***************************

He stood outside her dream, on tiptoe in the dark between his mind and hers, afraid to go in and unable to leave.

Michael lay on his back on his bed, eyes screwed shut and breathing irregularly as he struggled to stay focused on her dream in his, walking without touching the ground.

Out here, the faint glow of her being at the periphery of his view was pulsating, and he briefly wondered if this had been the best idea. He felt like a voyeur, hiding behind a curtain, and feared losing concentration. Imagine if Maria found him sleeping, curled up like an infant at the edge of her dream. Things would not go well for him.

"Maria" he thought. "Let me in."

He didn't think she wouldn't know, of course; he'd be surprised if she didn't figure it out right away and send him spiraling out. He had to try, though, and somehow approaching her like this was less threatening than the alternative.

She slept, wrapped around a green comforter she hugged to her chest like a security blanket, cradling the pillow her golden hair was spilt upon. Her lips were twisted in a sad frown, and in the stark accuracy of his vision, he saw the spots where her tears had left tiny, damp spots on the sheets. He looked away and looked ahead.

He pressed his ear to the invisible barrier that kept him from penetrating her mind.

"Michael."

He breathed. Then he stepped inside.

In Maria's dream, it was hazy and dim, like twilight on a breathtaking autumn afternoon. He saw her immediately, sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"Do you have to ask before you invade my privacy?" she wondered.

"No" he admitted, softly. "I just thought I should..." Then he realized what he was saying and shut up.

She looked at him, and he looked at himself.

"Is this how you see me?" he asked.

Maria furrowed her forehead.

"Something wrong?"

"I look normal."

"So what?"

He wanted to explain how that affected him; that she saw him as himself, and not a projection of him, slicked back and combed and tied with a pretty red bow. Or else crawling, hurt and beaten, on a bed of coals. But that wasn't what she wanted to hear, so he kept it for another time, on his list of things to ponder at length.

"Nothing" he said. "So nothing."

"So why did you come here, then?" she inquired. "To talk around in circles? Because I'm not in the mood for it, Michael, not now and certainly not here. If I can't be alone in my own head, it's pretty bad."

"I wanted to talk" he said, feeling vulnerable and loathing it. "Not in circles."

"There's nothing to talk about" she answered. "Nothing left to discuss. It was a good time, right? You just obviously weren't in to it." She blushed furiously at her words. "You were, but..."

His expression cut her short.

How could he tell her how *there* he was, the whole time? How he'd sell his soul for another chance to touch her or kiss her, when all she could remember was him looking down at her with a face that defied stone.

"You can make love to me, but you can't love me."

"Maria..." he said, helplessly. "Don't do this."

"Do what?" she challenged. "Ask to not be dangled around like your puppet? Please, Michael, tell me you've learned that much about human nature."

Swing and a hit. He looked stricken.

"Look" she buried her face in her hands. "I can't... I need to sleep, all right? Let me dream in peace. We can try to talk tomorrow."

He couldn't agree, yet he was powerless to protest.

"What's the difference between today and tomorrow?" he wondered.

"Five hours" she replied succinctly, her doe eyes weary more than tired.

"Until the first bell in school later this morning."

He closed his eyes.

"I'll meet you" she continued.

Their eyes met and, for a split second, he could count the contractions in his mind as he tried to let go of hers.

Leave now.

He didn't have to turn to walk away, just left her sitting there, in her sleep, in the swirling dark haze that was redolent of...

*************

Roses.

She couldn't quite place her finger on it until the moment her eyelids fluttered opened, squinting and swollen in the dizzy shards of sunlight falling through her half-closed window. It was that picture, her curtains flapping in the lazy breeze, that made her groan, as the events of the previous night came over her in a torrent.

Michael.

All of the sudden, the stickiness of her cheeks, the remnants of old tears made sense, and to spite herself, she rolled over slowly, to make sure (against hope) that she was alone in her bed. She felt cold, and more tired that when she had fallen asleep.

Maria couldn't even think about dealing with his dreamwalking, so she found the floor with her feet and got up, wobbling at the effort of staying upright. Only then did the scent hit her, a sweet, fresh wave reminiscent of other girls' Valentine's Days and an old bottle of Avon perfume that she had cherished as a little girl. She didn't connect the dots, though, until she tripped to her window, and leaned out.

"Oh my God" she murmured.

Roses.

Red, dewy, and full, some as big as her hand, the tangled and spilled over the neatly laid brick path that separated the lawn from the formerly dead garden. Overnight they had blossomed, reaching over each other to peek at her with their full, crimson faces, lacing the air with their sensual aroma, forming a large clump that was somehow confine to the area under her bedroom window.

She stumbled back.

What was that he had said last night? *Maria! Remember when I told you I couldn't use my powers?....*

And then a whisper, somehow borne to her on the silence of the night air, a single go-between from the distance in his breath to hers, something she shouldn't have possibly heard, but did, somehow.

*I would.*

*I did.*