Write It

I dreamt you two yesterdays ago. It was an ordinary dream that was no less than perfect. You were standing, leaving, asking me what else I wanted from the store. I was sitting, talking, with a nameless faceless woman. A relation of yours- mother, grandmother. I am unsure. It was an informal interaction. You going to the store, asking if I wanted anything else. The three of us laughing over the patient tolerance in your voice, as if I kept adding to the list. We both had wedding rings on. You kissed me goodbye, cheek kiss. One that bespoke familiarity and future and past and permanence. I smiled. Then I woke up. I hated waking up. The moment where disorientation becomes reality effecting stabbing pains, heart side, every time.

I dream you often. It always sucks. The dreams so real, so good. The wakefulness too abrupt, so painful. I absolutely hate it.

In my mind I have the perfect reconciliation scene. My daughter tells me it's unrealistic because you just "aren't that guy". I am sure she is right. I am also a hopeless romantic who unfortunately will love you for the foreseeable future. So If I Can't Have it In Real Life- I will do what I have always done. I will write it. At least then I can read it and pretend it's true. 

Cue Words-

"Amen"

I pause and take a stabilizing breath, head bowed for a moment longer to compose myself.  After meetings are always hard. I know that I have to talk to people. I know that I have to put on a show. I know that I have to be entertaining and gracious. And I know that all I really want to do is go home and drink expensive Scotch and listen to Etta James. Going home to think about you and cry has become my Thursday night ritual. 

Head up, deep breath, go. I acknowledge the couple in front of me, saying the customary greetings. Asking the appropriate questions. Smile. Nod. Being gracious. The humm of after meeting conversation drops momentarily and curious, I turn around. My heart stops.

You have just walked in the door. Are being greeted by Max, who interrogates every male visitor he deems as a threat. You pause, smile and apply the charm you hold with precision. Recognizing the name. Listening, laughing but eyes sweeping the crowd.

I wait. Wait for the moment when your eyes find mine. In the meantime I am unable to breathe. None of it makes sense to me. I get you're here. I get why you must be here. But why are you here? I wait. You see me. 

Relief, fear, appreciation, affection- they all collide across your face. I am moving, without conscience thought and before I know it I am in front of you. I unapologetically interrupt Max mid sentence.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, annoyed. 

You smile and your dimples flash. 

"You mean Hi."

"That's not what I mean at all." I am at capacity for words and my eyes begin to burn with tears. In moments I will lose it. Eyebrow lifted, palms up, shoulder raised, I silently repeat the question using body language. 

You, understanding my meltdown loading, enfold me in a hug. 

And for the first time in months, I can breathe. Everything will be ok.

And cut.