what would the dream be

The elderflowers were wonderful in bloom around them, the air sodden with their blessed nose as heady as mouthfuls of scotch. He felt almost delirious and felt himself clenched for sugars. What would the dream be? It would end in apologetic kissing, scrabbling for each other’s hands as though they were bannisters of normalcy until their palms were scratched. Please, he said. Just kiss me quietly. They stared about for familiar faces and saw none, and he moved himself very close in towards her body and felt her breath, her chest rising, felt the fine hairs on her arms. He closed his eyes and let himself drift and hoped she would catch him. Her hair smelt alive over or with the elderflowers. His arms were incredibly heavy, and when after three minutes or perhaps even more he again opened his eyes she was gone, he could see her receding along the track with a small group of friends. He wiped the middle and fore-fingers of his left hand on the thighs of his chinos and stuck them to the back of his throat, felt the rasp of the air-dry skin on his soft palate, the depths of his mouth like obscure landscapes unplotted, the soft soaked guts of the world, and he prodded the two fingers gently then firmer until he could feel his luncheon churning for release, and he puked it up into the dry earth worn to sand at his feet, the coarse burping and the cruel sound of escaping gases as one with the birdsong. There were tears on his face and he wiped his mouth and felt strings of thick mucus drawn in webs across it. He stood and began to run after her but she was out of sight. He would keep on running regardless. No track is of endless distance.