These Dreams of You

~ ~ ~

Pushing away from the table, he gets up. “I, uh, should head back. They’re looking for me by now.” He hesitates. “Want to walk?” No, Jasmine realizes, this isn’t a man who fancies being alone; when he can, he bullies his way through his reserve, when he gets through at all. She says to Reg, “You have your session tomorrow,” and looks for a clock on the wall but there is none. “Or today, I mean.”

Reg answers, “Not till noon,” passing up the out she’s given him, or too dim, she thinks, to realize she’s given it. Bob gets up from the table and he’s small like his hands; inside his clothes, his small frame sinks with exhaustion. “Don’t fancy a taxi?” asks Jasmine.

“No.”

“Where you staying?” asks Reg.

“Over near the park,” says Bob, and both Brits laugh again. In the dark of the club the Yank flushes again, and again has to compel himself to smile at whatever he’s said that they find so damned ridiculous. The three step outside the pub. In the late-night hours there’s still scattered traffic and taxis gliding by. “We’re in London,” says Jasmine, “more than a few parks. Not like New York where you might say ‘the park’ and everybody assumes you mean the big one.” Bob nods. “Right,” she says, “so you know which park?”

“I can never remember the name,” says Bob.

Reg says, “Hotel?”

“I’m, uh, not at a hotel.”

“Residence,” says Jasmine.

“Yes.”

“Hyde Park,” she says.

“No.”

“Green Park, over near the palace.”

“No.”

“St. James.”

“No.”

“Regent’s.”

“Yes.”

“You think it’s Regent’s?”

“It’s Regent’s,” the Yank says.