In the dream he sat in a vast dark movie theater and on the screen was Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Dana Wynter, whom he still thought the most beautiful actress of her time, was just about to fall asleep and in so doing become one of the pod people and he was in seventh grade again and watching the movie in the State Theater and held spellbound not only by the beautiful noir writing and directing but mostly there was just Dana Wynter, the luxuriant elegance of that face, the silken dark hair and silken dark gaze, domestic and exotic in equal parts-and now, as always in the dream, he cried out for her to not close her eyes, not to become one of the pod people, cried out to no avail…
Knocking woke him.
Disoriented, he had to put his circumstances together one word at a time. Ship. Cabin. Sleep. Dream. Knock. Door.
"Huh?" he said, peering through the safety chain.
She wore her white terry-cloth robe again. Her hair looked a bit mussed. Her wonderful mouth looked forlorn.
"They gave me a new cabin," she said. Moonglow made a nimbus of her blond hair. "Yes."
"But I couldn't sleep."
"Ah."
"I tried."
"Umm."
"But I couldn't."
"Uh."
"You're not awake, are you?"
"Mhrmw."
"What?"
He shrugged.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He shrugged again.
"I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm just lonely and afraid. Not even telling Aberdeen everything helped. Well, not 'telling her.' Writing her, actually. I mean, I put everything down. Everything he said to me-you know about that really annoying guy-and everything I said to him. I had quite a bit of champagne and even told him about that United pilot and what we did in the bathroom that time. And then how he was stabbed and all and…"
By now he was sufficiently awake that he could say, "Do you want to come in?"
"Do you ever sleep with women?"
"As often as I can."
"I'm serious, Mr. Tobin."
"Please don't call me Mr." He wondered if his dreaded sleep-breath (which the army could use as the ultimate weapon) was wafting in her direction. "It makes me feel even older than I am."
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right."
"But do you?"
"Sleep with women?"
"Yes."
"As in sharing a bed with rather than making love?"
"Yes, on occasion when I've been heartbroken or especially lonely, women have been nice enough to do that for me, and on occasion I've been nice enough to do that for women in similar circumstances."
"I need to be held."
"All right."
"Very tightly."
"All right."
"I need to be a little girl again."
"All right."
"But I really don't want to be touched. Not sexually."
"All right."
"Really?"
"Really."
"It's a lot to ask."
He leaned over and kissed her, nuclear breath or not, on the forehead. Chastely. The way he did his daughter when she was but a year and sleeping with her fuzzy pink bear.
Her body was more wondrously curved than he'd even imagined and at first there in the dark, her lying against him, the water and the moonlight inviting immemorial urges, it had been difficult indeed but then she'd begun to cry, so softly he'd been moved far more than he would have thought possible, and then he had a frank and a sharp discussion with his penis about decorum and appropriateness and giving-Cindy-my-word, and finally then, next to her sweet scent and sweeter warmth, he fell asleep.