*They knew nothing about each other, yet he'd recognize her even if deaf or blind. She was that much a part of him. ― Kelly Moran*

![over-the-town.jpg](https://images.hive.blog/DQmWB2HRDWo3FhndNB2LgY53DcuVrYdppQzv9y8Q4NE8R4C/over-the-town.jpg) *Over the Town*

*I’m walking in the wind down empty streets, a river of stars overhead. Drifting amid starry rifts, laughing about small things she’s said.* *And I’ve done this so long it seems so real and I swear somewhere she’s doing the same—walking in the wind down starry streets, below the horizon, hidden from me.* I close the laptop and stare off into space. *Where are you, Love—where is the world hiding you?*

It’s so maddening—I can sense her presence getting stronger day by day, and yet I’m no closer to meeting her. I share my frustrations with Tom Dunn, my therapist. “What does she look like?” I lift up empty hands, palms open in a gesture of futility. “I have no idea—I don’t really see her clearly—but I know her voice, or at least her patter, her turn of phrase.”

He nods, as if that makes sense. “So, what do you do in your dreams?” “It’s a mixture of reality and fantasy. Sometimes we sit and talk—sometimes we kiss. Occasionally, we fly together over the town.” “You mean, you actually fly—like lovers in a Chagall painting?” “Exactly.” “Hmm. Interesting.”

I hate that word—it probably means he thinks I’m delusional or hallucinating. “Sometimes during the day I’ll feel her presence around me—I’ll hear her faintly whispering.” “Do you ever see her—such as in a vision or apparition?” “No, but I have woken up talking to her and when I try to look into her face, she disappears—that’s crazy, isn’t it?”

He smiles sympathetically. “No, I wouldn’t call it that. What you’re describing falls under the heading of anomalous experiences—and they often occur in people who are quite sane.” “You know the weird thing about this—I don’t feel she’s a ghost or spirit guide, or anything like that. I don’t even think she’s a dream character or figment of my imagination. I think she’s an actual person.” His pupils dilate. “What makes you think that?” “I don’t know—it’s the feel of the whole thing. Oh sure, we do fantastical things like fly together above the city, but I keep getting the distinct sensation that she’s real. It’s sort of like the Turing test—you just know when you’re talking to a real person, not a computer.”

Tom's not buying my explanation. “But in the case of the Turing test the computer is real. How can you be so sure about this strange woman?” “I don’t know. Maybe she’s another dreamer who happens to go to the same place in her dreams as me. We meet up there, and are attracted to each other, and keep returning to the same locale.” “But this ‘dream locale’ is not an actual place in reality, right?” I sigh. “Right. It’s a familiar place, but somewhere I’ve never been except in dreams.”

He looks at his watch. “Well, I think we’ve gone about as far as we can today—we’ll have to continue this next session.” “Is this going to go on forever, Doc?” “I don’t know, Muir. As we go through the process these things tend to be resolved. We’ve only been at this for two weeks now. You have to be patient.” “I’ll try.” “We’re making progress—hold onto that thought.” Easy for him to say, when I’m barely holding on.

I make it back to the campus just in time for my afternoon lecture. I teach Victorian literature and today’s lecture ironically is on Bronte’s Wuthering Heights—specifically, Lockwood’s dream of trying to catch hold of Catherine’s spirit at his window. In the novel, Lockwood manages to grasp a small icy hand, but I identify more with Heathcliff who stays behind after Lockwood leaves and begs ‘Cathy’ to return to him. As pathetic as Heathcliff is, I’m even more so—I’m calling out to a vast empty desert imploring a nameless, faceless girl to be real. It’s heart-rending and pitiful, wanting a dream figure to take on flesh and materialize for me.

It’s late when I complete my last student appointment, and I stay behind even longer to finish grading some term papers. When I finally emerge into the chill October air, dusk is falling. I hurry across the quadrangle, past *Hart House*, heading in the direction of my car, when a voice calls out, “Muir—is that you?” I turn and spot Ketera Mills on the path behind me. I wait for her to catch up. “You’re working late—such dedication,” she smiles. “That’s me—endlessly toiling.” I deadpan. “I was on my way to *The Black Hart* for a drink—had a dreadful day. You interested?”

*Interested*, was an understatement to describe my feelings for Ketera—I always admired her from afar, but had the distinct impression she was aloof and disinterested—especially, in me. “Only, if I buy, I teased. “She laughed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I chose a shadowy corner, telling her it was to avoid the stares of curious student eyes, but the truth was, I enjoyed the ambiance of being alone in semi-darkness with her. She always reminded me of Byron’s poem, *She Walks in Beauty*. Her hair, soft as clouds, gently obscures her face the way veils of dark mist hide the Moon. And tonight, in the shadows, her raven tresses seemed to roll in waves and gently spill across her shoulders.

“You’re pensive tonight,” she whispers. “I’m sorry,” I colour, “I guess I am.” It never occurs to me we've only spoken a few words in the time I've known her, and she ought to be unfamiliar with my moods. “I overheard some students discussing your lecture today on Wuthering Heights—it sounded fascinating.” “I’m flattered, I chuckle, “it’s hard enough at times to sustain their interest during the lecture, let alone afterwards.”

She stares dreamily off into space. “I think everyone is stirred by deep, passionate feelings—that part where Heathcliff calls out to Cathy always touched me.” “You amaze me," I tell her, "your specialty is Fine Art, but you read Bronte?” “They’re not so unrelated as you may think.” “What’s your favorite style of painting?” I ask. “My favorite artist defies classification.” “Really? Who is that?” “Chagall.”

I feel my pulse quicken. “Which paintings in particular?” “I love all his paintings—the colours, the whimsy, the innocence—but I’m especially drawn to the canvases where lovers float above the town.” I take a sip of my Shiraz, trying to steady my trembling hand. “And why are you drawn to those canvases in particular?” “Because they are dreams,” she whispers.

I have to ask. “His or yours?” “Mine,” she says, and stares at me with huge dark eyes. I nod solemnly. We sit in hushed stillness such as I have only felt at church or in the dead of night after awakening from one of my dreams. I gaze around the room at the arched doorways and windows, the stone walls, the echoing corridors outside the pub and feel I also am awakening from a dream... A dream I only half understand.
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Friends for Desperation