The Seventh Suitor

 This dream felt like something from the mind of F Scott Fitzgerald.

 

Her name was Lydia. She was petite, elfin, ethereal, blonde, with a smile men would kill for. We would bump into one another in formal galas, all tuxedoes and ball gowns. Lydia had a pack of six identical suitors in black tie hanging around her, all of them offering lighters to light her cigarette, but she would always detach herself from her cloud of pilot fish and swim across the ballroom to see me.

 

Tonight, she was wearing something gossamer, by the looks of it. That was all she had on, other than some jewels and a smile. Draped her arm over my shoulder. Said "Let's go to the balcony."

 

So we went. It was cool out. Like me, she didn't notice. She said "I've been trying to catch your heart for some time. Come, join me."

 

I put my arm about her waist and said "Lydia, you know I'd love to do that. But I am not going to be your seventh suitor. You want me? Here I am ... your only suitor."

 

The alarm does go off at precisely the wrong moment.