sherbetsheets

Dear John,

I have this dream I'm embarrassed to share with you. I dream about being in a big bedroom with tall ceilings and a large bed. The window has soft curtains that breathe in and out with the breeze and the bed is dressed in soft sheets that are all the kinds of colors of sherbet. It's late afternoon and there's a record playing in another room. We're laying on the bed with our shirts mussed up around our torsos. Maybe I'm smoking, though I'm not trying to do too much of that. Maybe you're humming. Other than the sounds these little activities make there is just the lull of the fan. A floor fan. A large, old, square, floor fan. On low. With some magnets stuck to it. We lay in bed and play accordingly until the light changes and we get up to make food or go read in another room, such as the room with the records.

It's a sweet dream. It's almost too sugary to share. I just want to lay around in bed with you in the perfect conditions. I'd like to wait until evening and make some honey chicken and green beans. I'd like to find a decently comfortable couch and some lamps and carry on relaxing into the night. Maybe then we could take a walk, sometimes holding hands, going at a steady, even pace. When we came home, I could say my legs got cold and you could hurry me back upstairs to bed.

Instead, you've moved far away and we share text messages, not pillows. You're introducing some important speaker tonight and you asked me about ties. I imagine you'll use a podium. I'll be babysitting and carrying on with kids. I'll let them stay up late and I'll think about you wearing your tie and using your podium. You'll probably send me a message after expressing how well it went and I'll feel a little angry because I just want to be lying around in a nice bed with you.

Love,

Me