In My Dreams

This morning, I first woke a little after 6am. I believe it was a text message that woke me, but I also had a voicemail. This beautiful boy with a voice made of hot coffee and caramel recited lyrics to Wasted Loaf by Meatloaf as if they were meant to be a sweet Shakespearean sonnet. I listened and smiled, before falling swiftly back to sleep.

In my dream, I was in New York City, in a tight room filled with people, cigarette smoke, and music that I don’t remember. There was a boy sitting on a sunken-in couch with a mohawk worn down, light blonde with shocks of faded pink dye. He wore a green army surplus jacket, and a plain white tee-shirt underneath. I don’t remember the pants, or the shoes. We made quick eye contact as I clutched my keg cup.

“I hate places like this, don’t you?” I asked, and he nodded up at me. “I feel like I’ve been to a million and one.” Sounds from the room filled the silence and space separating us. “I think I’ll walk home now.” I looked at him once more, and slipped away.

In my dream, I couldn’t see myself any more. I had left the building but my vision stayed on the boy being swallowed by the couch. I watched him shake his head, and look around as if emerging from a patch of fog. He rose, swiftly, and made his way outside.

In the alleyway where I was walking, he jogged to catch up. I smiled when I saw him, and he walked me home.