The cello awakes me. She awakes me. Again, that music reaches my soul as I lie here in the afternoon sun seeping through the window shades. No blankets are on my body. I am naked to the world; Cleo’s world.  The Planet Cleo, where all is plentiful and beautiful and given with no remorse or any anger whatsoever. The planet feeds on another planet, Planet Daddy, and then feeds me. The goods are bountiful. Luxury never ends.

She comes into the bedroom where I’m having a delicious dream of my newfound love with no name. The structure of her body. The long hair tied in a bun like a school teacher from my youth. That voice. Such a lovely voice. So giving. So charitable.

I dream of her kissing me under blankets on a beach. Or in a tavern bathroom with the latch locked and women pounding on the door to get in. We are laughing. We are holding each other. Her right leg wrapped around my waist up against the sink where water flows, and her ass slips in my hands. I awake with a smile on my face.

Dreaming? Cleo asks. I sheepishly nod head and smile. About me? Yes, I whisper as I pull her down on me. Yes.

But I can’t stop thinking of the ballerina in Kurtz’s Tower. A place where I laid my head on a futon upon the floor. A folded jacket for a pillow. A coat for a cover. What has she done with the place? I wonder. Is all the bamboo gone? Does it no longer smell of cat piss and Limberger cheese, old cold cuts, rotted lettuce, incense left behind, reeking of Sunday Mass. Jesus, how I missed it.

And I lie here with Cleo on top of me with her eyes shut. Who is she dreaming of ? Not me, I’ll bet. Not me.