When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
― Theodore Roethke
When I purchased my Thirties art deco house I had no idea it came with a resident ghost—Blythe Summers, a Depression Era movie star.
Actually, I'm not sure she's a ghost. I think I bi-located and somehow ended up in her world, or the house itself is some kind of time warp and she ended up in my time.
Either way it's kind of eerie and with all respect to Einstein, spooky things are better handled at a distance, especially in this case where I find myself face to face with a silver screen goddess who takes my breath away.
At any rate, my world seems to have been suddenly turned upside down, partly I think because of the situation, but mostly because just staring at her beauty gives me vertigo
Slightly dazed, I slumped down onto the love seat.
“Are you saying this isn’t your haunt?”
“My haunt?” she snickered, “definitely not.”
She came and sat down beside me and before I knew what was happening, she slowly and passionately kissed me.
Every nerve in my body tingled.
“Now,” she said, dark eyes gleaming, “tell me I’m not a flesh and blood woman.”
“This can’t be happening, “ I croaked.
“But it is,” she smiled. “Shall we test it again?”
Much as I wanted to, I forced myself to stand up and walk a few paces away from her. I was trembling, but not with fear.
“This is crazy,” I protested. “Aren’t you scared?”
“Of you?” she giggled, “No, actually I find you quite attractive. Are you scandalized?”
“No…no, just shocked—by the situation, I mean.”
“Not by me?”
She was staring up at me with an impish grin. I wanted her more than I ever wanted any woman—but I’m so damnably practical—all I could think was that this was an impossible situation, and I must be losing my mind.
“Why aren’t you shocked by this too,” I demanded, “—are you some kind of…of, bohemian or something?”
“Bohemian? Ha ha, I hardly think so. It’s raining and I’m bored—and you’re a much more delightful way to spend the afternoon than staring at the street.”
“I need a drink—do you want one?” I asked her.
“Champagne would be nice,” she grinned.
I uncorked Bubbles for her and poured two fingers of neat rye for me. She seemed already intoxicated and immensely enjoying herself.
I handed her a champagne flute while watching her face shining with joy.
I growled in an exasperated tone, “Why are you so damnably lighthearted about this whole thing?”
“Why, because it’s a dream, of course. I must have fallen asleep on the love seat as I often do in the afternoon—and anyway, I’ve dreamt of you before. I recognized you from the start.”
“Ah, so that’s why you weren’t surprised to see me.”
“Exactly. I told all my girlfriends about this handsome young writer who fills my dreams and they all swoon and say, ‘and what if it came true?’ Funny, huh?”
“Um, Blythe—I hate to tell you this, but I wasn’t dreaming when this happened. I think your dream has come true.”
“Maybe we’re destined to be,” she continued on dreamily.
“That would pose a few problems—you see, I’m married.”
“Oh well,” she said brightly, “it’ll just have to be a fling.”
She was laughing, champagne flute held aloft in her delicate hand. I grabbed hold of her slender wrist, tightly.
“Ouch—that hurts!”
“Look, Blythe—this isn’t a joke, or a dream—this is real.”
“It can’t be Silly—you’re not even born yet. Say, maybe that means you’re not married yet…”
“Don’t even go there,” I hiss. “You’re gorgeous and I’d like nothing better than to have an affair with you—a fling, as you call it—but, like I said, I am married, and I am in love with my wife.”
That seemed to sober her a bit. “Obviously, that’s true—if we were really in my time, you’d have no memory of a woman you hadn’t met yet.”
“And if I were truly in my time, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you.”
She frowned. “It does raise the question of where or when are we right now?”
I stared at her. “I have no idea.”