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My own father must have taken me there, but he wasn't around. There was the huge slot-car track, and the air was thick with the whine of small cars racing. There was the scent of electricity and metal and oil so light it looked like maple syrup. The whole scenario made so little sense that I urged myself awake. The racing cars started sounding like a sewing machine, but once I was fully conscious I could hear how Christy was puttering around in her room getting all her computer stuff up and running. It was a noisy job.I was in the kitchen brewing up the afternoon pot when Christy stepped in the room. Her arms held something behind her back. "Ready for a surprise?" she piped. I nodded in reply. I wasn't big on surprises, but hers had me intrigued.She flapped her arms and unfurled, holding up against her frame the completed shirt, her mother's unfinished project. It looked beautiful, and I said so."Guess sewing is like riding a bike," she gleamed at the compliment.I reached out to. He loved the sound of her laughter and the way her eyes lit up when something she perceived as wonderful caught her attention – be that a brightly colored leaf, a good book, or the smile of a child. Most of all, however, he loved the look that crossed her face and the wave that flowed up the body each time her mind wandered past an erotic fantasy. She was a sexual being, sensuous and passionate. He wanted her, needed her, had to have her. Such was his state as he eased into the bed next to her, tentatively reaching out to caress her skin in the moonlight. A small sigh escaped her lips, and he found himself wondering where she was in her world of dreams. He pressed his lips to her neck, tasting the salty flavor of her skin. It was then that she moved, that her eyelids fluttered, and his heart raced. 3:45. The numbers on the digital clock by the bed cast a green glow over the room as her eyes fluttered, and she was pulled from her dream, where she was meeting him again for the first.
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