He sat on the edge of the bed, music from his sterio playing so loud, that it would have drowned out either the scrape of pen on paper, or the tap tap of two finger typing, if there had been any. The latest masterpiece was not though maigically making it's much longed for appearance. At that moment, the lack of insperation creation matched the emptiness of head, devoid of any ideas. Littered around the floor were screwed bits of paper each with a broken dream of grandeur started on them, none with a finished article.

As the music played, he asked himself once, "Why?" Here he was in his forties alone, TV dinner in the freezer for later, and no future. He had lost everything; the courts had seen to that. When his divorce went through and he had given up his job along with his marriage. He had seemed to wake from a coma and realized there was more to life than what had gone before. Hence, here he was now alone, trying to become a creative writer, be it poems, stories, songs, advertisments, anything. He just wanted to create, that is, if his current mental block ever broke.

His thoughts turned to the past as they had often done during the comatose days of the loveless marriage. Thoughts of loves from his youth. Wishes, turning into dreams, regrets and what ifs. The girl, whom he should perhaps have treated better. What if he had not broken of his engagement? What if he had chosen the other girl of the two? What if. But ifs are dreams and dreams disappear in the morning light.

He remembered a girl from long ago. They had virtually grown up together. She was a best friend rather than a sister figure in his early days. Last time he had seen her was twenty years ago; he had gone home to find her visiting his parents, and taken her out for the evening. Though both were just happy to see each other again, both knew by the end of the evening that when they got back into the car, they would share something they had never done as young children. The kiss, when it came, had been one he could swear he still remembered after all this time, or was that a dream as well. He had thought to see her again, but times, miles, and other interests meant that nothing further happened. Sure he had heard news about her via his family, and had been saddened by much of it, but he had never thought to contact her.

Well, he was a creative writer, wasn't he? Or at least that is what he was meant to be. So be creative, he told himself. Write to her, contact the family and find out the address. He got on the phone and found out the little girl called Sam he had once climbed trees with was now Mrs. Samantha Jones.

The next day he wrote a letter, not too personal, just saying what had happened in his life and over the last year or so, how he was trying to pick up lost threads from his past, and how she was one of them. He ended with the fact that he hoped she was well and they could get back in contact again. The next day he posted the letter and waited to see if the dream could ever become a reality.

A few days later, a pale yellow envelope was sitting there on the mat when he arrived back from another fruitless trip to a publisher. It was from Sam. She sounded so pleased he could swear he heard her laugh as he read her letter. She said how pleased she was to hear from him, and some information about what had happened in her life. But most of all at the top of the page was a phone number. Without thinking, he straightway telephoned her, his heart giving a little leap as she answered the phone.

The years rolled back as they chatted, and they were the same young couple from all those years ago. Talking with her was so easy, and he found that he was able to tell her things he had kept bottled up inside of him for ages. From the things she said, it was clear her life had not been a happy one, but the more they talked the more it was twenty plus years ago. They were as close as if they had never lost contact at all. More letters followed the phone call, and eventually he plucked up his courage and asked her out.

Come the night of their meeting, he was not worried, knowing that everything would be all right before she opened the door. And when she did, it was the same Sam, a little older, but the laughter was there in her eyes, the warmth in her smile, and he was twenty years old once again. Time did not matter as the evening turned into morning, and talking, led to lips touching, and no words needed to be spoken after that.

When he left in the morning, time seemed to have run backwards, he felt like a twenty year old, full of the joys of first love. That night they had laid bare both their hearts and souls. Already they knew more about each other than people who had been together for years. The words and the actions had come so easy, and the future now had a meaning, a target, a star was there pointing the way to all that he had dreamed of and longed for. He knew no matter what, they would be there for each other from then on.

The days went by in a dreamy haze, and every moment with Sam was so natural, so right, so as it should be. His heart grew with the love he once had lost, only to find it again all these years later. So like a cork popping from the champagne bottle they used to celebrate their engagement, so his creative talent unblocked.

He wrote songs, he wrote poems, and on the day they got married came news of his first book being published. But of all these writings, his first song that he written on the day after their initial meeting became perhaps his most famous.

The simple words that said how good it was to make a dream come true.

"Me and Mrs Jones, we got a thing going on."

Barry Eva 1998