The Woman Who Dreams of Men

In a little apartment on the southside of town, there’s a woman who sits in her window thinking. She thinks of a variety of things, like what to wear, what she should grab for lunch, the time, when she is meeting her friends for drinks. But often her mind trails to men. It’s not that she’s lonely; far from it. It’s not even that she wants marriage or children because that’s not it either. She just sits and dreams of men because they can be so attractive and the best ones are so romantic that they can turn a gloomy day into a fairy tale. Plus, a really good one can make all the other women, and some men, extremely jealous and as we all know, jealousy makes you feel superior.

The woman brushes a couple of hairs out of her eyes and stares up at the cloudless blue sky. Her mind wanders for a moment then fixes on Vincent Price. She smiles thinking of his seductively evil voice and distinctive features. She remembers watching films of him when she was young and wonders if it’s creepy to have had a crush on him since high school. She recalls his younger days when he was particularly handsome and laughs at how she lied to her friends about liking Gene Simmons instead. It was a total fallacy. Gene Simmons wasn’t really her type. She always liked men with a more scholarly appeal. Dating a man with a regal air was always so appealing to her. It was another reason she liked Hugo Weaving, who reminded her quite a bit of Price. If she had to substitute one for the other, they both seemed about equal.

A walk to the kitchen produces a glass of orange juice and she returns to the windowsill as the curtain blows in the breeze. She looks down into the orange pulpy liquid and takes a sip. Her conscience begins to ask what it would be like being with a chef. A man who can cook, and not just well, but perfectly. The kind of man who is a culinary expert and loves to make you banquets at all hours of the day. She thinks through all the men she wouldn’t mind having in her kitchen, like Emeril or Wolfgang. She is perfectly willing to sacrifice good looks or a great voice for the sake of a decent meal that she doesn’t have to leave home for, having no ability to cook herself.

Below on the street, a teenage boy restocks the rack filled with Pennysaver newspapers probably having no idea that some of the other local teens like to throw them around the street in the dead of night. Looking down the street, she reminisces about an old painting she’s seen, but can’t remember the name or the artist. It makes her wonder what it would be like to have an artist for herself. She tries to think of a single name, but hardly any come to mind. DaVinci, Cezanne, Degas, Van Gogh… She stops on Van Gogh remembering how he’d cut off part of his ear and given it to a prostitute. A disturbing thought, and she doesn’t remember if it was for love or not, but it certainly couldn’t have helped him earn the woman’s heart if it had been. She sticks out her tongue appalled at the thought.

The woman sips at her orange juice listening to the world. She can hear cars and people, but faintly she hears someone in the building playing a piano. It sounds like rain with its calming tones and gentle rhythms all. She smiles realizing it’s Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata being played in the middle of the afternoon. She wonders if Mozart was really as much of a party-goer as history makes him out to be. She considers if Salieri was really such an horrible man. She sways ever so slightly in rhythm to the music as it plays on under the careful precision of the person playing. It’s obviously someone practiced and capable as the master himself striking the sad, yet comforting notes with loving care. She wonders what it would have been like to be able to love one of the old composers of yore. She sighs floating away with the music and only coming back when the last of the notes are played and the final one fades to oblivion.

She slips back inside to put on her shoes because she is going out to lunch with her mother. She pulls on her red pumps, which match her read dress, as a knock sounds on the door. She opens it and her mother and her go out to the café for sandwiches and coffee. Her mother asks her if she’s found a nice boy yet. The woman replies that she hasn’t found anyone yet. The mother says that it’s because her expectations are too high, and that if she’ll probably end up with an accountant or poor teacher anyways so she’d better get her head out of the clouds. The woman sighs and looks out the window.