Re: [Dreams: Tristan & Misha]
Misha, he smelled pure. Not medicinal, not antiseptic, but like something above. Especially here, dreaming, where there wasn't a whole lot of nothing between what the boy was and what the boy thought, and he reckoned this man was different from him. It wasn't anything defined by language, but it was something felt to the tip of the boy's blue-shimmer toenails, visible on bare feet sticking out some from under that white sundress. The wind was light, and it whipped Misha's fair hair some off his forehead. Fair and fine, fragile almost, like everything 'bout the long-limbed child in the weeded grass.
The dream was solid, despite all its brilliance. It didn't have hazy edges to it any, and there wasn't anything transient feeling 'bout the space. It didn't seem the kind of dreaming where things could change fast, only to be explained away by a slumbering mind tying ribbons 'round incongruity.
Only piano, said the rough voice.
And then there was one. It was a piano painted, set in the midst of flowers and sky and clouds, and the boy looked on over at it. He laughed some, like it was real interesting to see it there, and then he looked on back at the man come calling. "Reckon that's convenient," he said, and he lowered his fiddle a moment, setting it in the white tenting of fabric 'tween thighs. "What kind of music are you keen on? I know all kinds," he said, and Misha was real obliging, sleeping or waking. "I got myself a boy I like real well. You know anything might work nice for a boy someone likes real well?" he asked trusting, as if men walking into fields had real good answers 'bout things. "I don't reckon he likes my style of music so much, so I wanted something different. He helped me, see, when things got real bad, and I wanted to do something nice in return."
The word bad, it brought a thunderclap with it, but just the one, and the shadow that coated the sky for just an instant was more illusion than anything feeling real.