While you have bit parts here and there, two months ago you appeared three times. In three separate dreams. On the same night.
The first dream had a movie feel. A wide shot of the two of us on a white beach. Crystal blue waters lapped the shore. Zoom-in. Your arms were wrapped around me as we sat, cuddling in an embrace. I felt safe and secure as I nestled deeper into your chest, watching the waves kiss the sand. Both content, no words were spoken.
But, damn, I woke up. I thought if you appeared once, you could reappear. A girl can dream, right? Sure enough, there you were. However, you morphed from loving and gentle to controlling and harsh. We were under a palm tree. I could feel your anger in the dream when you said,
“You destroyed us!” and you turned away. “You think you’re so perfect!”
Leery, I touched your shoulder, and you whipped around – cold and bitter – and you were him. “You can’t get married. It’ll never happen.”
I said, “You don’t know that.”
“I told my parents,” you said. “We need to fix this before they come home. You know why we can’t sleep together!”
You started to shovel dirt onto the beach, and I begged you to stop. But you refused and started to yell at me.
I awoke. In that nightmare sweat. Terrified I’d angered you in reality. But I closed my eyes, tight. Thinking, one more time – please.
Yes! The third and final act. Under the same palm tree, you were crouched on the beach. Smiling. Hammering a wooden bed frame – complete with springs.
“My parents probably won’t let us sleep together,” Ah, good. We didn’t deviate from the second dream plot. “Hand me the shovel.”
You sprinkled sand over the bed frame. Then you tossed the shovel aside, using your hands to pat down the sand.
“I’m sleeping outside?” I said.
You looked up at me, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’ll sneak out.”
“Why can’t I sleep with you?”
“Because my parents don’t understand,” you said. “I’ll talk to them. Maybe it’ll be okay.”
On cue, your parents came home. Without a word, your mom entered the house. Your dad stopped in the doorway, holding a grocery bag with a loaf of French bread. What is it with French bread sticking out of grocery bags?
I said hello, and he reciprocated. But he shook his head. “You’re not sleeping together. She’s sleeping outside.”
And I woke up.
I’d compare these dreams to a television show with commercial breaks.
But, we both know what I really broke.