These Dreams of You

~ ~ ~

Reg says, “I was four when the war ended. Think I remember listening on the radio, Churchill and the King waving to the crowd from some bloody balcony or other. The palace, I imagine.”

“You, uh, wouldn’t remember the Blitz,” says Bob, “not if you were four. The Blitz was over by the summer of ’41.”

“That’s when I was born,” and Reg immediately realizes he’s just blurted his real age. Missing nothing, Jasmine laughs. “Anyway,” he says, looking at her sheepishly, “I wasn’t in London. I’m from Andover, in Hampshire.”

“So how is it you were living in London?” Jasmine asks the Yank, still laughing at Reg.

Always uncertain what’s so damned funny, Bob answers, “My father worked here.”

“What sort of work was that?” says Reg. He lights a cigarette and offers one to the other man, who waves it off. “Right,” says Jasmine, “it’s a bit of a walk from here to Regent’s,” and the three stop, gazing around. “Not really me town,” Reg explains to the Yank. “She’s the native.”

“I’m not a native. I’m not even English.”

“You’re English,” he puffs his cigarette, “you’ve been English since you were bloody two years old.”

“Well,” says Bob, “I know I walked to the pub where I met you.”

“Not saying it can’t be done,” she answers, “and, you know, the longest way round is the shortest way home, eh? Did you realize you had gone that far?”

“I suppose not. I was looking for the theatre district.” He says, “I don’t mind the walk,” the three still stopped in the street. “I’ll, uh, be able to get some sleep when I get back. I won’t on the plane tomorrow. I understand if you two want to take off.”

“Going back to New York, then,” says Jasmine.

“No,” and Jasmine can see in the dark the provocation of the Yank’s blue eyes as they regard her, his hands in his pockets like it’s the most casual thing in the world — in some ways it’s the most casual he’s been all night — when he says, “South Africa.”