1. Louder than sirens / Louder than bells / Sweeter than heaven / And hotter than hell (“Drumming Song”)
The signs and seasons, reasons and equations have all aligned, Diane. Something has called me to this place; a little town I had never heard of before receiving this assignment. I am thinking, Diane, about probability. I wonder, had this case never come my way: had, indeed, Laura Palmer never met her unfortunate end and been discovered by—let’s see—Pete Martell, would I ever have chanced upon this place.
Diane, perhaps this is foolish, or even idealistic to say. But Diane, I feel like something has brought me here beyond my duties in the FBI. I can picture myself as an old man, a completely different life, hiking through strange woods, and stumbling—literally stumbling, Diane, I have pictured this in intimate detail; I can smell the pines, and somehow in this scenario, they are different. Fresher—onto a road, following it into town.
And Diane, I trust this will go no further, but in my dream (for I have no other words for it; vision certainly isn’t the right word as I am here and this future is impossible) I walk into the Double R and there is a girl. Not any girl, Diane, but a girl I’ve met here—and I’d like to note that it would be completely illogical that she not age while I become an old man—and she greets me with a smile, offers me coffee.
I wonder, too, if this means more than just a dream. The girl has displayed an intense interest in me, Diane, and--
“Agent Cooper, the Sheriff would like to see you.
2. No more dreaming like a girl so in love, so in love / No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world (“Blinding”)
This is the kind of dream where she shifts against covers and stretches muscles in a kind of half-sleep, her mouth moving in silent os, fingers gripping and un-gripping at the comforter that she wishes—in scant moments when her mind is awake—-was her own.
This is a dream about Laura.
This is a dream about Laura leaning against lockers at school, looking dreamy delicious, mouth redder than sin, smoking a cigarette right there in the hallway. The swirls of smoke gyrate in arcs up to the ceiling, tracing maps to One Eyed Jacks and spelling out the name Bob, over and over again. Audrey feels the icicles on her skin, knowing the way the fabric falls against Laura’s snowy skin. She could move in for a taste.
Agent Dale Cooper is in this dream—every dream, every day, every night, every prayer—his hand at her cheek—at Laura’s cheek, at Audrey’s cheek—drawing cigarette from lips and smiling.
This is the dream where he says “Tomorrow, the sun rises in the North,” and he presses his mouth to hers—Laura’s, Audrey’s—the smoldering white stick dropping to the tile.
“You’re wrong, Agent,” Laura corrects him, and Audrey is drifting like smoke, back in a world of red, curtained from muffled voices.
This is the dream she hates: This is the dream with cold needles in her arms and sugar on her tongue and the words they keep saying—“Agent Cooper, Agent Cooper, Agent Cooper.”
This is the one thing she knows: The dream has to end. When she wakes up, she will see his face.
“I have done this for you,” she says, and finds another dream, drifts away like smoke.
3. As I move my feet towards your body / I can hear this beat it fills my head up / And gets louder and louder / It fills my head up and gets louder and louder (“Drumming Song”, 2)
You aren’t a part of any story, any more.
You are a part of her and a part of him and her and him and you kiss all their quiet/hopeless/crying/restless lips as they fall asleep at night, and you brush their eyelids with your fingers and they flutter and you smile, maybe.
4. If only I could see your face / Instead of rushing towards the skyline (“Rabbit Heart [Raise it Up]”)
She gasps against the moonlight, knowing with all certainty that he is here. Audrey takes a breath and cries out. Her lungs aren’t used to hope.
A quiet garden of roses with no blooms—just thorns—she plucks them, gathering, gathering, her hands numbing and pouring what she knows from her insides. Everything is red.
Audrey is ready to be unwrapped, a little masked girl eternally waiting.
The tide comes in and out and she knows--knows--that he is somewhere, and he is somewhere soon. That the time and the place will melt together in a chaos of red and she will pour into his arms; plucked like a thorny rose from this garden.
She will rise up, fighting, and the waves will crash around them. Audrey will cover him against the rain. The deluge will come.
5. All my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open (“Blinding”, 2)
Diane, I’ll have to get back to you about the exact cost of oil per gallon in 1972.
I shouldn’t—Diane, it’s important that there are no secrets between us, and I think you’d agree. But this is of a particularly sensitive nature. And no, nothing to do with the Palmer case or One Eyed Jacks or anything of an incriminating nature, I would simply prefer that this be kept between us. After all, the girl is…
She’s recovering nicely from her stay up north. And it’s hardly giving Audrey justice to call it that, Diane, however to truly contemplate on what she went through while I managed not to read the clues lying directly under my feet… Well, Diane, it’s unfathomable. My only consolation is that she doesn’t seem so entirely scared by the experience. More than I expected from her, though perhaps that was an underestimation. Audrey Horne has the unique ability to hold her own and is completely persistent.
Which, I suppose Diane, is my point. Laura Palmer is in the ground. Leland Palmer is gone with her, and for what it is, the mystery of Bob is put to rest. Audrey was certainly entangled with that case, however that case has now come to a conclusion.
Diane, I am quite certain that when Audrey Horne sees me, she sees something unfinished. And Diane, forgive me, but I am not clear—with myself, that is, or perhaps simply with what I would like to reveal to you—what I see when I look at Audrey Horne.
6. I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map / And knew that somehow I could find my way back / Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too / So I stayed in the darkness with you (“Cosmic Love”)
She hasn’t dreamed about Laura in a week when it happens, when the wind rushes up inside her and she finally breaks free and does it.
Audrey’s hands are very suddenly against his face, palm to cheek, and he must have shaved this morning because he is smooth, and he is so smooth that she would like to stay in this moment, and maybe not move on to the next. But she moves on to the next moment because the next moment is the one where she takes a step and a half forward, pressing into his space, pressing into his body.
And this is the dream where his smell surrounds her and the earth stops turning just for them, just for moments, just until she stretches upwards and pushes, brushes, breathes her lips against his mouth.
His hands are there—steady, strong—at her hips, fingers making small movements in the fabric, against her bones, and he is pulling her in and in and in, and she doesn’t wake up, even when she opens her eyes, bright, and sees his, bright.
This is the time when she steps back, ducks her head, blushes. He doesn’t tell her “No” or “Never again” but he says her name: “Audrey” and she says “Agent Cooper” before something sticks in her throat and she can’t look at him anymore or she’ll cry. He looks so kind.
She has the dream again that night, sitting at the Double R with Laura. She is turning over cards, and they fall in a pattern, and she will wake up in the morning.
He will open the door and thank her for the coffee.
He will invite her in.