She sat by the window in her small kitchen stirring her coffee absentmindedly and thinking about the dream that came to her again last night. In it the moon was rising over a field, its light reflecting off the snow in a pale glow. A line of evergreens stood sentry in the distance. Everything was still. She stood waiting, smelling the cold rather than feeling it. And then they were there, surrounding her, their eyes glowing grey, blue, and golden in the moonlight. She was unafraid, as always, knowing the wolves to be more friends than beasts of prey. The dreams never lasted long, and they left her aching for more. She wanted to reach out and touch them, to feel the softness of their fur and the warmth of their bodies.
The phone ringing in the hallway returned her to the present. She let it ring while she finished her coffee and thought about the day. She had a meeting with Mr. Carlson about the feature she was to write then she would be free to head over to the museum to interview the curator of the temporary Chagall exhibit. Then it was back to the tiny newsroom in the failing town newspaper to write the story.
This morning her coffee did little to dissipate the fog of longing left over from her dream. As she went through the motions of her day the dream stayed with her–more real than Mr. Carlson or the curator at the town museum. More real than the girl at Starbucks handing her her afternoon coffee.
But somehow she got through the day. She arrived home and went right to bed. Within moments they were there again, the pack. Her pack. This time she willed herself to stay asleep as the wolves moved closer. She could feel their breath on her skin. She reached out to touch the nearest wolf, a grey female with pale blue eyes, and stroked her fur. She felt a tug of recognition. In her dream tears ran silently down her face.
She awoke sobbing, her hand still reaching.
bethdeitchman 