This morning I managed to wake up three times before finally crawling out of bed at 9.30. Every time I fell asleep again and kept on dreaming the same dream.
I am again with her and we are in the changing room of a swimming-pool (curiously enough the changing room is mixed, but we are alone). She starts undressing in front of me while I am intently looking at her, though trying not to be too obviously eager to see her naked. First she takes off the upper part of her bathing suit and she reveals a dramatic lack of breasts. Not only is her chest as flat as that of a pubescent boy, but it is also quite skinny, so that I can see her breastbone very clearly. I catch myself thinking where she might be hiding her breasts which are actually round and fleshy. Her skin is also very white, whereas her real complexion is darker. Then she goes on taking off the lower part of her bathing suit, after a short hesitation. I don't want to be too intrusive, but I simply have to keep on staring at her. Her vulva is neither shaven nor hairy, as I expected. In any case it is not a furry triangle, but only a soft line running from her pubis down to her labia, which I catch a glimpse of. I am about to ask her: "So it's not true that you don't shave at all, is it?", but now I can't remember if I refrain from doing so or if just thinking about it makes my question audible.
Then we go outside and walk to her car. While walking, I put an arm around her shoulders, touching one of them with my hand. She gives me an astonished look and draws back pointing out that we are not engaged to each other so that I would be allowed to treat her like that. But I reply that one needn't be engaged to a girl to walk this way with her. When we are sitting in the car, I turn to her and she is no longer there. She has transformed into him. We are no longer in Italy, but in London, and we have to ride through the whole of France to go back to Italy - and he has to go to work on the same day. We stop for a stroll in a sort of dilapidated Oxford street: narrower than the real one, full of pedlars and rubbish on the pavements. It might be in Whitechapel and not in the West End, but I feel that we are in Northern London (but it's not Camden, though). I look at my watch and see that it's twenty to nine. I turn to him and say that it's actually twenty to eight, because we are in England. I ask him if I should take on some driving and he just answers: "We shall see". Needless to say: distances are nothing in our dreams and in this one too I seem to believe that we are going to ride through France in no time at all. And that's the end of the dream. I finally get up. While having breakfast I feel a tingle of desire running through my body. A tingle which doesn't become a pang, but which is more the physical memory of a Sehnsucht and gives me neither pleasure nor pain. I am flabbergasted.
(She and he have only one thing in common, as far as I know. How important that is is left to specialists to establish, not to me).
Come to think of it: although I am not skinny, my breastbone and my shoulderblades are quite visibile when I'm naked. And my complexion is white (I never get tanned). In my dream I saw myself reflected in her: she was my mirror. She has often been.