She is dreaming that she is awake and writing down what she has dreamt. But the dream is her words as she writes them on sleep’s cumulus parchment. The whisper of ancient deities holds aloft that runic cloud, and presents it before Wind’s clown-god, Bluster. Blustery, Bluster scatters this vernacular confetti to the Five Zephyrs of Chance, Choice, Coffin, Cunt and Cock; on the rug, like a slug, dreaming drug: it’s Kafka’s bug: she is me and I am she and we are all together. Come . . .
The magic carpet of steel and wheels soars down a preordained path, over an immutable route through the labyrinth of night. Chaos nips at their metal rug’s exhaust pipe, snorting that vaporous speed ball. They are larks twittering in this wheeled cage; Elaine, a husky-voiced chatterbox, sits doubled-over in wracking mirth beside Mike as he, nearly gleefully incapacitated, drives.
“You fucker,” Elaine says, rushing a hand in front of her mouth too late to stem the spitball that splats wetly against the dash. She slaps his shoulder and cries: “Goddamnit, Mike, you made me laugh so hard I peed my underpants!”
“Can I chew on ’em?”
“You asshole.” She slaps him again; but, after looking at Mike for a time, shrugs and hands them to him though she hasn’t taken them off. This is a dream, after all.
Elaine watches while he sucks her little red briefs up into his mouth like linguini. He licks a carmine fleck from his lips, munches seriously for a bit, then slowly slavers filmy crimson cotton over his chin. Her panties dangle from the toothy, leering grin biting hungrily at their narrow isthmus of cloth. “Ooh wow, who’s been burning rubber recently?” He swings his head to the side and then back toward her, lofting her little underwear into the air and tossing them onto her lap.
For a moment what Mike just said doesn’t jibe with what Elaine had expected him to say, so she just sits there staring at him, as his actual words chase their imagined interlopers, and her moans of theatrical rapture, away. Then: “You fucker—”
“How would you know, baby?” he cuts in, turning a smile and a hand onto her. She returns the smile and the hand, daintily plucking it from its kneading perch upon her thigh.
“Oh I know,” Elaine says, “I know: you’ve got the kind of prick that tickles a woman’s fancy—”
“And her uvula!”
Elaine says, through her husky, honey-dripping-over-an-erection laugh, “Yeah, everything. You’re like a pillar of lust burning next to me . . . and you’re getting me sooooo hot.” She rubs her hands lightly down her breasts and stomach and over her legs. “Ooh, babe, you incinerate me.” Languorously stretching, Elaine slides a hand behind his head, tugs on his hair, then pinches an earlobe. He winces as if she just pricked him with a needle. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mike, but I needed a little rouge.” She smears his blood on her lips, wets them with her tongue, and bends across to french-kiss him, putting a hand to his cheek and pulling his reluctant face toward hers.