Before tonight, it's been ages since I've sat beside a figment of my
imagination and conversed with it. I was unable to grab a pillow and
grip it for its general protection; the six of them had already
encircled me with a quiet refinement and they were throbbing in sync
with the impact of my beating heart. Listening to them inhale and
exhale with precision reminded me not to freak out but just allow my
mind to act without interruption. I couldn't identify with any of
this, but maybe I didn't need to. All humans observe and when they do
they insist on explaining behavior, to attribute it to something. It
was then when my humanity finally wore out its welcome and explanation
became a sucker's game.

"George Bernard Shaw," I cautiously said.

"Huh? What are you freaking out about now?" Cecelia's tone came across
as an exhausted babysitter who left her tolerance in her other
handbag.

"It wasn't Oscar Wilde who said that thing about the tragedies in
life. It was George Bernard Shaw."

I was instantly filled with a pleasurable sense of assurance, the
kind you get when you properly silence a self-proclaimed know-it-all.

"George Bernard Shaw? Are you sure? Wait, isn't he that black guy on
CNN or something?"

Speaking with an unfathomable cockiness I said, "Yeah, I'm positive
George Bernard Shaw is the old man with the quotes while Bernard Shaw,
no George, is the guy doing the news. So who's the asshole now?"

I never knew I could feel this good about being right. The room
compensated my knowledge by giving me another image to gaze at,
knowing it would part me from the mini-dispute and only produce the
silence again. The Curious George figure upon my television began
taking baby steps towards the edge with, from what I could tell, well,
curious intentions. Little did he know that his curiosity could render
him lifeless. He lowered his head to look at how great the distance
between him and the floor really was. The way he raised his head,
looking at me and then his surroundings demanded a silent
concentration that only Cecelia and I could offer. I didn't want him
to jump. I never wanted to see a stranger's demise but my eyes weren't
about to stray from such a rare event. His petite monkey arms lifted
as he closed his eyes and plummeted forward. No screaming. No
flailing. Just quietly drifting to a surface never felt before.

The faint voice coming from Cecilia thankfully disposed of the silence
we shared.

"You're weird. If you didn't have so many weird and stupid things in
your room then none of this would be happening. I take that back; I'd
still be here but you wouldn't have little toy monkeys jumping from the top of
your television. You're such a baby. You frighten so easily. Just
because you don't really understand everything you see that doesn't
mean fear should be your number one response." Cecelia addressed me
with a drill instructor's cadence and at the same time invited
uneasiness to come and dwell inside me.

"Touch me," she said with an alluring, almost threatening confidence.
"Touch me and see what happens. Your reaction, either silent or
animated, won't matter much to me. Keep in mind that your brain is
mine, too, so we will share in your confusion and even the cute little
goosebumps."

This was really happening. Denying any of this would just be a boast
of ignorance. The pillows at my feet were now purring and lingering
around my legs like an elder cat. The belt continued to slither and
explore the carpeted floor without pause.

There was nothing more I could do but to go along with her demands. I
raised both of my hands and set them upon her head. The touch of her
hair was nothing unusual; soft and having a faint scent of some sort
of fruit combination. I ran my fingers through it using slow and
steady strokes in hopes of bringing my tension down a bit.

"Well this is quite nice," she said. Cecelia's eyes closed from
relaxation and her tongue began crossing over her lips at just about
the same pace my hands were treating her hair. All "what ifs" were
void by now and even the justification for the chills was just a
nuisance. Her tone grew with gratification, telling me, "People fear
what they don't know. Some even run from predictability." The words
would flow every so often and I would not and could not force myself
to refrain from having her hair repeatedly slip through my fingers.
She would speak to me and I knew that it was just me speaking to me. I
was sensual with my touches and I whispered the words and phrases I
knew pleased me. It was me comfortably being drawn to another version
of me. The lengthy hair might have been something I've always craved
to have as my own, but then again the explanation of most mysteries
turns them dry and uninteresting. The heartbeats of the pillows
matured, throbbing like a pulsating bass line. My fingers flaunted
every hue my imagination could muster and as the colors were
surprising even me, Cecelia softly spoke, "You know, Freud says we are
never so helplessly unhappy as when we lose love. If this were an
ending or our final meeting I would say 'Bye' or 'So long'. It's not like you're losing me. We both know we'll meet again, especially for as much as you talk to yourself. Continue to love your imagination and continue to love me."

It felt so abnormal; the words that would come from my
brain were used to soften the blow of receiving a temporary farewell
from no one else but me. The long hair between my fingers faded with
its trademark scent and soon its appearance as well. A belt that was
enjoying the life I gave it was now lying inactive at the iron foot of
the bed. All imaginary colors crept away and the natural tints of my
bookcase, the walls, and even my fingers were returned with a required
disappointment. I stood empty handed, gazing at the cover of a medical
terminology book where I, or Cecilia, somehow appeared and then sat
and spouted thoughtful one-liners and incorrect words of wisdom. Only
seconds ago I disputed my image from a distance and ran my fingers
through my hair. To say that this incident between me and myself will
never occur again is highly inaccurate. It might be a setting unlike
the previous and I might be camping out in another age bracket but my
imagination and I will still be in love.

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