She is the most beautiful thing I will ever see. Dark brown eyes that center on me and slowly blink, as if I�m making her tired or drunken. She brushes lightly curled brown hair from her eyes and slips the strands behind her ears, showing off a long, pale neck. She lives every moment of her life as if she�s in some eternal yawn. I don�t know whether it�s true boredom or this deep intelligence that knows that life isn�t nearly as exciting as it is in her head. Everything she does is slow and seductive and I almost can�t stand staring at her because I want her so much that I dig my nails into my palms and think of anything I can, from my boring childhood in the suburbs to my first girlfriend playing a tea party with me to my best friend puking up that shot glass of watered down Jack or our first joint and us gagging and images and memories clog my head and take me away from the scene.

And the smell from her of body spray tears me right back into the moment.

She asks me if I know the answer and I don�t even think I heard the question. She smiles and when she does, her eyes close slightly and seem to glitter. There isn�t a wrinkle on her face, even though she�s the same age as I am and half the girls our age are physically starting that long, downhill journey towards the evil age of thirty. I realized at this moment that even though we have known each other for months and my physical attraction was obvious that I was truly and madly love this woman. It�s hard not to. When one meets someone who can take your breath away just from the incredibly cute way she sneezes, then you either need to seek therapy or try your very hardest to get this person to fall just as deeply in love with you.

She gets up, thinking we need a change of music, and she�s a tiny, slender woman in short boxer shorts and a tank top, ready for bed at 8:30 on a Friday night and maybe she�s trying to tell you something or maybe you�re just such a good friend that she can hang out in the clothes she sleeps in while you�re there. She turns to me, a strap of her loose tank top slipping over her shoulder and she hastily pulls it back up with a blush and I tell her whatever she chooses is fine. I�m watching a forbidden moment: a girl loved and lusted over by many and yet to get to this point in her life; this moment of vulnerability and trust is something I�m gifted with.

She turns away and does a little, jumping dance by going up on her toes and then flat on her sole and she does this over and over again, bouncing and dancing, lightly singing along in that voice that suggests she never wanted to stop being a teenager. The music is on and it�s not what I expect. I expect something slow and romantic or maybe even hard and slightly erotic, but it�s light and bouncy pop which is actually a blessing, since anything else could make me try some move on her.

I�m still in pain, because she�s so beautiful and funny and cute and the worst part of all is that she truly and madly loves me as a friend. I want to go home, do my homework by myself, maybe just let out my emotions on myself if you understand me, do anything to keep her from driving me mad with lust or love or whatever, but I know that it will hurt worse to be away from her.

She jumps back down on the floor and lays on her stomach and bites the end of her pencil with a slight wrinkle of her brow and gets back to writing, asking me if I seriously know what the hell it is we�re dealing with. I lay on my stomach as well and we�re just inches from each other�s faces, the paper between us and I�m not even looking at her, I�m staring at the blank white. I look up and ask her if she wants to do the work in the morning between classes and we�re staring at each other. It�s completely anti-climatic, since her glistening eyes are staring at me and expecting some wit or wisdom to come out and I�m staring at her, wishing to God that she would just push herself forwards and kiss me and with that, kill me.

Instead, she looks back down and makes a shrug just as her boyfriend walks in the door.

Someone told me once that I was the most beautiful man she had ever seen and for a while, I honestly believed her. But believing a statement and understanding the consequences of the statement are two totally different things. The girls coming on to me was one of the benefits of being �apparently� physically attractive, but the worst part was that the most flirtatious ones end up being the worst types of relationships to get into. To make a short story even shorter: flirty girls who date you still flirt with other people. Men may be insecure, but the women don�t help. These were my relationships and they were always over before we even mentioned the two story house with white picket fence and two children.

And so I don�t look for relationships. I look for one night where you completely forget about me or if you insist, sometimes call and spend the night. The nights can be cold. The night before, I had called Piper over, since she had brown hair and brown eyes and was just as skinny, only not in the perfectly fit way but the anorexic, ribs-showing way. When I wake up the next morning, there�s someone in my bed with long, brown hair and I wonder if the thoughts and dreams I had before going to sleep last night are true. But I lean over the body and see it�s just Piper.

Brushing my teeth, I stare into my own face and wonder what it really takes for someone to fall in love with you. I spit. Is that the problem? Am I not graceful? Do I lack some sort of control? Is that why there�s a dab of toothpaste still on the edge of my lips when I spit it out into the sink. Piper has her jeans on, but can�t find her shirt and she comes up behind me, since apparently I�m wearing the shirt.

�You really are gay, aren�t you?� she playfully asks, as she pulls the shirt over my chest and head, the toothbrush sticking out of my mouth like a cigarette. She scratches at my chest and then squeezes a nipple. �I know how badly you want to wear pink.�

�It just felt right,� I say through the paste and brush in my mouth and smile a white, foamy smile. I spit and wash off the toothbrush. �You know I look good in a tight shirt,� I say and though I�m facing the sink, I let my eyes glance up from their duty and look at Piper, standing behind me, pulling the shirt over her white bra.

�Oh wow, you do,� she says, �I really, really think so, y�know, but I�m just saying that people think you�re gay because you wear weird shirts sometimes. Seriously, start wearing Nike or something or you�re going to be alone for the rest of your life.�

I turn around and sit back on the sink, smiling, �You�d like that, wouldn�t you?� I ask her in my deep voice, �Is that your secret goal? To convince me I�m unloved so that I can concentrate on just you? I�m not really looking for a relationship, you know.�

Piper laughs and walks out of the bathroom, while her voice trailing off, adds, �I think you just need to get a little grounding.� I come out and she�s sitting on the floor near my door, putting on her shoes. �You live your life like you don�t care, man. You can�t live in your head.�

�My head is a scary place to live,� I add, �I�m the only one who can tame it.�

Piper looks up. �Living in your head means that you miss out on the real world, kiddo. You can�t keep going on life with just your looks and intelligence. You have to drop the charms and start working on making something real. Something on paper, y�know? You have to stop pretending like you don�t care about what people think of you and start worrying about how you�re perceived. Appearance is the first taste, that�s true and you seem to be able to sleaze your way past that, but what about the long run?�

�What do you mean?�

�Are you gay or not?� she asks, point blank.

�No,� I say and sigh.

�Then why do you try so hard to be so beautiful?� she asks, smearing my eye shadow slightly. �You look like you�re trying to make some points off of your Jack Sparrow face, but in reality, it seems as if you�re trapped between two worlds. Is it the real world and the dream world or something completely different?�

�Remind me to stop fucking psychology majors.�

�I�m a philosophy major, dork!�

�Same thing, in a way,� I say and put on a t-shirt that hangs on the back of my couch. I put on my shoes quick and follow her into the hall. Appearance is the first taste, apparently, and if it appears that I�m late for school, I�ll be tasting a Mountain Dew in the lounge for an hour, since I�ll be kicked out of my journalism class.

�This isn�t over,� she adds as we walk quickly towards the front door, �In the end, you�ll thank me for opening your eyes.� Piper runs to her car and waves to me before getting in and driving off. I sit in the cool spring air for a moment, then get into my car. I sit there and wonder what she means as I look into my eyes. I�ve always been like this. At first my family thought I was gay until I showed a remarkable ability with flirting to get what I wanted. And it was obvious that I was attracted to women. No one understood it, least of all myself. I don�t know why I look effeminate, but I do and frankly, it has offered me nothing but benefits since. Even at a young age, I could get anyone to do anything for me. I could seriously have anything I wanted.

In the other part of the apartment complex, I see the front door open and Mona steps out. She sees me and puts her brunette hair behind her ear and smiles wide and waves.

I can almost see her wanting to say something, but she holds it in as her writing hand wiggles back and forth. She�s concentrating hard on her writing and I�m concentrating hard on her face as it stares, half-awake at the paper she�s writing on. She lifts the Styrofoam cup of coffee to her lips and drinks only a small sip, her eyebrows revealing her distaste of the bland mix. She puts the cup down on the table and swallows, smacking her lips and wiping them with the back of her arm. She yawns, covering her mouth and I can�t stop staring at her in awe of every action she makes.

�Did you get any sleep last night?� I ask with sympathy.

She folds her arms in front of herself and lays her head down on the them, as if to sleep, but instead turns and looks up to me with those big brown eyes and that white tooth-filled smile on pink lips. �I couldn�t sleep until we were done with this.�

�So what did you do?� I ask, and I get a sunken feeling in my gut, expecting her to say something along the lines of erotic acts with her boyfriend, but this is uncharacteristically like Mona, so she just shrugs and sticks her tongue out.

�Schoolwork,� she says when I don�t say anything. �We have---�

��that art history final coming up, that�s right,� I say, holding my hands to my face. �Shit, I haven�t even touched those notes.�

She reaches her hand across the library table and touches my arm. �It�s okay, we�ll go over them later together.� And then she shrugs and says something that makes me smile, though I don�t know why. She says, �I�ll pass and I�ll take you to the higher curve with me, I promise.�

She looks back down to her work and I smile, watching her writing. She doesn�t ask me why I�m not working and I honestly believe she has no idea that I�m sitting here, staring at her. She smiles and brushes her hair behind her ear.

�What?� I ask.

She looks up, quickly, her eyes widening: huge circles of white with large brown irises. �Huh, what?� she asks, as if just waking from a dream.

�You just smiled,� I say, crossing my arms on my chest and leaning back on my chair.

�Oh god, I�m in my head again,� she says, waving me off and going back to her work, �Don�t worry about it.�

�Okay,� I say and smile. She knows I�m smiling. I don�t know how, maybe it�s because she hears it in my voice or maybe she knows me well enough to know when I smile or maybe she just thinks the way I say, �Okay� is funny. Regardless, she smiles to me and that�s enough. I lean forward and begin writing again.

She passes a note across the table, without looking up from her paper. �This is for you...from Piper. We were talking in advanced biology.�

I take the note and frown.

�You�re such a whore,� she adds and smiles. She looks up to me and smiles and sees the worry on my face. I don�t know why she keeps smiling, but her hair falls in front of her face again and she puts it back behind her ear. �I�m sorry, I didn�t really mean that, I just couldn�t resist.�

�It�s okay,�I say, �It�s directions to somewhere in town.�

�A meeting place?� Mona asks, almost uninterested.

�No,� I say, �It says, �ask for Mr. Rogers�.�

Mona�s eyes look up, sideways, and meet mine. �Why does Piper want you to meet Mr. Rogers? What did you do to her?� She laughs and covers her mouth when she does.

�I didn�t do anything to her,� I say, slightly frustrated. I turn the torn out notepad paper over, but there�s nothing more. Just the words, �ask for Mr. Rogers� in purple ink and a small map to somewhere near downtown.

Mona looks up to the clock and suddenly starts shoveling books into her rucksack. �We�re going to be late for art history! Just throw that away and don�t worry about it. It�s nothing, I�m sure. She�s just trying to scare you.� She grabs her coat and throws it over her shoulder with her bag. I�ve gathered everything together in my bookbag, except the note, which I almost throw away in the large, grey paper recycling container right next to me.

�Hey,� she says, turning around to face me, �Don�t tell me you�re skipping again.�

I hold the paper in my hand and suddenly feel this weight come into my hand. I stare up at Mona to say something and the paper almost feels lighter. And since I can�t look away from her, I can�t tell if the paper would suddenly grow heavier if I tried. I put the paper in my pocket and I follow the beautiful girl who takes me by the arm and allows me to escort her to art history class.

I knock on the door a few times, but there isn�t any answer. The door says the right address, number 731 Elm Street, but there isn�t a car in front, nor is there a garage around back. I assume no one�s here, so I decide to leave, but not before giving one last knock at the door. And as if my impatience was the key in the first place, the door opens up and there stands a young Hispanic woman.

The girl looks me up and down and I decide that she must be in her late teens or early twenties, probably a couple of years younger than me. I ask for Mr. Rogers and she nods and walks inside, leaving the door open. I follow her inside and I expect a typical Mexican household, but instead find an almost dorm room-like atmosphere. Movie posters crowd the walls, covering each other or surrounding framed posters from big, classic movies like Casablanca, King Kong, Star Wars, and The Godfather. From the kitchen is the aroma of a delivered pepperoni pizza as well as the smell of lingering marijuana smoke. German electronic music seems to float on the air and carry throughout the house. Some Hispanic-looking kids sit around a large television in the living room, playing on a GameCube. She leads me past all this and down the hallway to a slightly worn looking door. She knocks. There�s a noise downstairs and she opens the door to reveal some basement steps.

In almost any other situation, I would be scared at this point, wondering what I have done and what I can do to fix this situation. But instead, somehow I trust that Piper isn�t going to lead me into some scary situation where I�m either gang-raped or executed, so I walk down the steps. Whatever her idea of a joke, it seems that someone was waiting for a visitor, so maybe I�m not in any type of danger.

At the bottom of the steps, I almost have to catch myself from falling to my knees. It was such a small house. But the basement is almost unending, nothing but white, linoleum floors and white, tiled ceilings. In the center of this is a small office cubicle, which is open on the facing end and I see a man sitting at the desk, looking at a computer screen.

�Dim the lights,� he says without looking up. I turn to look behind me, where there seems to have appeared about a dozen light switches near the stairs that lead back up into the sane, smaller world. I flip a few switches and suddenly the place is as dark as a parking garage and I can almost hear the dripping noises of water on concrete. There are only a few lights here and there, but they seem to concentrate on emphasizing this man at the cubicle. He throws his cigarette out into nothing where the cherry tip slowly fades out of existence. He both turns and stands in the same motion and faces me.

He�s about my age, larger than me but not horribly fat, with a small red soul patch on his bottom lip, spiked red hair, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses covering green eyes. He runs his hands through his hair and walks up to me, offering his hand to shake.

�Mr. Rogers?� I ask.

He laughs, �Clever, no?�

�I�m sorry?� I ask.

�Mr. Rogers?� he asks, a small smile appearing on his slightly chubby face, �Y�know, like the children�s show?�

�I don�t remember much,� I admit, �I watched Captain Kangaroo.�

�You missed a lot,� he says, lighting another cigarette. He offers me one, but I decline. He takes a drag and motions me to follow him towards the glass cubicle. �Mr. Rogers was a really great guy, dude. He was beloved by everyone in the neighborhood, dressed like a humanities professor, and always took children to the land of make-believe. Horribly appropriate, I think.�

�So it�s not your real name.�

�Is that another question or another answer?� he asks, sitting at his computer and turning away from me, �Because you sound as if you�re adjusting to my eccentricity.�

�What am I here for?� I ask, �And why do you have a very large basement?�

�This place,� he says, typing frantically, �is an old mental hospital. This basement takes up the entire block. It was once a honeycomb of tunnels that led all over the city and rooms that were holding the truly worst of the worst. I knocked down all the walls and this is where I find concentration. It�s horribly easy to concetrate when the only distraction you have is a fly that�s death throws can echo over a hundred feet away.�

�Are you...,� I begin, �Are you trying to fucking tell me that this room is the size of an entire city block? I just can�t believe that.�

He looks up at me and smiles wide. �Dude, that�s not the reason you�re here, now is it?�

�What am I here for?� I ask him.

�The wonders!� he exclaims and turns off his computer. He motions to a chair near the cubicle that I never even realized was there. �Sit down, I have something to tell you.�

�Piper sent me...�

�Piper is only the messenger,� he says, staring intently into my eyes. �Piper knows what I have, but she can�t have it. She doesn�t really want it. Her life is fine, you see. She knows what she wants and how she can get it. You on the other hand, seem to be lost. I can tell that you think you live beyond the seams of our closely sewn together world and that�s perfectly normal! There are always going to be two worlds, you know. Don�t you ever feel like the line between the world of dreams and the world of waking is always skewed horribly? I know we define what�s real by what we can see, feel, smell, taste, or hear, but really, what happens when you can do all of this in a dream? I�m talking about truly existing not only within a lucid state in the dream, but also actually existing beyond your dream.�

�Existing beyond a lucid dream?� I asked and scoffed. �Come on, seriously, whenever you�re in a lucid dream, you�re aware of where you and can take command of any action. How can you exist beyond that? That�s like telling God to lift a layer of himself over and peeking beyond himself. It can�t happen. And if it can, it�s far beyond my mind to comprehend.�

�Where is your reality?� he asks and I have no idea what he�s talking about.

�Are you talking about getting high?� I ask, remembering the marijuana smoke. �I don�t get high. I have never touched drugs and I�m not really ever planning on...�

�Getting high is just a much easier way to enter that lucid state,� Mr. �Rogers� says and reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls a small, silver container out that reminds me of a cigarette case and now I understand where he�s coming from. He�s talking about drugs and inside of that container most likely exists some type of hash or powder or pill. He hands me the container and closes my hands on it. �This is the result of someone seriously questioning his own state of the world around himself. This can bring answers or even more questions, however you use it.�

�What answers do I need that some drug can discover?� I ask. �And frankly, how do you know what kind of issues I have, anyway? What did fucking Piper tell you?�

�Piper is only a messenger,� he repeated, �And what I know, I never learned from her. I know something about something that involves someone who sends shockwaves down your spine.�

And a shockwave went down my spine.

�With this, and it isn�t a drug so don�t call it that,� he says, pointing to the case in my hand, �With that, you can make a lot of sense of a nonsensical world.�

�Can you...fucking quit talking in riddles?� I ask.

�She completely involves your every sense. She looks, sounds, acts, smells, and feels just like the perfect girl for you. If you look deep within yourself, you may be able to find out how she tastes.� He smiled a mischievious grin and I almost went sick.

�You have no idea how hard it is to suffocate on your love and obsession over someone.�

�No, but with what I have, I can,� he says, �Take it.�

�So let me assume what will happen,� I say, tossing the container up and down, �I take this and it fakes stimulation so that I�m fooled into thinking I�m in a world where I can have anything I want.�

�You already get everything you want,� he said.

�You don�t know me,� I say.

�I know that you get everything you want.�

�Not everything.�

�She�s not something you want,� he says and I get angry.

�Then why am I so...�

�She�s something you need, my friend,� he says and winks. �If you can�t get her, you�ll die trying and I can promise you that. Take it. Now.�

I frown and open the tin violently. Inside is red velvet and sitting on the velvet is a small, kidney-shaped pill. It�s a dark blue and clear. I pick it up and examine it and find myself staring into it. It suddenly pierces me like an eye that glares into my own and reads me. I swear I almost see a pupil turning to examine every inch of my iris.

�I can�t take this,� I say and almost say, �Because I feel like it�s alive.�

�You ever bite into the worm when you drink tequila?� he asks.

I go to ask him yet another question, most likely what he thinks he�s talking about now, but instead, I take the pill that seems to be shaped like a smile when you look at it right.

He smiles and sits back on his chair, laying back as if he�s only just getting comfortable. Nothing happens as I swallow the pill and feel it going down my throat to my stomach. I wait and nothing. I let out a sigh of either relief or frustration and he holds out his hand as if to tell me to wait.

I suddenly feel a lurch within me. I think I�m going to be sick.

�I�ll see you later,� he says and smiles. And then everything goes white.

I open my eyes and yawn, as if the entire day has passed before me. It feels like waking from a nap and almost feel sick to my stomach from utter exhaustion. My bed is slightly wet with sweat and I sit up, wiping the back of my neck from the sweat that built up as I was sleeping. It must have been the hot sun that glared down at me that afternoon. I look over and see the brunette and realize that my dream the night before was honestly the strangest dream I ever had. It was lucid, but not enough where I could control what was going on. If that had been the case, then I wouldn�t have mysteriously shown up at a strange house with a strange ethnic family and a weirdo in their basement that seemed to go on forever who gave me a pill shaped like a smile which can�t exist in the real world because they couldn�t shape it that way.

I get up and let Piper sleep and go to brush my teeth. I�m a bit frustrated, because this means I have to re-do my entire day. I�d rather just have let the dream take care of the more annoying parts of my day, like, for example, school. Instead, I had to return to art history, then journalism, and English literature and frankly I wasn�t in the mood. As guilty as I felt, I decided I was going to skip school that day.

�That�s not a good idea,� comes a voice behind me and there�s the brunette walking past me to the toilet. Only she�s not wearing jeans and a sports bra like in the dream, but instead a loose white tank top and a pair of pink boxer shorts.

I stare at her and I feel my entire heart beginning a slow combustion toward explosion. I can�t talk and I certainly can�t ask her what she�s doing. Before I know it, the boxer shorts and black panties are down and she�s sitting on the toilet, peeing. My entire body wants to turn away, pause this and spend a few moments reflecting on how my best friend is sitting there on my toilet with her pants down. I had already had a glimpse of her I never expected as she sat down. I couldn�t pause it and I couldn�t ask her what she was doing, I instead stared at her and we jointly stared at each other.

She suddenly smiled, though she was blushing. �You can�t turn around?�

I turn out of embarrassment and close my eyes tightly, squeezing my eyelids down hard, hoping this is all a dream, though embarrassments and toilet manners aside, I also hope this is very real. I sit this way, facing the mirror only too embarrassed to face myself until I hear the toilet flush and a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and arms wrap around me, hugging me, a head rests on my chest.

�You know why I�m here,� she whispers to me.

�This is a bizarre dream,� I say and suddenly I realize it. Not only do I realize this, but this was the first and certainly not the last time I realized that I could never, ever have this woman as my own. I could never kiss her, never hold her like this, and certainly never do anything else of an intimate manner with her. This was a one shot thing, just another one night stand, only she would be there the next day but completely forget about the one night we had. And this wasn�t real.

And my eyes begin to fill up. I squeeze them shut again, trying to cover this incident up, but instead only help in pushing two fat tears down my cheeks. My heart breaks and it�s visible to not just the entire world, but this girl who�s my entire being. I let myself accept that this isn�t real and I allow myself to just cry. She takes me by the hand, her soft fingers twisting together with mine, and she leads me to the bed, where I rest on her lap and she runs her fingers through my long hair and touches my cheek. She tries to calm me down, but it�s only making things worse.

�Dreams are hopeless,� she whispers to me.

�I know,� I whisper back through tears, �And I�ve lost all hope for��

��your dream to come true?� she says, finishing my sentence. �That�s not a very intelligent way to cope with this situation. You took what I said wrong. Look inside and you can find the answers to everything.�

�You sound like Mr. Rogers...always a fucking riddle,� I say and suddenly panic, wondering if he�s manipulating me, inside my head and pretending to be her.

�Wow,� comes a voice from the doorway. There stands Mr. Rogers, only he looks different than before. His head is shaved, he doesn�t have his glasses on, he�s wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and in his hand is a large Granny Smith apple. �I think you�re getting the point. It�s not a bad start, though I�m a bit disappointed in the small scale of your adventure. She�s absolutely beautiful, though, and what a great body.� He takes a bite of the apple.

�You�re not her,� I say and hope to God it�s the truth.

�Ask yourself that question.�

And I know at that point that he�s not her. This isn�t his manipulation of my dreams. It�s my dream, only mine and only I have control and he�s just a visitor.�

�Share the trip,� he says and takes another big bite of his apple. �That�s my point.�

�I�m only a shell,� Mona says, stroking my hair, �Let me see what you hold inside of you.�

I push my head into Mona�s lap harder and feel the bottom of her breasts on my ears as I suddenly find myself waking up. This has to be over and fast.

What happens next is very quick. The walls are much closer now and the lights are florescent lights that dangle from the ceiling and there�s an old pool table and Mr. Rogers is no where to be found and everything is covered in dust. No one had been down here for years. I quickly go upstairs and find myself in a small section of the hospital that I didn�t even know existed. I move past confused looking nurses and leave for the front door.

5