Galactic Dreams

“Breathe in the bouquet first, before you take the smallest sip,” he told her, and she obeyed.

A hush fell on the room as they touched the glasses to their lips and she raised her face in awe, tears in eyes, saying, “Why … it’s, it’s ….”

“I know,” he said with a whisper, and as he leaned forward the dim lights darkened even more and the fiddler slipped from sight. His lips brushed the white, bare flesh of her shoulder, kissed it, then moved to her throat.

“Ohh,” she gasped, and raised her hand to caress his head. “No!” she said even louder, and pulled away.

“Very close,” he smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Very close indeed. You are a creature of ardent passions; we have but to find the key.”

“Never,” she said finally, and he laughed.

As they finished their brandy the lights grew brighter and, unnoticed, a silvery blade flashed from the leg of her chair, nicked the hem of her skirt, then vanished. Ron took her hand, and when she rose the dress began to unravel and a rain of golden particles fell to the floor.

“My dress,” she gasped as she clutched at the disintegrating edge. “What’s happening to it?”

“It is going,” he said, then seated himself again so he could look on in comfort.

Faster and faster the process went and she could not stop it until, within moments, the dress was gone and, like heaped bullion, a golden mound rested about her feet.

“Black lace against white flesh,’ he said, smiling approval. “You did that just for me. With sweet pink ribbons for your stockings.”

“This is crude and rude of you and I hate you. Give me back my clothes,” she said fiercely, fists clenched at her sides, too proud to attempt to cover her wispy undergarments with her hands.

“Bravo. You are a redhead of temperament and I have to admire you. Through that door you will find a dressing room and bathing costume, for we shall swim.”

“I don’t want …” she said, but to no avail for the floor moved and carried her through the door into a discreet and elegant boudoir where a black-and-white-garbed French maid was waiting. The maid had an elegantly simple, one-piece white bathing suit on her arm, and she smiled as padded arms gripped Beatrice and flashing devices stripped her remaining clothes from her in an instant.

“Do not fret zee pretty head, mademoiselle,” the maid said, holding out the suit. “They were of no value and zee replacements you shall treasure for years, if you please.”

“I’ve been rushed, but I have no choice. None of this will do him any good,” Beatrice said, then tried to pull away as sudden clamps seized her again and something small and cold and solid was inserted into each of her delicate nostrils.

“How wonderful is the modern science,” the maid said as she patted away the last wrinkle on the skintight suit, which fitted to perfection. “Remember to breathe only through your nose and it will be like fresh breezes. Au revoir-et bonne chance.”

Before Beatrice could protest or her raised hand could touch her nose the floor opened and she fell through into the water. She kept her mouth closed and sank under its luminescent surface and found she could breathe as easily as she had always done. The sensation was wonderful, or novel to say the least. There was music, carried to her ears clearly by the conducting water, white sand glinting below. She dived and turned and would have laughed aloud, if she were able, her lovely red hair streaming behind her.

Ron swam up, handsome and tanned in a pair of white trunks to match her suit, and smiled charmingly — then twisted under and tickled her foot. She turned, smiling too, and darted away, but he followed and they did a breathless dance of three dimensions through the crystal water, around and about, free, unhampered, happy.

Deliciously tired, she floated, suspended, her eyes closed, and felt his arms against her back and the entire strong length of his body against hers and his lips on hers and hers answering ….

“No …” she said aloud, and a great bubble arose from her mouth. Her fingers tore at her nostrils and there was a sudden, brief pain as the devices were pulled free and fell, twinkling down from her hand. “I would rather die first,” she said with the last of her air.

With a gurgling woosh the pool emptied and they sat on the damp sand below. “Woman of will,” Ron said, handing her an acre-sized white towel, “I do love you. Now we shall dance, a gavotte; you will enjoy that. There is a string quartet and we will wear the costume of the proper time, you gorgeous in high white wig and low, wide decolletage ….”

“No. I’m going home.” She shivered and wrapped the towel tighter about her body.

“Of course. Dancing would be too commonplace for you. Instead we will ….”

“No. My clothes. I’m going. You cannot stop me.”

He bowed, graceful as always, and gestured her toward a door that had opened in the wall. “Dress yourself; I said violence was not for you. Violence is not your excuse.”

“I h-have no excuse,” she said through chattering teeth, and wondered why she shivered since she was so warm.