out of a daze came, “Jesus.” Now that sounded idiotic.

“Are you religious?” There was concern in her voice. I don’t think she cared if I was religious or not, but wanted to know if I was all right. I didn’t blame her. A radiant, seemingly single woman had just purposely sat at a table with me and I had been preoccupied the whole time. The sound of a car making a screeching left from Broadway onto the southbound Pacific Coast Highway brought me back to the beach. “Jesus.”

“Uh, yeah, you said that,” she said.

“I mean you’re beautiful.”

“Oh, well, thanks—”

“That’s not what I meant to say.”

“Oh.”

This was not going well. Damn the internet! We were both quiet and the ball was deep in my court. “I’m sorry, Lily. Right when you came and sat down, I was deep in thought or something. It’s just taking me a few seconds to adjust to conversation mode.” That wasn’t too bad. I sounded half-way intelligible.

“That’s all right, Chris, I know all about that. Sometimes my roommate will come home and she’ll start blabbing about stupid shit. I’ll have to prepare myself to talk to her.” Two things: (1) a roommate, that’s a good sign, and (2), there is something faintly attractive about a woman who uses well-placed profanity.

“Same with me. My mom will come home and—”

“You live with your parents?” Shit.

“Yeah, I just graduated…” my excuse had started then she interrupted with:

“Me too.”

“Yeah, but you said ‘roommate.’”

“Yeah, my mom’s my roommate.” The way she said it implied that it was beyond a simple mother-daughter relationship. Her mother was probably the first one she told after having sex with a new boyfriend. That was disconcerting… “Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“You were saying something about graduating from school. Wait, don’t tell me,” and with that she squinted at me with one eye. Gears turning and then, “Psychology?!” She looked very pleased with herself. It was a good look for her.

“How did you know? Was it my Freud shirt(a brown, college hand-me-down of a bust of Freud with the words underneath, Curb Your Aggression), or my—”

“I don’t know; I could just tell.” The way she said it was from a Hitchcock movie, as if at a crucial moment I would find the X on her map. I chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking of buried treasure.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said. I was happy, completely unaware of any of life’s responsibilities. If I could bottle this emotion, I would never have to work again… “You were right," I told her. "Bachelor of science, psychology and my minor was criminal justice.” I said it like the Pac Bell operator, the automated one. I wondered what she would look like if she were real. The Pac Bell operator, that is. Those are thoughts best kept to oneself. No, you must release that energy, Freud had said. I chuckled again.

“Man, you must be pretty funny in there.” She referred to my mind as a prison for people who didn’t brush their teeth everyday.

“Why don’t I tell you all about it over dinner?” Bold, almost cheerfully indifferent. Women love that.

“I can’t.”

“Why, do you have a boyfriend?” Jesus, I sounded like a stalker.

“No, I can’t tonight. My roommate and I are gonna have girl’s pizza night.”

“You can call her mom, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, well, my mom.”

“Why don’t I stop by and hang out for a bit? Would that be cool?”

“Wow, you act like you actually want to meet my mom. That’s points right there.” And with that, she grabbed a pen and scribbled on a napkin and gave it to me. With that, she hopped up and said, “Talk to you tonight, bye.” She left. On the white napkin, in green ink, the kind teachers hate, was scrawled her name and number, complete with a sketch of a lily next to her name. I looked more closely at her phone number and the last number was either a four or a nine. Looks like I might be making two phone calls tonight. What time do girls eat pizza? I looked at my wrist but there was no watch. God, I don’t even own a watch. The girl did weird shit to me. I’d better call.