Average Daydreamer

By Anita Kovacevic

Priscilla is happy being a successful, single, business woman. Or is she? With her best friend's wedding approaching, she finds herself constantly daydreaming about romance with perfect men - doctors, firemen, secret agents, sexy chefs. Aiming for perfection, she tries to ignore an ordinary guy she sees every day, but he makes her feel... something. When perfection finally comes, she finds herself torn between her dreams and the reality. Perhaps dreamy perfection is just not something that ticks all her boxes. Are couples supposed to be perfect or are average relationships the stuff of life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326743253

Book preview

Average Daydreamer

Average Daydreamer

Anita Kovacevic

First edition

Copyright © 2016 Anita Kovacevic

All rights reserved.

ISBN : 978-1-326-74325-3

This work is licensed under Standard Copyright Licence

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

Published by Anita Kovacevic

Edited by Anita's Haven

Distributed by http://www.lulu.com

Dedication

To my hubbie and his infinite patience – did you know you were marrying into lunacy?

To my sister and BFF – know that you are loved and cherished – always!

To my gal pals, near and far – the world would be an empty Petri dish without you.

To my children – may you always be happy..

Foreword

Do not, I repeat with emphasis, DO NOT expect this book to change your life.

These chapters are the ramblings of a garrulous young lady who entered my mind one summer and nagged me to write her out of my head. I am forever grateful to her for making me smile, laugh, dream and cherish my loved ones, despite some serious rethinking which I was going through that year. Her silliness made me feel better and younger, and reminded me of myself when I was like that, at least a bit. Your younger self dreams big, not always noticing the magic in the ordinary around you. Eventually, life, in its infinite wisdom, strikes and opens your eyes to simplicity. And you are happy.

If my chatterbox lady makes you smile and hug someone, her mission is fulfilled. Look around you – you may be an average daydreamer, and that is completely all right!

Anita Kovacevic

July 2016

Introduction

Just sit back, relax and read. And if your significant other is nearby, read together – in silence or aloud.

Intimacy is magical.

The following story contains no magic though, just an average dreamer and her quest for real love.

Chapter 1 – NO BORDERS

'Bam!'

A bomb goes off near the hospital shelter and I cover my ears with blood-crusted hands. It doesn't deafen the noise of the battle, but it comforts me for a second. I peek through a crevice on the heavy metal door. I manage to discern Dr Bronson's silhouette through the flashes of guns, fire blazing around and clouds of wind-swept ashes masking the horrors of war.

His muscular torso rises from a pile of smouldering planks, broken furniture pieces, and dead bodies.

The other nurses and the children behind me are all crouching in the farthest corner, crying and comforting each other, already giving up on Dr Bronson. But I know he'll make it!

I watch as he rises from the tragic scene like a phoenix. He starts to move towards the shelter. Towards me! I know he knows I will not give up on him. He knows I'll wait. We've been through so much these past few months in Medics without Borders, and we rely on each other without reserve.

His strong arms are tired but he still manages to pick up and carry a child, a wounded boy, dodging bullets and moving towards me unswayed.

Ten steps more… seven steps…

Guns blaze again, louder than before. He falls! Half-blinded by the flash, I see him falter. My heart feels as if a samurai sword slashed it in two… I hear nothing else. My breathing gets so loud and deep that it muffles the war and the nurses who are trying to hold me back.

My hands open the shelter door and I run outside, desperate and fearless with love.

Dr Bronson's body lies on the ground, lifeless and not moving, like an impenetrable shield over the child's body.

My heart skips a beat, but then I hear a faint breath.

Dr Bronson lifts his head and our eyes lock. Oh relief!

When our arms intertwine, our breathing is in sync. He rises, resting on my shoulder for support. His leg is badly injured, but he still won't leave the boy. Together, we carry the child back to safety, through the wind-swept ashes and the mind-numbing noise…

***

Three months later, in our beach lodge on a secluded tropical isle, I place the breakfast tray on the white bedstand. He is still sleeping, arms stretched across both pillows, face rested and his full lips forming a sexy smile.

My Dr Bronson!

Ocean waves gently caress the sandy shore as I remove the immaculate, semi-trasparent curtains from the wall-to-wall windows.

I hear his breathing change. His husky voice calls to me.

'Good morning, Mrs Bronson!'

I turn around, proud and in love, my bare feet savouring the deep, fluffy white carpet.

Oh what a heavenly man! And all mine.

He stretches like a powerful tiger across the white sheets and his naked body makes me tremble. The mischief in his eyes is irresistible! My lips quiver and my knees feel like jelly. My thumb strokes the wedding ring from the inside of my palm.

I smile, conveying to him everything he already knows and feels himself, and more. My throat goes dry as I feel myself pulled to his muscular torso like a magnet.

He taps the bed gently. My tongue draws a wet layer over my lips.

I can't wait. I step forward and…

'Thump,' I fell from the tram seat, my face gluing itself flat on the floor, next to a set of smelly, overworn sneakers, my hands too busy clutching on to my purse instead of protecting the face.

Reality check! A major one!

I spit the filth and drool from my mouth, and struggled to unglue my forehead from the floor.

The chewing gum, which had been there for just enough time to get that semi-dry quality, had obviously been waiting to serve this particular purpose. I got up, mercilessly removing the gum from my skin, and it resisted my efforts, sneaking underneath my nails. Cheeky sod! Wet wipes helped, I hoped.

I fixed my hair and adjusted my clothes, mumbling something like 'low blood sugar' to save face, deluded into thinking anyone in the tram cared.

Gotta love cities – full of warm, caring people! Come to think of it, if anyone had tried to help, I might have gone to second base with them, mistaking them for my dream doctor.

The headphone-defeaned teenager in front of me just shuffled his feet and ignored me like one of his professors.  Well, at least he did give me the purely academic treatment, so I suppose I should have been grateful.

The elderly, posh-looking lady sitting across from my seat gave me the regal guilt-trip raised-eyebrow stare, summarizing centuries of 'what-is-wrong-with-these-modern-women' speeches into a single stare, and made her final point by tightening her lips into a thin line and turning away with scorn.

The rest of the gang were entirely minding their business, so I just sat back in my seat like a scolded child and waited for my next stop.

'Damn you, Dr Bronson-without-borders!  If you were a real man, at least you'd have caught me in time…' I silently argued with my daydream.

My thoughts wandered along the thin line between sleep and reality. I glanced at my phone for time.

'Oh my lord… How? Where did the last 10 minutes go???' I panicked.

I should have been at work already. I looked out of the window.

'Hell's bells! Two stops too far! I'll have to go back now and get my boss that extra latte with more chocolate and caramel than ever! Send some pretend work e-mails from my mobile a.s.a.p.'

My brain was good at strategizing. I began to tap on my phone as I descended the tram and started going back on foot.

'There, I bought myself one frown less!' I thought as I sent a few routine replies to my work email.

I wasn't really looking where I was going, but us city girls have a sixth sense for avoiding people in the street without even looking at them. I saw the tram approach from the opposite direction, so I sort of ran in front of it and smile-paused the driver so he'd wait for me and not slam the door in my face. He waited, so I hitched a tram ride back, saving some precious time.

My stop came almost fast enough and the driver smiled at me on my way out. He could have been cute some ten-years, a beer-belly and some receding hairline before. What ruined his chances most of all was the wedding signet which flashed from his chubby fingers holding the steering handle. Still, I smiled back. His teeth grinned and displayed leftovers of a chocolate donut. Good reminder for me!

'Oh, need a muffin, too! Don't forget the muffin!' I reminded myself.

Carlo's bakery sign smiled at me from across the street as I puffed to get closer. That bakery might as well have had a cash desk ready just for me every morning. I hopped across the tram tracks in my stilettos and scratched them again. The black marker was about to do another magic makeover cover-up later on!

'Carlo's, here I come!' my shoes sang.

I hummed my mind's musical playlist, sounding to myself like a sexy opera diva, rushing into the bakery, feeling all-too-important for my own good, only to discover I was third in line and time was less than scarce.

The Baker Boy on duty at the counter stretched his neck and caught my desperate gaze. He was no boy, mind you.

'Gosh, he's so tall! Didn't need a long stretch! Bet my face would just about rest perfectly on his strong upper arm…' I really had to be careful with my daydreams. I needed a real man with ambition.

My mouth was still dry though, remembering Dr Bronson's six-pack torso stretched out on the white sheet, like delicious cheese cake served on a China plate. He was so dreamy, that doctor of mine! Too dreamy, in fact! Only a dream, to be honest!

'Yeah, yeah, I know!' I frowned at my other self, the serious one who scolded me without a sound, just pangs of guilt.

I was second in line now. The tall Baker Boy was shuffling something in a hurry, glancing towards me from time to time with a grin.

'What's he grinning at? He can't possibly think he's being charming?!' I thought.

He soon finished serving the heavily perfumed old lady in front of me. Through her scented cloud, I saw the Baker Boy beam at me.

My eyes dropped down onto the counter before him. The extra latte and muffin were already waiting for me!

'Cho…'

'Chocolate is in!' He smirked, his blue eyes shimmering.

'Car…'

'Caramel, too.'

I frowned. Grinning below the thick brows, he added.

'You look as if you need it today!' His grin was too cheeky for a Baker Boy.

'Hmm…'

Mulling over his remark, I puffed, paid and panted out in a hurry.

'Arrogant male chauvinist! Know-it-all! I look just perfect!' I thought as I checked myself in the glassy window of the hotel where I worked. 'What does he mean 'as if I need it'?'

Sure, the hotel windows needed some cleaning, but my silhouette was immaculate. I'd even lost a bit of weight recently (thank you, zumba!) and it showed, right around my waist. I was never fat, but for a semi-flatchested girl, a waist is a major thing.

I lifted my chin and entered the lobby, marching proudly towards the elevator, ready to charm my boss into not noticing I was late. The elevator door closed and old Jake, the senior luggage guy, greeted me, raising his hand in such slow-motion that I knew he was just finishing his night shift. But his hand went for my hair, not the floor button!

'There's a piece of gum in your hair, did you know? Let me get it out!' he said, tired but kind.

I winced, then frowned, remembering the Baker Boy's grin, and told myself off, with my sound off as usual.

'Darn you, Dr Bronson! Next time – I am dreaming of you in a bathtub!'

Chapter 2 – REALITY CHECK

The name is Parker, Priscilla Parker. Cliché, I know, you know, everybody knows. But I like to introduce myself that way, seeing as I am not too crazy about my name, whilst my surname sounds independent, trustworthy, reliable and extraordinary. Right? It makes me sound kind of like Peter Parker's sister or wife, you know. Priscilla, however, sounds like the kind of a girl who would use 'whilst'. (Blah, I do hope my legendary use of the antiquated linking word in the previous sentence hasn't escaped you:)

The old-fashioned name was chosen by my grandma who was such an Elvis fan, that I am kind of glad I don't have a brother. Poor guy; Elvis Parker would have sounded so… well, cool actually! Hmmm… perhaps I should have been born a boy after all. I wonder sometimes, if life would have been more daring and different.

Anyway, I don't really like my name much. Priscilla just sounds so pristine, kind of too elegant, almost stiff, and my reflection in the mirror nowhere near reaches the idol I was named after. Ever told you why Mum agreed to call me that? Granny Gangsta Mary blackmailed my 6-month-pregnant mother into it, during a particularly nasty bout of the old lady's flu. Grandma kept gasping and sighing as if she'd die by the time I was born, claiming the name Priscilla would be her only legacy to me. The lovable old bat batted her teary eyelashes and Mum yielded. Who wouldn't? 'Granny, granny, why are your eyes so big? And why are your sighs so deep?', and all that. So Mum forsake Diana and Lydia, in hopes that kids might start calling me P if I hated Priscilla, and all would be fine. She neglected to notice kids would then gladly use both initials and call me P. P. Well, you know – pee-pee. And they often did. It made me fight for my real name harder and with more pride than I actually felt, but it worked. Plus, Elvis's Priscilla probably had the same problem when she got married. Nah, kids would never pick on the Rock'n'Roll Queen. But still… pee-pee. (Chuckle!)

Three months after the gruesome name-blackmail, there I was, Priscilla Parker, in my birth suit and matching mohawk, chubby-coaxing my indestructible grandma and the strong&silent grandpa into torrents of happy sobs, as daddy showed me off, gulping his own tears down his macho throat. He must have had such a goofy look on his face! I wish someone had photographed it, so I'd have something more to laugh at during my teenage years than just the boys' zits.

By the way, do you think I talk too much? Because sometimes I do talk too much. Usually when I am extra excited I either clam up entirely or just won't shut up. You know which of the two this is, right? But it's OK. This is my first book after all, and an autobiography of sorts, so who's to talk if not me?

Priscilla Parker, thirty-ish years old, single and proud of it. Hmm… there ARE days…. No, proud.

I work in a big city hotel, in the booking office, all phone and e-mail service (go figure – me in a communication's job). I am currently unattached, except to my books, shoes, bank loan payments (ooooh, that hurts), best pals and family. Both parents still alive, checking up on my marital status at regular intervals. I've got two sisters married, both with kids, and my grandma and grandpa are still hauling grandkids, garden and all our worries on their porose hips, slouched shoulders and glowing personalities. My dear older sisters both got lucky on two major counts – a) they both have normal names – Suzanne and Irene, and b) they both married out of the country and now lived far enough to claim bad phone lines and Internet connection breaks every time mother's phone calls got too quizzical.

So I was a bit late that morning, as you may have noticed. I was only occasionally late like that! Seldom! Not often. Every other Monday morning, after a weekend of chick-lit or romance movie-marathon, usually both. I was never very late! Only fashionably. I just dozed off a bit and missed my bus or tram or train, or whatever. No car yet. Driver's licence – check! Car – uncheck! Car plan – check! I was saving up for one and getting it by summer for sure! Getting another bank loan, I mean, but for a car. My own! Woohoo! And the bank's, till paid-off, but that was just a technicality, as long as I didn't dent it or miss a payment.

You'd met Dr Bronson that morning. Of course I knew he wasn't real, just a daydream. But oh boy, he felt so real… Wouldn't it have been dreamy to have found a guy like that? Brave, responsible, heroic, self-sacrificing, rich, steaming sexy and a doctor at that! So hell yeah, I dozed off! If my bare feet hadn't tripped over that darned cuddly thick carpet, I'd have been having dream-sex all day! It was all the non-existent car's fault! Bwaaah…

I often looked around our office. Comparing, you know. Nobody came close to Dr Bronson. 'Sorry, guys!'

Belinda from Human Resources definitely would have compared well; she was on my list if ever I chose to try out for the other team. She was honest about her gay tendencies and I appreciated her honesty, but winced at her winks. To be honest, I don't think she'd have minded me joining ranks at all. But, alas, no such plans yet. Never say never though, right?

Timmy was… oh well, an 18-year-old student. One day he might even have grown up to be a man, bulking up muscle if he kept carrying luggage like that, but he was no conversationalist, at least not in my book, as he thought comic books contained too many letters and watched video game trailers instead of movies as a cultural experience. Admit it, your eyebrows are raised now because he was simply too young for me, you think. But I am not one to judge or be prejudiced. Well, I thought so. If I ever had a daughter, I hoped a guy like him would carry her luggage, but she never carried his child. Ooops, there I go saying 'never'! Probably jinxed myself right then and there.

Petra was definitely on my team, friend-wise, I mean, being my best friend and all. She knew me inside-out, although I did keep some of my dreams to myself. Especially since she'd just been engaged, so she was trying to hook me up with guys every time I blurted out 'If only there was someone…', which I did quite often. I valued my independence, making my own decisions and all that, but then again… those lavender sheets weren't gonna crease themselves, and sometimes I did actually long for somebody to fight with over TV channels. I am firmly against split screen or double TVs. Either you're single or you fight over TV channels. It's called a relationship.

Mark was OK. He was cool. When I first started working there I had a crush on him the size of our capital. He was 40-something, grey hairs just brimming his face, body still in shape and his muscles flexing under his jacket. Nice smile, deep voice…. Ouch, that voice! But he got married. Happily, too. Kids had just come in – twins. Lovely wife, too. He