While Tim’s hair raising dream screams were not a nightly occurrence, they appeared with unnerving semi-regularity, and Ronnie had moved from mild concern to serious worry, mixing in an inner touch of annoyance. She had been pushing Tim to call Dolores and get to work on finding cause and solution.

For his part, or so the story went, Tim felt rather sheepish calling about dreams. He claimed his purpose for seeing Dolores was some mild lingering feeling of bisexuality. And bisexuality was hardly something for her to be concerned about – Ronnie had occasional moments of attraction to other women, though she had never acted on such feelings.

Tim could be distant – his eyes looking well beyond her into some unfilled space where thoughts rattle around and are lost. That had been true from the first, and she was quite used to it. Distant was different from uncaring, because Tim cared – he just seemed distracted by his own mind.

The dreams were far more than a distraction. Something was haunting Tim, and now that the dreams were evident; it was impacting him in waking hours as well. Tim was not about to share the truth of it all with her. Ronnie knew there was no other love interest; the usual symptoms were not there. And aside from work, Tim was rarely away from home. Whatever the problem was, it was something deep inside of Tim, something of which she had no knowledge.

Which left Ronnie at a loss; she wished for Tim to call Dolores, but he was being totally resistant. If she tried to talk, he deflected the subject. And he would readily talk about bisexual feelings if prodded; raise the matter of the dreams and his expression became sombre, with Tim shifting the topic to something less threatening or simply walking away.

As she pondered this dilemma, Tim entered the room. Casting a quick glance and half smile at Ronnie, he moved around the wood and glass coffee table to the sofa facing her chair, where he ungracefully flopped onto the piece of furniture, causing it to slide an inch backward with a squeak of protest on the rustic wood floor.

“Um, how about exercising a bit more care with the furniture?” Ronnie rhetorically admonished.

Tim said nothing, and instead raised his right arm, folding his forearm down so that it rested across his eyes.

Rising from her chair, Ronnie made her way to the sofa, setting down with a gentle touch of Tim’s arm. With a softly uttered ‘hey,’ she jostled his arm. Pulling it down and away from his face, Ronnie gave notice she wished to talk. Now.

As a look of indigestion lowered over Tim’s expression, Ronnie went on the offensive. “Something is bothering you. Something is bothering you a lot. I’m scared, and he girls are scared. You know more than you are saying, and you are not seeking the help you need from someone you say you trust. I want to know what is bothering you Tim.”

His reaction was totally unexpected. A tear rolled down his left cheek, followed by another, and another.