MAN OF MY DREAMS

Have you ever wondered about your dream man (or woman)? It's a very popular question asked by many a chat show host or women's magazine. I'm sure most of us do from time to time create an image in our minds of the person we would most like to encounter. Take me for example – a working class 30-something, housewife, two wonderful kids, a husband that works all the hours God sends – I do occasionally find myself floating off to some distant, exotic place where the men are to die for and I am spoilt for choice. Don't get me wrong, I love my husband dearly but wouldn't it be boring if we didn't have the odd little romantic fantasy now and again?

There was this one time when I believed I had met that man. I had just been for an interview for my ideal job: hours to suit my family, good money, comfortable surroundings – a dream job in itself ( but that's another story). Not having been for an interview for many years I found myself all of a dither and not feeling I had answered their trying questions as well as I might have. I didn't hold out much hope.

The interview ended at such a time that meant I would only have 7 minutes to complete a 10 minute journey to catch the 4.30 train home. If I went quickly enough I might just make it, especially as trains being trains, it would probably be late leaving anyway.

So, heavily laden with papers in one hand, clutching my bag with the broken handle in the other caused by getting it trapped in the garden gate and tugging to release it that morning), the lift being out of order (surprise, surprise), I flew down five flights of stairs and out the revolving door (which got stuck half way around because someone had stepped too close to it) and on to the busy main street. I walked at an Olympic style pace, dodging numerous people as I went. Hoping to avoid the masses before me, I slipped down a side road and began to run as fast as my legs could endure.

Smack! I ended up on my bottom, slightly dazed, papers strewn all about me. The man, also on his bottom, manoeuvred himself to a kneeling position and proceeded to gather the numerous documents, soggy and dirtied due to the earlier heavy downpour. Still dazed, I eyed him up and down. A very pleasant looking man: about my age, maybe a bit older, slick, black hair, sparkling eyes to match, nicely proportioned nose and chin, cherry red, kissable lips. His build was athletic. He wore a crisply tailored three-piece pinstripe suit, matching lilac and white-collared shirt and tie and a ¾ length dogtooth overcoat.

“My, someone is in a hurry! We'll have you on your way in not time.” His voice was soft and kind. I said and did nothing, just looking on in shock and embarrassment. Pulling myself together, I quickly snatched up the last couple of pieced of paper and forced them into my already bursting, broken bag and attempted to stand. I wobbled slightly. The man steadied me, placing one hand about my waist and the other strong, masculine, manicured hand into my hand. He brought me to a standing position. We were face to face, our vapours clashing in the cold evening air, the aroma of his fresh crisp scent filled my nostrils causing my knees to weaken slightly.

He looked concerned, “You look as if you could do with a sit down and a warm drink inside you. There's a café over there; I'd be glad to escort you.”
“But my train...” I was about to say, looking at my watch, realising it was due to depart at that moment. Instead I said nothing but allowed him to guide me in the direction of the seedy looking backstreet café. As we walked he held one arm across my back believing that I may still be unsteady on my feet. He introduced himself as Richard. Yet I said nothing, only glancing at him with a slight nod to acknowledge his introduction. He prompted me, “Oh... sorry... my name is... Michelle... Michelle Munroe.”

Arriving at the café, he held the door open and ushered me inside. He placed his two strong hands about my shoulders with a gentle force requiring me to sit in a chair nearest our entrance. As he walked over to the counter I gazed at him. “I'm sure I've seen this man somewhere before. Richard... that does ring a bell,” I thought to myself - remembering his crisp scented odour and his powerful but gentle hands – but from where I could not quite grasp.

He brought two coffees to the table and then sat in the chair opposite to mine. “I'm afraid you have probably missed your train by now.” He had guessed my destination from the direction in which I was running. Regaining composure I agreed and went on to explain about the interview and the shortcut I had attempted to take in order to reach my train on time. “Don't worry, we'll get you to your next train in plenty of time, and you won't have to break your neck doing it,” he smirked, as did I.

Slightly ashamed of my ignorance, I remembered that I had not actually apologised to him for causing him to be in this situation. “Do forgive me,” (cheeks flushing the colour of very ripe tomatoes) “I'm ever so sorry for bumping into you like that. I do hope you are not hurt in any way?”
“Oh, just a bruise here, and... yes... one here... let me see... No, really, just joking. I'm quite all right. It is you whom I am concerned for; how are you?”
“Feeling much better, thank you,” much better for seeing you; a sight for sore eyes, was what I wanted to say but left it at that.

We talked for ages. This was unreal; we liked the same music, the same food, the same films. You name it, we had it in common. AS we talked I did not allow myself to glance away from his eyes, the most gorgeous deep, sapphire-blue. Richard was the most handsome, kind, caring, funny , talented gentleman I had ever had the pleasure to meet.

Time was getting on. Richard glanced up at the clock on the nicotine stained, once white walls of the smoky, grease smelling café, things which I hardly noticed in his presence. “I suppose I had better be getting you to your train,” he said with a slightly disappointed tinge to his voice. He got up, came around to my side of the table and held out a hand which I clasped rising from my seat. My hand felt so comfortable in his I didn't want to let go. All the way to the station he draped one arm around my back as he had done previously but this time it was not to steady me.

“Well this is my platform,” I sadly murmured, looking towards the ground. Taking a few steps towards me Richard replied, “Bumping into you has been the greatest pleasure I have had for quite some time.” He hooked one finger under my chin and lifted my head so that our eyes were fixed. My heart began to beat to the tempo of a train presently passing by the station. Ever so slowly we edged closer and closer both desperate to hold the other's gaze. Still moving closer, a thought popped into my head, “I can't do this, I'm a married woman! My children!” Closer. Closer still. Another train whizzing by; my heart sat upon it. Suddenly I hear a noise in the distance. I try desperately to ignore it. The noise getting louder still. Richard's perfectly moulded lips almost touching my frosty pink made up lips... Closer... Closer........

Just then I sat bolt upright. My daughter in her cot at my said, whining that familiar whine she does most nights when she needs her mother's comfort. I pick her up, console her. She is happy again.

Getting back into my bed I looked at my husband. One strong, masculine hand lay above his untidy, usually slick, black hair. I affectionately ran my finger along his well proportioned nose, his cherry red lips and equally proportioned chin. Those lips; I could not help myself but kiss them. Then it struck me, “That's funny, I'm sure I was just dreaming about him.” Feeling slightly puzzled, I lay watching my husband for a good few moments until eventually I fell into a deep sleep.